On our wedding night, Dennis knelt on a carpet of broken glass, a gun jammed under his own chin. "You take off one piece of clothing and I'll blow my brains out right here in front of your marriage bed!"
——
"Drive. Don't let the filth outside dirty my eyes."
I leaned back against the Maybach's leather seat, my voice raw.
Beyond the window, Dennis was slamming his palms against the bulletproof glass.
That face of his, always so composed, so calculating, was twisted now. Nothing but shock and panic in his eyes.
Nellie Fox stood where he'd shoved her aside, shivering in the autumn wind, staring in disbelief at the convoy of blacked-out sedans bearing consecutive government plates.
"Margot Delgado! Have you lost your mind? Get the hell out of that car!"
The driver didn't hesitate. He floored it. The V12 engine let out a deep, guttural roar.
The man I'd spent five years protecting with my life shrank into exhaust fumes and dust.
The man sitting beside me took his time peeling off the black leather gloves he always wore, revealing a pair of pale, elegant hands.
Christian Finley. The Inner Circle's infamous crown prince—bloodthirsty, volatile, and utterly unpredictable.