Mila’s body pushes against mine, heat burning in her emerald eyes and a smile on her perfect face. I push harder, only earning a sensual laugh instead of a gasp. Releasing her throat, I cage her between my arms. Her breathing is ragged, but I’m confident it’s more from the moment than my hand wrapped around her throat.
Her hands rest slack on my bloody chest. She’s not one bit perturbed by my action, which only raises more questions I’m not ready to ask.
I lean in, brushing my lips along the shell of her ear. “If you keep fucking with me, Mila, you’re going to get fucked.”
Pulling back, I smirk down at her, pleased to see her shudder from my words. Mila’s eyes snap up to mine. One hand slowly trails down my chest toward my cock, and the other wraps around the back of my neck.
I groan when she cups my dick through my shorts. My hips buck forward greedily. I bend down to claim Mila’s lips. She draws my bottom lip between her teeth, adding pressure and reopening the wounds Renton put there.
She hums and pulls back. Her hand is no longer palming my cock. My eyes search hers through slits, but that cocky fucking smirk still plays on her lips.
Mila wipes my blood from her mouth and straightens. The movement entrances me, and my devious thoughts are in the way, distracting me from stopping her as she ducks under my arm and saunters past me.
“Good fight. I’ll see you tomorrow night, friend,” Mila says over her shoulder.
I watch in disbelief as she walks out of the locker room, swaying her hips and wearing my blood on her neck like a fucking trophy.
Once again, she leaves me needing more and unable to accept that Mila doesn’t want me. The way her body reacts to mine says she does. I won’t let Bastian get his hands on her, and I’ll be damned if the fucker disrespects her again.
Mila Williams is mine.
IN THE MORNING, I go to work like everything’s normal, which it kind of is, despite having a busted-up face. It’s not the first time, so people tend to ignore it. I stay hidden in my office, anyway; I want to distance myself from Bastian as much as possible right now.
I released a lot of anger last night at the fight club, but I’m not confident I won’t send my fist through his fucking face if he opens his mouth.
I spend some time trying to get in contact with a man I’d planted in The Omen’s wife’s mafia family. With The Omen’s connections, I had to think outside of the box and work from any angle I could.
Levin checks in with me at least once a week, but our last contact was weeks ago. I’ve been distracted and didn’t realize he hadn’t reached out. Now, he’s gone ghost, and there’s no way to get a location on him without asking Bastian to ping his most frequented spots.
Someone raps on my door, and I toss my phone on my desk. Aron Deavers, one of my colleagues with a contact in the DC underground, walks in.
“Agent Deavers,” I acknowledge.
He shuts the door behind him and makes himself at home in my guest chair. I should probably take that fucking thing out. It’s not like I want people keeping me company in my office. There’s a closed door for a damn reason.
Scooting down, Deavers leans his head on the back of the chair and closes his eyes. He sighs, fishing for me to press him on whatever he’s so fucking smug about.
“How’d the other guy look?” Deavers asks, breaking the too-brief silence.
I wince at the memory of Renton, lifeless on the ground. I refuse to indulge in casual conversation about it. Tanner called this morning to let me know Renton would live, but it’s unlikely he’ll ever fight again. He advised me to stay out of the club for a while. A long while.
Deavers straightens in his chair. “I found out where the Olin’s main warehouse is. Contact says they have a big shipment coming in tonight.”
That gets my attention.
Getting a location on The Omen’s main warehouse is a huge break. This could be my opportunity to get my hands on someone close to him. The only problem is that I will have to swallow my pride and ask Bastian for help.
The boss man can’t deny us raiding the warehouse without looking suspicious with intel like this. I’ll know The Omen has my boss in his pocket if he denies me.
“I’ll gather a team for our raid tonight. Have you seen Special Agent Collins? I need to speak with him, too.”
“He went to lunch, then called in saying he’s sick and won’t be back today,” Deavers shrugs.
I stand, signaling the end of this little meeting. “Then I’ll go to his fucking house. Out of my office.”
Grabbing my keys, I follow Deavers and lock the door behind me. He stops to say something else, but I keep moving. No point delaying the inevitable. I need Collins in the cameras.
My boss’ office is on the way to the elevator, so I stop in to talk to him about the intel. His door is closed, but no voices sound from behind it, meaning he just wants privacy.