Lachlan huffs a laugh, and I smile. It’s nice to see him not frowning.
“Taking notes?” he asks, arching a brow.
“It depends,” I answer, pulling my legs underneath myself. “Personally, I’d go for the hands first. Slice them off and let him wallow in misery while I carve my name into his testicles before slowly sawing them off.”
“Christ. Such a violent, little thing, aren’t you?”
I smile sweetly. “Only if you’re mean to me.”
He hangs his head and rubs the back of his neck, leaning forward between his spread legs. His white t-shirt is thin, and I can see the outline of his tattoos stretching across his broad chest before snaking down both arms. I’ve always been a sucker for a man with tattoos–which is why I was so attracted to him that first night. There’s something broken and beautiful about Lachlan Weir, and I want to slowly unwrap him, bit by bit. Like every other woman in the world, I want to save him.
Which is a dangerous thing to want considering our current occupation and how dangerous it is for all of us.
“Listen, I wanted to apologize,” he says slowly. “For what I said in the bathroom the other night.”
“Which part? The part where you told me you never wanted to see me again after the night we shared, or the part where you said you were going to find my weaknesses and exploit them, all for simply existing? Perhaps it was the veiled threat ofdoingsomething about me if I continued to tempt you–”
“Fuck, Astern. I’m trying to say that I’m sorry.”
I stand up from where I’m sitting and walk over to him. He leans back and his eyes go wide when I put one knee on eitherside of his waist, straddling him. Reaching into my shirt, I pluck the switchblade from my bra and press it against his neck. He lets out a ragged breath as I narrow my eyes.
“If we’re going to be working together, you need to be less of an arsehole to me,” I murmur, hating how I can feel him getting hard underneath me.
“Do you always carry a knife?” he asks, his voice a low purr. “Because I must say, it’s fucking hot.”
I press the knife harder against his throat, drawing blood. “I do. And you would too if you were small and vulnerable, living on the streets by yourself.”
He swallows, his flesh pressing against the blade further in the process. “You’re not vulnerable, though, are you?” he says softly. “Just look at you.”
I ignore the way his words send a maelstrom of want through me–how I’m tempted to rock against his erection or bend forward to press my lips against his.
God, he’s fucking beautiful.
“How about that truce I asked for?” I say softly.
“Fine, we can have a truce.”
“And what do you say in return?” I taunt, smirking. “Perhaps an apology of some sort for being such a twat?”
His lips twitch. “I’m sorry. For what I said and the way I acted. If we’re going to be initiated tonight, there can’t be any bad blood between us.”
“I agree.”
I remove the knife from his throat and smile, but before I can feel too confident, he lifts me up and flips me onto my back so that he’s hovering over me.
“One thing, darling,” he purrs, face inches from mine as one hand comes to my neck. He certainly likes to have his hand around my neck. “Don’t ever hold a knife to my throat again, or I might really have to kill you.”
“Bad memories?” I ask, arching my back slightly. “Life in prison wasn’t everything you ever dreamt of?”
“Careful, Astern,” he growls, the sound low and guttural. He grinds his shaft against my cleft, and despite wearing jeans, I can feel how hard he is–and how perfectly he slots himself against me.
I have to bite my lower lip to keep from groaning out loud. “Or what?”
“I meant it when I said this can’t happen between us again. I agreed to a truce, not a shag.”
“That’s fine,” I say firmly, trying not to show how disappointed his words make me. “Guess I’ll just have to keep shagging Otto and Max.”
The hand that’s wrapped around my neck tightens. “Are you really?” he asks, his expression open for half a second. But then his grumpy demeanor falls back over his sharp cheekbones and dark scruff, concealing the fact that he’s truly curious.
