Rachel Dyken - Entice

“Huh?”

“Beer?” Phoenix didn’t wait for me to answer, just walked into the kitchen, leaving me confused as hell…

“Mil?” I whispered.

Somehow, in my daydreaming, she’d found a way to lean against my shoulder without being too irritated that the shoulder was attached to the person she had just snapped at. Her head was heavy, her breathing shallow. Damn, my questions could wait until we landed.

After all, we had a year of marital bliss.

That is, if we lived that long.

Damn mafia.

Mil

The smell of cigarettes burned my nose. I waited as the voices quieted and then something stung my face. My vision cleared for a brief second. Though I was still seeing double, it was better than nothing.

“Wake up, baby girl.”

I blinked a few more times, relieved to see it was my dad standing in front of me, not some crazy kidnapper. Though, why was it so dark?

A few rough men stood around my father, each of them looking worse than the next. They weren’t from our family — most of them were faces I’d never seen before.

“She looks young,” a hoarse voice said from behind me. “What is the price for this one?”

“Ah, this one.” My dad laughed. “She will be a special price.”

“How much are we talking about?” a second man asked. “The last woman I bought was tarnished, practically starved to death.”

“I said special,” Dad repeated. “Because attached to her is one thing you all want — and desperately crave.”

The room fell silent as my father’s eyes roamed around the room, stopping at each individual before finally settling on me. “Part of the family. Marry her, take her, and you will be welcomed into the De Lange family, no questions asked.”

“How do you figure?” someone brave asked.

“She’s my daughter.” My father chuckled. “Marry her, and you’ll be second only to my son.”

“But… that’s impossible. One has to be born into the family. Even some made men are never fully respected and—”

“Silence,” my father snapped. “So we lie, say you’re a cousin of a cousin, nobody has to know, and in the end nobody will care. We are the De Langes, after all. Each of you has been chosen for what you can offer.”

Silence followed.

My father cleared his throat. “Let the bidding begin at one point five.”

“One point five?” The man with the gruff voice asked.

“Million,” Father answered. “Do I hear two?”

I gasped for breath, nearly jolting out of my seat as the plane hit the runway.

“Are you okay?” Chase whispered to my left.

“Uh, yeah.” I cleared my throat and looked down at my hands. “Flying always makes me have weird dreams.”

“You were able to dream, all within twenty minutes?”

I leaned back against the seat. “What can I say? I’m special.” I flashed him a quick side grin and licked my lips nervously.

“Yeah.” Chase’s eyes penetrated mine. “You really are.”

Wow, could I wake up like this after every nightmare? My breathing picked up. I was annoyed that all it had taken were a few words of praise, and I was ready to jump his bones in front of everyone.

“Mil.” Chase’s smile grew. “You hot or something? You’re completely flushed.”

“Hot,” I repeated. “Yeah, really hot.” Holy crap. Someone punch me in the face ASAP. I laughed nervously and tightened my seatbelt.

The next fifteen minutes of landing almost killed me. Every time I wanted to turn and say something to Chase, he was looking directly at me. And not just one of those looks that says Hey weirdo, what the hell are you staring at?

No. Because if it was that type of stare, I’d simply flip him off and be on my merry way.

He was staring at me like he was a dying man… a man who’d just gotten out of solitary confinement and had been given a Christmas dinner. Me, being the dinner and a freaking Christmas tree.

“Mil.” Chase’s smooth voice invaded my peace and already-frayed nerves. I could have sworn his tongue just touched my ear.

“Hmm?” I pretended to be unaffected. Let it be known here and now, I’m a terrible actress.

“It’s time to get up.” As his words hit home, I looked around. People were filing out while I’d been daydreaming. Great. That’s just what we needed, my savior to be my distraction.

“Right.” I laughed and waved him away, then tried to get up, only to be held down by my seatbelt. With a groan I reached for the buckle — but was beat by Chase’s massive hand. Smirking, he reached around where it connected and lifted the buckle. I felt that effing lift all the way down my toes. Mother. Loving. Dying. Damn. Shit. Hell. Storm.

I repeated those words over and over in my head as his hand grazed my thigh. The seatbelt fell and I was frozen, paralyzed by his touch, and fighting a losing battle with actually hating the fact that I still felt the buzz from his fingertips.

“Up.” Chase motioned for me to stand. “Things to do, people to see, lives to ruin.”

“Wow, you should be a motivational speaker,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Nah.” Chase gripped my shoulders and whispered behind me. “I think I’m perfectly happy with being your husband instead.”

What the hell? I whipped around so fast I almost fell over. But he was grabbing his bag so I couldn’t see his face, meaning I was left to wonder if he’d actually meant what he’d said or if he’d been joking. A large part of my heart begged for him to be joking, because if he wasn’t, that other part of my heart, the ten percent, was so heavily invested I knew it was only a matter of time before it spread to one hundred. And I wasn’t sure I’d survive that type of transformation.

Chase

We checked into our hotel without any sort of issues. Frank and Luca decided to go gamble before the big meeting. Something else Mil had failed to mention. We were meeting the day we arrived. What the hell kind of bright idea was that? Exhaustion did not bode well for negotiation or for getting information, and I still wasn’t totally convinced we should be talking to the wife of the freaking Godfather of everyone.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t an actual Godfather, but it felt like it. Especially when you knew the facts. He was a Sicilian-born immortal with loads of money and the ability to survive not one, but seven bullets to the head — all on different occasions, but still. In my book, that made him either a freaking vampire or so damn evil that even Satan didn’t want him in hell yet.

I let out a sigh and pressed the button for the twenty-first floor.

“You sound frustrated,” Nixon said with such a smug know-it-all inflection that I had to count to five before I answered with a voice that sounded cool and reflective.

“Yeah well, not having sex does that to people.” Okay, so it was a low blow, but I didn’t care.

Mil gasped next to me while Trace’s eyes darted to the floor. I’d officially made it so awkward even I wouldn’t have minded if the elevator plummeted to the ground.

“Blame it on the alcohol,” Tex mumbled behind us while Mo pushed against him in disgust. He grinned. “Blame it on the al-al-al—”

“I’ll genuinely shoot you in the ass if you keep singing,” Nixon growled.

“Whoa.” Tex held up his hands. “Since when do both of you have sticks up your asses? Seriously, lighten up.”

“Says the guy with two hickeys,” Mo grumbled.

Tex stepped back and angled his body almost like he was about to protect himself from a blow. His mask slipped for a brief instant, face twisting in agony, as he begged. “I already told you it was—”

“We know what a hickey is,” Mil said impatiently as the elevator dinged and then stopped at the eighteenth floor.

The doors opened. A man with sunglasses walked in. Immediately I was on red alert, not because of the sunglasses, but because when he pressed the button it was for the floor above ours. And because the tattoo on his hand said Familia.

“You’ve been staying here a while?” I asked, trying some small talk.

Nixon’s eyes narrowed in on the guy as he stood in-between all of us.

“A few days.”

“How’s it been?”

“What?” the guy asked.

“The stay,” I said slowly. “How has your stay been?”

He looked down at the floor, his hands slowly moving to his back. Nixon and I made eye contact, but Tex was already on it. He snatched the guy’s hands and pushed him against the doors, searching his body.

“Aw, only one gun?” With a bark of laughter, Tex dropped it. The gun landed on the red carpeting with a dull thud, bounced and then stayed put. “No knives?” He shook his head, his lip curling in disgust. “And only one gun? Are you ten?”

“Tex…” Nixon warned.

“One gun,” Tex repeated as if he couldn’t believe it. “He’s not ours. Ours have at least three — and he isn’t De Lange.”

“How do you know?” Mil asked.

“Um, because there aren’t any shots fired, and you’re still standing,” Tex answered. “And because he’s too small.”

The guy cursed. Apparently he didn’t like being called small.

“My bet’s on…” Tex pulled out the guy’s wallet, still pushing him against the doors. “Bingo. Not Italian, not anything. Just a punk wanting to be a made man. Isn’t that right, William Herald? Hmm? What type of name is that anyway? You may as well be John Smith. A nobody,” Tex released him and sneered, “Got a pretty little piece waiting for you back home? I bet she tastes good…” He closed his eyes. “Guess what I’m doing? Imagining a little Mrs. Herald on my mouth, damn is that—”