Her heat radiated between our clothes, and I stifled a groan, yanking her braid, extending her neck and forcing her to look at me.

“Would a kiss be a sufficient form of payment?” I murmured, my lips gliding down the side of her neck.

She said nothing, her heart slamming against mine erratically, begging for more.

Rearing my head back, I crashed my mouth against hers punishingly, resenting her for my need to taste her—and myself for yielding to temptation.

It was a brutal kiss, with teeth and claws and tongue, designed to humiliate her, to remind her which one of us was in control.

Aisling’s lips molded over mine immediately, compliant and soft. She moaned gently, her tongue meeting mine thrust for thrust, like we were fucking each other, her fingers curling around the collar of my shirt, drawing me closer. I bit her lower lip until I split it open, her warm, metallic blood trickling into my mouth. She tensed but didn’t break the kiss.

Break the fucking kiss, Aisling.

Show me I’m too much for you.

I sucked on her blood, pulling her entire lip into my mouth, and she let me, the little monster that she was.

“You taste like an ashtray,” she purred into my mouth. Viper-like, her words dripped venom while she still devoured me hungrily, not letting go.

“Maybe so, but you taste like an easy lay, my least favorite flavor of woman.” I chuckled darkly, putting more pressure on her lips, kissing her harder, tasting her blood and her tears and her anguish and enjoying all of them because they were mine.

So fucking salty. So fucking sweet.

I was hard. So hard, I knew I was in real danger of taking her on the surgical table she had used just minutes ago to stitch up the two morons on my payroll. I tore my mouth from hers, brushing my thumb over her cheekbone. She stumbled forward, losing balance. I let her fall on my chest but didn’t help her right herself.

“Now we’re even.” I shoved the wallet back into my pocket, surprised to see that despite feeling her tears earlier, her face was dry and calm.

“Oh, you thought a kiss would be your payment as opposed to the eleven grand you owe me? Oh my…” she clutched the pearls on her neck, twisting them exaggeratedly, like her mother would “…my apologies, Mr. Brennan. I don’t accept sexual favors as payment. That would be my father’s specialty, and I very much doubt he’d be interested in what you have to offer. I would still like the money at Thanksgiving. What’s the common interest your loan sharks use? Forty-five percent? That suits me. Now, have a good rest of the day, Mr. Brennan, and do take care.”

The eleven thousand dollars was waiting on the nightstand in my bedroom the following morning, stacked high and neat, pinned with a golden bullet. There was also one penny right beside them, and a note scribbled messily in bold, long strokes.

Here. Buy yourself something pretty.

It should have terrified me.

The fact that Sam had been in my vicinity—in my room—while I was sound asleep. He could’ve slit my throat if he wanted to. Instead, I felt white-hot thrill washing through my veins as I imagined his imposing, colossal figure casting a shadow over my sleeping body, his hands that could snap my bones like twigs so close to my spine.

He’d been there when I was in my flimsy nightgown, my hair fanned over the white satin pillow, dreaming of his crushing weight above me, making love to me.

I knew he would not send anyone else. No. None of his soldiers would do. He would never allow them to get anywhere near me. He violated my space, yes, but I knew there were limits between us. Unwritten rules that made me feel safe.

I picked up the bullet—cold, metallic, and heavier than I expected—mulling it over as it sat in my hand.

Did he stop and stare? Did he replay the kiss we’d shared at the clinic in his head? We’d almost tore each other’s mouths apart.

I could still feel a faint pulse against my lips.

Sometimes I suspected Sam felt it, too. The wild electricity buzzing between us every time we were in the same room. Whenever he looked at me with those silver moon eyes as they slanted just so, zeroing in on me, watching.

Other times he would be in my vicinity, having a meal with my father or a beer with Devon, Cillian, and Hunter, and ignore my existence so thoroughly, so convincingly, I’d forget I was in the room, too.

He was a mystery, and mysteries were meant to be unearthed, uncovered, and unfolded. I’d finally caught his attention—snatched it against his will—grasping onto it with bloodied fingers, and I had every intention of keeping it.

I was going to fight him tooth and nail, go head-to-head with the underworld’s king just so I could have him. Prove to him that I was worthy of his attention and his love.

So I did the only thing I could do, knowing that I had an entire week to wait until Thanksgiving dinner, when I’d see him again.

It was crazy, and dangerous, not to mention illegal, and yet, so classically Sam I couldn’t resist the temptation. Show him I was Nix through and through. A cunning monster who just happened to look good in a gown.

The night after he put the money on my nightstand, I drove to Badlands, found the back door to the place right behind the building, by an alley and stacked monopoly money—11k of it—and pinned it with the lone penny he’d left for me. Then I drenched it in gasoline and set fire to it.

I knew he would never know the difference. That he would think it was really the money he had given me, but I’d donated that money to my charity of choice. Something Ms. B would have wanted me to do.

I ran back to my car, ducking behind the window as I peeked to see the back door opening as the stench of burned paper seeped through the cracks. Sam appeared, accompanied by Dumb and Dumber. Dumb ran back to the office to bring a fire extinguisher while Dumber desperately tried to defuse the fire by pouring water and handfuls of snow on it, his arm still in a sling.

Sam just stood there and grinned devilishly, watching the money burn.

He didn’t need a written note to read the fuck you in what I did.

He knew.

The Fitzpatrick clan had always been huge on Thanksgiving.

I suspected it was because we had so much to be thankful for.

Not only were we one of the richest families in the country, but we were also blessed with nieces and nephews, all rosy-cheeked, healthy, and barely into their toddlerhood.

The day of Thanksgiving butlers fretted about the long table in our dining room, rearranging maple leaf bowls made out of gold, pumpkins, champagne glasses, and ornaments. The centerpieces were bursting with fall and winter fruit, and everything was laced with gold and silver. Warm and inviting candlelight illuminated the room, and the scent of cinnamon and sugared dough traveled from the kitchen, tickling my nostrils.

Pacing back and forth in my off-the-shoulder orange Givenchy dress—I knew wearing it would please Mother, who had recently been quite the pain to serve and dote on—I stopped by the window, watching my brother Cillian unload his family from his car, an imperial frown on his face.

He opened the door for Persephone—Persy, that was what we called her—scooping little Astor into a BabyBjorn he strapped over his shoulders. My breath caught, and my heart squeezed at the sight of my brother doing something so fatherly, so caring, in such a natural manner despite his usual cold and aloof demeanor.