His face turned a deeper red, his features contorted with rage. He raised his hand to strike her. To prove he still ran the show?
Didn’t matter. Her response was as quick. In one surprisingly graceful move, she pulled something from the top of her right boot. There was a whoosh and then a click as a blade locked into place.
“You don’t want to do that,” she warned him.
He still swung his arm—seemingly unable to stop what he intended in spite of her weapon, as if he needed to prove his manhood.
As though to dispute it, she easily stepped out of his reach. “That was a mistake.”
Before he could draw his hand back, she made a slashing movement with her weapon. The switchblade flashed, its metal edge reflecting the light…slicing his palm. Not too deep but not all that shallow either.
He gasped, then growled.
“Enough,” Carreon said. Ernez could howl like a banshee, but that didn’t change matters. From the beginning, she’d proved the worthier opponent.
Carreon’s command had the desired effect. Even with Ernez’s fury and pain, he went quiet and retreated, his steps stiff, forced. Wariness and possibly a grudging respect for her shone in his dark eyes, along with deep loathing as he pulled out his handkerchief and struggled to wrap it around the wound.
To her, Carreon murmured, “Come here.”
She regarded Ernez’s misery, her head cocked to one side as she listened to his rough panting and watched how his hands shook. Carreon wasn’t certain if she merely needed to savor her victory over Ernez, or if she wanted to confirm to everyone in this room that she meant what she’d said. No one told her what to do.
We’ll see.
Patience wasn’t one of Carreon’s virtues. However, he waited without comment until she deigned to come to him, her slender fingers still fisted around her weapon. A bit of Ernez’s blood clung tenaciously to the blade.
Carreon settled his hand on her warm, silky mound, studying her to see what reaction she’d give.
She didn’t slice him with her knife. Neither did she betray any desire.
He wondered what she’d do if he punished her. Beg for more, enjoying the mixture of pain and pleasure? Possibly.
Fascinated, he ran his fingers down the length of her cleft, then back up, finding and stroking her clit.
She inhaled a bit more quickly than she had before, though it didn’t come close to the lusty moan Carreon wanted to hear. To test her true reaction—what was really going on inside her head—he slid his fingers to her opening.
She was decidedly wet.
Interesting. And arousing.
It appeared she wasn’t made of stone any more than he was. Carreon’s already stiffened cock thickened even more. His balls were beginning to ache, wanting release.
In time.
For now, he stroked her delicate folds, harboring no delusion that his touch alone stirred her. She seemed to crave danger, just as he did. As long as someone other than him got hurt.
“Please put the knife away,” he requested, his manner nice, just as she preferred.
Her expression didn’t change as she closed the blade. Carreon noted that she kept the weapon in her palm.
To reward her for being partially obedient—full submission would come later—he again ran his thumb over her nub. A bit harder and faster this time.
She pushed to her toes, then came back down, not making any sound, not giving him the satisfaction of knowing she liked what he was doing. With her face raised to the ceiling, he couldn’t see her expression.
“What’s your name?” he asked while his fingers explored her sex.
“Trinidad,” she murmured, then shivered slightly. At what he was doing? Perhaps. “But you already know that,” she added.
He did. Her employment file was next to him on the sofa. She’d glanced at it as she’d moved across the office to him.
“You’re one of my strippers,” he said.
She slanted her face to regard him. “And a whore.” The corners of her exquisite mouth tilted upward with her wry smile. “It pays better than—what do they call it? Oh yeah,” she answered herself, “exotic dancing.”
The genteel term appeared to amuse her.
“You’ve been here how long?” he asked.
“Two months. But you already know that too.”
“Are your parents aware of what you do for a living?”
She chuckled, a throaty, provocative sound that excited Carreon even more. He resumed stroking her nub.
She swallowed. Her throat quivered quite nicely. After a deep breath, she murmured, “They threw me out when I was fifteen. They said I was a bad influence on my little sisters.”
“Were you?”
“I don’t like rules.” Her eyes were glassy with arousal. However, she clearly fought it as though she needed to draw out the pleasure or deny him proof that he’d satisfied her. “I’m exactly like you are, Carreon. I don’t do what’s right. I do what I want.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No?” She blew out a sigh, then continued, “That’s not what my parents would say.”
“To hell with them.”
Her smile widened. “Exactly what they’d say about you. They may be from our clan, but they think you and your men are scum.” Her expression grew ecstatic as he rubbed faster, harder. “They’d hate me being here.”
“Maybe we can do something about their attitude.”
“Maybe. That would be—” She stopped, clearly unable to continue as she climaxed.
Carreon slipped two fingers deep inside her sheath to see if she was faking. Her muscles pulsed around the tips of his fingers. Hardly proof, given that any woman could simulate those contractions. Her cunt’s slickness was another matter entirely. She was beyond wet, her body relaxed with pleasure.
Before it passed, Carreon pulled his fingers from her, then grabbed her wrist. Trinidad’s hand tightened around her weapon.
With more tenderness than it was his custom to use, Carreon eased her fingers from the switchblade. If she resisted in the least, he’d break every one of her digits.
As though she understood his character was as indecent as hers, Trinidad submitted. Carreon took the switchblade and slipped it back into its sheath within her boot.
She made a sound that reminded him of a contented cat, claws withdrawn.
Angling her palm to the light, Carreon studied the reddish stain on her lifeline, the size of a large freckle or a mole. In her file, Ernez had recorded her height, weight, measurements, all body marks. This one was the most important.
Liz and her father also had the discoloring on their palms, though theirs were far larger.
Proof, Liz had said, that her and her father’s gifts were the strongest. Others in their clan may be able to heal, but none of them—at least according to Liz—had the indisputable mark of a primary healer, the greatest there was.
Obviously, she and her father didn’t know about Trinidad.
“You can heal,” Carreon said.
She shrugged, her indifference returned. “I’ve been told that.”
Carreon stroked the discoloration, feeling a faint spark of energy emitting from it…or so he hoped. “You’ve never tried?”
“My parents wanted me to heal my little sister when she fell from a tree and broke her leg. I said it would cost them a hundred bucks. Was that too much to ask?”
Carreon laughed. “Cheap, I’d say.”
She returned his smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Exactly. They cursed me. Said I was no good.” Another shrug. “That’s the only time I’ve been asked to use it.”
“Until now.” He switched off the charm and got serious. “Ernez.”
The young man’s shoulders were hunched, the handkerchief around his sliced hand wet with blood. Obediently, he joined them, his breathing shallow and fast.