Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(65)

He had made her a promise once that should she ever want to leave him, he wouldn’t make her stay.

And that day, despite how loudly he demanded she remain in his home, he didn’t stop her from walking out the door. The minute she was out of the house, the doors closing at her back, she could hear the destruction he wrought as he destroyed everything within reaching distance.

She heard his anger.

She heard his frustration.

But the sound of it had only made her run faster, crying all the way, if only because she would have went back to him if she hadn’t.

Focusing back on the present, Luna ignored his question and asked one of her own. “Will you give me the name?”

“Are you asking as my wife or my brother’s employee?”

The latter was at the tip of her tongue, but she held those words back, trying to figure how he would react to either answer. He had always been more empathetic towards her than others, and usually more times than not, he and Uilleam were in the middle of a disagreement.

“Can I not be both?”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “You came here for my assistance, you play by my rules. You should know them better than anyone, right, love?”

“Kit, I don’t have time for this.” And while it only felt like a short time, she couldn’t be sure how long it had been since she was with Celt and Red.

“Then answer the question.”

“Your wife,” Luna said on a rush. “I’m asking as your wife. Now, please. Give me a name.”

“A name in exchange for permission.”

As his words penetrated, she felt a flush of desire, but it was overshadowed by her disbelief. “Don’t do that. Don’t use this against me.”

“That’s what I want.”

She wouldn’t accept that. “Pick something else.”

“That’s the only payment I’ll accept. So tell me, how much are you willing to give for that friend of yours?”

He wasn’t holding back anymore, that temper of his flashing in his eyes. She had underestimated him … again.

“The choice is yours, Luna,” he said softly, though there was no one around to hear—but he had always treated her like she was the only person in the room. “Don’t allow your misplaced loyalty to force you into something you don’t want.”

“And it’s not you that’s putting me there?” she asked, pushing her plate away. “It’s about your need for control over everything—even me.”

“Is that what you think?”

“You’ve never made it a secret, Kit.” And there was a time when she had loved it—loved everything about him really—until he had turned that control into a weapon.

“The Bronson Organization—founded about two years ago and used to move antiquities around the globe,” Kit said almost conversationally. “She’s very good at working without drawing attention to herself, but she did learn from her father, or whichever male figure she was sleeping with at the time.”

She?

They were looking for a woman?

That was at least an answer to one of their problems. All this time, they had assumed it was a man.

“Her name?”

“Agree to my terms. It’s simple.”

It was like playing with fire, except she knew she would get burned—the only question was how much could she take?

“Fine. A name for permission.”

He was on his feet in seconds, like whatever restraint was holding him back had finally lifted. One moment he was still on the other side of the table, the next she was on her feet with her back to the wall, his body pressed against hers.

She had to remember how to breathe.

He was so close, heat radiating from him as he pressed closer still, making sure she felt every hard ridge of his body. And the moment his fingers came into contact with the exposed skin of her throat, she felt like she was drowning all over again.

Then he was kissing her, but not as deeply as he would have normally. This was lighter, sweeter, just a taste of what he was offering. Before she knew it, her hand was clenched in his shirt, holding him in place.

For a moment she allowed herself to forget all the bad and relished in the memories his kiss invoked.

But as quickly as his kiss was gentle and coaxing, the next he was taking more, dragging his mouth from hers, skimming over her jaw until they rested on the pulse in her neck.

It was just the tip of his tongue at first, then the flat of it, until he was sucking on that spot, and only when she was shaking did he bite down, hard enough to tear a gasp from her throat.

But not from pain.

Or at least not the bad kind.

She knew when she looked in the mirror, there would be a mark there, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care, not when she was aching for him to leave more.

“Kit, please.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

She could feel his reaction to those words, to her begging. That had always been what got under his skin the most, when she begged for him because he knew, in that moment, he could do whatever he wanted to her as long as he eased the ache between her legs.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispered in her ear. “Not really.”

“But I do.”

Kit drew back, though not very far. “I made you a promise, wee one. I don’t intend to break it.”