the hotel corridor washed ov

ts hit the carpet in a steady, measured rhythm

r of the penthouse suite

r his bruised body. He was limping, his face twisted in a nasty s

n front of her, bl

his chest heaving. "Delete them right n

kets. She stared at his pathetic, ragin

you can just walk away? Warren already made the deal. By next week, you're being s

expected her knees to buckle, expected her to beg fo

unge, lingering in the shadows of the corridor's corner. The glowing cherry of a cigar flared in the dark. Bronson Ra

. His assistant's voice was a crisp, low murmur. "Sir, the 'crippled freak' that garbage is referring t

ough the haze of smoke, his gaze locked onto

he didn't beg. Instead, a low, ch

tance. The sheer, suffocating pressure r

n spend another second breathing the same air as you

k a step back, his shou

s pinning him in place, "those high-definition, uncensored photos w

des, trembling with rage, but the phantom pain radiating from h

disgust. She sidestepped him and con

rushed the tip of his cigar into

red in his eyes. This prey was far mo

a silent, sharp gesture to stay back an

om leather shoes made absolutely no sound ag

r finger onto the down button. She watched the

i

d metal doo

vator. She turned around and im

began to s

ge, knuckle-scarred hand shot through the o

gered. The doors

brought with him a faint, sharp scent of tobacco and

, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as she assessed