“Yeah.” I nod, not hesitating to agree, even if every last impulse protests violently.

  If only his trauma fit repulsed me like he thinks.

  I watch him pad away and shut the door behind him. The Vegas lights spill through the open blinds, my only company with a truth that scares me.

  Seeing this moody, hurt, bleeding Chris only makes me want him more.

  How long can I keep denying it?

  At least he has an honest excuse for the way he practically wound up on top of me in his sleep.

  How freaking long until he’s not the only one who can’t keep his hands to himself and I throw myself at this heart-thief of a man?

  10

  White Knight (Chris)

  Whatever else I am, I’m a man of my word.

  The next day, I grab Delia by the hand after breakfast and lead her outside. Come hell or high water, she’s going to have some fun, and my shit will not ruin it.

  Damn good thing I’ve had plenty of practice with tactical driving. I navigate the Vegas traffic with ease, heading for decent parking along the main drag with all the casinos and attractions worth visiting.

  I don’t say another word about my nightmares last night.

  My dick also doesn’t care about my brain catching up to the fact that I had Delia in bed with my hands all over her.

  I held her. I smelled her. I touched her.

  Until I lost my shit, I had her so deliriously close, who the hell knows what might’ve happened if I’d woken up much gentler with my lips on her neck.

  Watching her walking a little ahead of me down the Strip doesn’t do the trouser fire in my pants any favors.

  She’s adorably unsteady on her heels—something I can tell she doesn’t wear much, but she insisted on dressing up today—and it makes her peach of an ass bob.

  My balls ache to unload inside her, drilling lust through my skull from a thousand angles, hounding me to let go of all reason and pin her legs behind her head by any means possible.

  I am a fucking goner.

  But it’s Vegas, baby, isn’t it?

  People come here for a reason. This town is a duty free moral zone, an invitation to do every ghastly sin in the book before you go back to real life.

  I’m not sure where fucking your own stepsister ranks anymore.

  Still, I can’t let that happen.

  I have to protect her—especially from me.

  I have to see her laugh.

  And I absolutely, positively cannot devour every virgin inch of her.

  * * *

  We drift in and out of casinos and attractions for most of the day, walking along the Strip.

  I feel lucky we’re breaking even with our money.

  The way her eyes light up with slots and craps, riding the roller coaster of luck, makes it all worth it.

  By evening, when the city morphs into the world’s greatest light show, we’re running on sugary iced coffees from this place she dragged me to and my stomach growls like a bear.

  “Woman, we need real food,” I tell her, surly as ever, but damn if I don’t laugh when she looks at me smiling.

  I’ve forgotten just how lively Vegas can be as night closes in—though I also haven’t forgotten its seedy side.

  The telltale signs of shifty thieves, petty drug dealers, and biker brutes linger in the shadows, reminding me the vampires come out to play after dark.

  I can’t keep my hands off her as we roam the streets, weaving in and out of tourist crowds. It’s not just the hellfire scorching my veins that makes me do it.

  I want to keep her close.

  Protect her, especially when we start doing hit and runs at bars.

  I hope she doesn’t notice that I’m going light, mostly scarfing down appetizers while she drinks one half-frozen drink after another.

  Pounding shots is off the table when I can’t help feeling a presence.

  Call it a sixth sense.

  That imminent spider-on-your-neck feeling when you just know there’s somebody watching who damn well shouldn’t be.

  “You okay?” Delia asks at our third bar, smiling up at me with a neon-pink and yellow guava mai tai in her hand.

  “Never better,” I lie with a smile, throwing back my beer.

  I want it to be true.

  Just not as bad as I’d like to find whatever the fuck keeps making my Spidey sense tingle. If there’s somebody out there zeroing in on us, I’m confident they’ll slip up sooner or later.

  By sundown, Delia’s so drunk I have to pull her along and help her balance as we move, heading into the next casino.

  The place is all black and gold and smells like a newly minted bank.

  There’s a new VIP section in this place with high-stakes blackjack. Since I’m here to have some fun of my own, I beeline for the table, dragging her along.

  “Oh my God, Chris, you have to let me play! I’ve always wanted to try cards.”

  “Not till you’ve burned off some poison in your system, princess. Trust me, you’ll be throwing away your money if you’re piss-drunk. Let me show you the ropes for a bit. Hang back and look cute. Pretend you’re my date for moral support.”

  She rolls those eyes like molasses so sweetly.

  At least she hasn’t gotten pissy about my not-so-subtle flattery since we left the hotel. I’m sure it’s the booze and my intuition that puts me on edge.

  She’s so warm, almost clammy when I hold her hand.

  Fuck.

  Drunk or not, she’s pure smokeshow in her cocoa-black cocktail dress, this dark-chocolate shade that compliments her eyes.

  I take a seat at the nearest high-stakes table, grateful I’ve been pacing myself with drinks. Delia Burr is distraction enough—and staring at her too long makes my dick feel like hot lead.

  I fish some cash from my wallet and trade it for chips.

  Four thousand bucks.

  Let’s fucking go.

  There’s one other guy at the table, a tired-looking older Asian man in a suit. Delia watches excitedly next to me, clasping her little hands together.

  The first few hands are dog shit.

  I’m down fifteen hundred before I start to get so pissed it heightens my focus.

  Thank God for SEAL instincts. They take control when you need them the most.

  I study every card, remembering the counting tricks my old buddy Joe loved to show us on lazy nights at base camps after wolfing down MRE chili that tasted like grease and sawdust.

  Another hand.

  Another sly look from the dealer.

  Another bored, glassy glance from our friend in the suit.

  The guy loses big when the dealer lays down more cards and he goes bust.

  I’m up, down, and even, but the trend starts flipping my way.

  Now, it’s time to go all in.

  “Show me what you’re made of, big brother. You can do better,” Delia purrs in my ear, rubbing my arm. “Go big. All or nothing. We’ll get drinks to drown out the loss or celebrate at the fanciest place in town tonight.”

  Ridiculous.

  I side-eye her and snort.

  I’m not made of money like her father, even if I agree with the sentiment. And I’ve never felt right about pulling too much from my trust fund either, and have Ma hold it over my head until hell freezes over.

  With money, I had to get smart and fast, growing up and witnessing her slow-motion self-destruction.

  Delia knows how to push my buttons, though.

  I’m a sucker for a high-stakes challenge—especially when it’s coming from my playful, off-limits, and dangerously fuckable step-brat.

  I look at the dealer and split my hands, pushing the chips evenly on all of them.

  The businessman starts to sweat, his pile of chips thinning down to dregs.

  He stares at me suspiciously like I’ve lost my mind, and ups his own bet, while the dealer just throws the same cryptic smile at everyone.

  The first cards are Aces, one in each hand.

  Fucking great.

  I quickly survey the scene, do some math, and tap the table for another hit.

  Fuck this.

  I’m not falling for the wishful thinking that Lady Luck might actually give a damn about me tonight.

  Five more seconds.

  The dealer finishes dealing and winds up with a queen and a seven.

  Feels like it’s too good to be true.

  Mr. Businessman goes bust, swearing under his breath—and then Mr. Dealer comes up short.

  I’m staring at a king and an ace in both hands.

  Perfect twenty-one.

  Delia bolts up in her seat and squeals, pulling on my shoulder with both hands, her little nails digging into my skin like the cat who broke into the catnip jar.

  With a placating look, the dealer passes me my winnings, and I throw a single chip back for a tip.

  I’m smart enough to know when to walk away.

  The winnings piling up in crisp Benjamins when I cash in are like half a mission’s hazard pay. Delia laughs as I struggle to fit it all in my wallet.

  I can’t, so I stuff the excess into both pockets.

  We head to the nearest ATM to deposit what I can’t carry.

  It’s never wise to wander around here openly, flush with cash, especially after dark.

  “Holy shit! Holy shit, Chris, what will you do with all that moolah?”

  “Thank my lucky charm, first and foremost,” I tell her with a wink.

  It takes her a second to understand I’m talking about her.

  And maybe it’s the humid air in the casino, but there’s a light, sexy glow to her under the lights, this gentle halo of sweat on her brow that makes her skin shimmer.

  Fuck it, why resist?

  It’s a lonely spot next to the cash machines where I corner her, push her against the wall, and swipe my lips over hers.

  A guttural rasp spills from my mouth into hers.

  I know what this is.

  Insane.

  Wrong.

  Impossible to stop.

  Delia gasps as I grab her bare thigh, running my fingers under her dress. I dig my fingers into her flesh, all I can do to fight the burning urge to slide my hand between her legs, to find out what kind of lace she’s wearing and how soaked it is.

  “Delia. Delia, goddamn you,” I whisper, angry at myself because I can’t let go of this obsession.

  “Chris...what the hell?” she slurs. The girl’s drunk, but not so far gone that she doesn’t understand that bestial look in my eyes.

  “I was wrong about you, princess. Dead fucking wrong. Wrong about myself, too,” I growl.

  She stares at me, her eyes huge and questioning.

  “Look. I don’t give a shit if you’ve never had a man between your legs or if our parents shacked up like idiots. It shouldn’t hold anything back.” My voice becomes thunder as I wrap my hands around her, find her ass, and squeeze, sweeping her closer. “I fucking need you, woman. I cannot share a bed again without it, you understand?”

  The way her eyes lid tells me she gets it.

  Because her eyes are bathed in the same hot wanting flames.

  “Pick a place for dinner,” I tell her. “No more drinks. No more fun and games. I want you sober, well fed, whatever you need to stay up all night and take every inch of me.”

  She trembles so hard I can feel it when I say that last part.

  At first, I think she’s scared, overwhelmed by my crazy about-face.

  Then she jerks forward, shoving her lips into mine.

  I push back.

  Hard.

  We kiss like a storm breaking, wet and hot and wild, fully swept by our passions.

  For the next few minutes, we’re two charges colliding in our own world, oblivious to people walking past.

  A few stop and stare, laughing and muttering under their breath.

  Hell if I care.

  With her, there’s no more pretending.

  No more distractions.

  Definitely no more denial.

  I need, need, need to fuck this girl, to claim her, to show her what she’s done to me.

  Honestly, the taboo of having her only makes it worse.

  I want Delia like nothing else because she’s pure.

  Because my greedy-ass mother made her off-limits before I had any say.

  Rather, she tried.

  And she’s about to fail miserably.

  I won’t let fate or technicalities or even common sense have the final say.

  After I’ve had mine, by the end of the night, Delia will be the best fuck of my life I’ll never regret.

  * * *

  “Come on, lady, hurry up and pick a place before I starve. Let’s eat.” I’m dragging her down the Vegas Strip, stopping to read every other menu plastered on the windows or our phone screens, wandering toward the edgier part of town.

  “Oh, hold up, look at this!” Delia points at this goofy-looking comedy club off the street.

  “Nah, that’s not food, brat. We need grub, not amateurs looking for desperate laughs,” I say.

  My stomach grinds like a sawmill.

  I know she must be hungry too, even if she’s too drunk to know it.

  We need something solid in our bellies before I have her for dessert.

  The girl can’t keep up as we stroll on. She falls behind me, wowed by Vegas in its flashing nighttime glory.

  I have to stop and search behind me three times. The first few times, I find her gawking at some touristy sight and have to march backwards to take her hand and lead her along.

  This time, I’ll drag her if I have to.

  We’re getting farther away from the lights and the main Strip now in our random wandering.

  Stone-faced men sulk in the shadows, a contrast to the bright, drunken college kids prowling around and the tipsy, rich girls lost in the city of lights.

  I won’t let the one walking with me and laughing become one more.

  That sense that we were being eyeballed earlier crawls under my skin, mingling with my lust.

  This isn’t just about playing protector.

  I have needs.

  And I need to be inside her tonight. Every second we waste gallivanting around only delays me from her sweetness.

  A couple big men arguing up ahead, shoving each other, grabs my attention. I cross the street to avoid their scrap, only noticing then how distant Delia’s heels sound.

  “What now, princess? You keeping up? Or do you need me to carry you around in those heels—”

  No reply.

  I turn around and do a double take.

  The drumming click-click-click of heels isn’t Delia’s, but some random lady dressed like a prostitute.

  Delia’s gone.

  Oh, shit.

  I whip around in a circle, my eyes darting everywhere.

  Nothing.

  I scramble across the street again, running up and down the block for any inkling of where she might’ve gone.

  Then I see this bright-pink neon shape, an outline of an old crone wagging her finger at a crystal ball.

  MADAM GHIZZY REVEALS YOUR FUTURE! the sign proclaims proudly.

  Oh.

  Some cheesy fortune shop. Looks like it’s connected to a whole mall of overpriced gimmicks.

  Totally the dumb tourist trap Delia might stumble into if she wants a closer look.

  The door is unlocked when I pull. I walk into this vacant mall that looks dark and abandoned. There’s not even a door concealing the entrance to the fortune teller’s place, but a cheap burgundy curtain.

  Everything smells dank and funky on the other side. I nearly trip on some old boards pulled up from the floor.

  Fucking hell.

  Looks like Madam Ghizzy hasn’t been telling fortunes for a while, and this place hasn’t been secured by the city.

  Adrenaline spikes through my system as I scan the darkness, looking for movement, for her.

  Would Delia have really gone so far knowing how creepy this place looks?

  An icicle pierces my gut as I press on, turning another corner.

  It’s like a small theater inside, several rooms full of beat-up seats and separate stages. Looks like they used to do magic shows or something in here.

  It’s dark and seedy as shit.

  What the hell was she thinking?

  Panic swarms my brain and I breathe deeply.

  That’s when I notice something reeks, and it’s mighty hard to care about anything except finding Delia safe.

  Unlike the streets, where there’s always some noise, this place is too quiet.

  With a heavy sigh, I know what I need to do.

  I cup my hands over my mouth and yell.

  “Delia? Cordelia! Are you in here?” My voice echoes through the stillness, bouncing off tight walls. “Where the fuck are you?” I mutter when nothing comes back.

  Every nerve in my body sharpens.

  Around the corner, there’s a narrow hallway with some dingy restrooms. I wonder if she got lost in here, or maybe she went hunting for a real bathroom.

  The girl drank like a fish earlier. We only made a quick pit stop before leaving the casino over an hour ago.

  I walk up to the women’s room and press my ear to the barely hanging door, listening for Delia, for anything.

  Then I hear it.

  This weird smacking sound, like somebody tossing meat down on a cutting board, followed by a low, angry voice.

  “Shut the fuck up. Stop struggling, bitch, or we’ll flay you wide open. Cooperate, and maybe you’ll see your family again. Fuck around and you bleed out on the floor here with the roaches. Choose wisely.”

  My teeth pinch together so hard they’re about to break.

  I squat down, ripping the knife out of its holster around my ankle. I carry it everywhere in public like this, feeling naked without it.

  I’m in full combat mode now, feeling a familiar, heady shot of instinct that vibrates my veins.

  For a second, I’m back in a penthouse on St. John Island, ushering a dirty and miserable little girl who can’t be older than thirteen out of a dungeon hole.

  This is where I have to stop and make myself think.

  I don’t know how many vicious motherfuckers I’ll find behind the door.

  I don’t know if they’re armed or if they’ll tear into Delia’s throat the second I walk in.

 

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