Chapter 14 #2
"You leave your hand there any longer," I say, keeping my voice light, "I'll have to start charging you rent."
He laughs—genuinely amused. The sound vibrates through his chest into mine.
But his hand stays where it is. Two beats. Three. Long enough that I know it's deliberate. Long enough that I feel sick.
Then, finally, it slides back up to the small of my back.
"You have a sense of humor," he says, his mouth too close to my ear. "I like that in a woman."
My skin crawls. I want to scrub myself clean, want to put distance between us. But I can't. So I meet his eyes instead. "I'm also loyal to Jagger."
Marquez studies me. His eyes are dark, calculating, measuring how far he can push, how much I'll bend.
He smiles. "Good. Loyalty is rare, valuable." He spins me once—smooth, practiced—and brings me back into his arms. "But it also needs to be tested."
The threat is a low vibration in his chest that I can feel against my own. I offer him a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, a mask of polished stone. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of the fake; this is just another canvas, and Marquez is the most dangerous critic I’ve ever faced.
“You’ve been an independent contractor for a long time. Why do you want to work for me, Adena?”
“Contractors survive job to job. You build systems. Influence. Longevity.”
Marquez’s thumb stills at my spine.
“And you think I offer safety?” he asks mildly.
I meet his gaze. Don’t flinch.
“No. You offer control. And control outlasts safety.”
His smile sharpens—not wider—approval, not warmth.
“You understand the difference between freedom and usefulness,” he says. “Most people confuse them.”
He guides me another step closer, subtle as a chess move.
“But if you work for me,” he continues, voice lowering, “you don’t stay an independent anything. I invest. I expect return.”
He pauses. “Long-term,” he adds. “Loyalty that doesn’t clock out.”
The implication hangs there—he’s not just talking about work.
The final notes fade into applause from a table near the bar. Jagger's on his feet and heading our way before we reach the table.
Marquez releases me easily. “We’ll talk again, Adena,” he says, not a question, a claim.
Jagger’s voice cuts through the noise as he takes my hand. "That’s enough."
His voice is casual, but there's a warning running underneath.
A warning that powerful men like Marquez are always too arrogant to notice.
Jagger
The music wraps around us, slow and heavy. Adena’s body gradually softens against mine, the tension blasting out inch by inch.
I pull her closer—not for the performance, but because I need her to know I'm not okay with what just happened.
“If I could, I’d break every bone in his hand for touching you like that,” I murmur in her ear. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. "He was testing you," I keep my voice low, though the music provides good cover.
She nods, but her breathing's shallow. “So he said.”
"We need to be careful. Paco's going to make a move. I don't know when, but it's coming. He’s looking for a reason to step on my neck."
She adjusts so she can reply without being seen from the table. “Or stab you in it.”
I nod. “If he can find a weak spot to exploit, he’ll do it.”
“Then don’t give him one.”
Easy for her to say.
The song blends into another, low and slow. When she starts to move away, I tighten my hold. “Not yet. We go back without making a good show, Ortega will be the next one pawing you.”
She hesitates, eyes flicking up to mine, searching. The air between us hums, alive with things we can’t say out loud. Then she exhales, a quiet surrender, and lets me lead.
For a few minutes, the world narrows to rhythm and heartbeat—the steady slide of velvet against my palm, the faint tremor in her shoulders as she forces herself to stay in character. I try to focus on the job, on the faces circling us like sharks, but all I can feel is her.
The way we move together, how her hand fits perfectly in mine, her fingers curled just enough to hold on. The curve of her waist under my other hand, the way she leans into each turn without hesitation.
The music shifts, slows. She follows without missing a beat, her body responding to mine like we're connected by something more than touch.
I should be counting exits, tracking Marquez's line of sight. Instead, I'm lost in how flawlessly she’s behaved tonight and how good it feels to have someone I trust at my side for a change.
"Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight, Tiger?"
Her eyes flicker up to mine, and for just a second the mask slips—a real smile, small and surprised, touches the corner of her mouth before she catches it. "It's the dress. It cost you a fortune."
I laugh. "It's not the dress. It's how you’re wearing it."
The smile lingers this time, softer. Her fingers tighten against mine, and she holds my gaze a beat longer than she should, longer than is safe with all these eyes on us.
On cue, the song ends, and the danger slides back in. When I reluctantly lead her back to the table, Marquez is waiting, his predator’s calm firmly back in place.
“I need you and Adena to join me in Vegas when Ortega and I get done here,” he says, voice smooth, eyes sharp. “Our new friend wants to go to the tables. See the showgirls. Blow off some steam.”
Ortega smirks, swirling his drink. “You two should get hitched while you’re there.”
The words land like a grenade rolling across the table. My pulse jumps as I pick up my drink and try not to choke on it.
Valentina’s laugh slices through the noise, bright and brittle. “Now there’s an idea.”
Around us, conversation continues. The pianist plays. Glasses clink. People dance. But at our table, the world has stopped.
“What do you say, Jagger?” Marquez’s gaze locks on mine, unblinking. Measuring. “Make it official while we’re there?”
Adena’s fingers spasm in mine. Then her fingernails dig into my skin. Hard.
Valentina’s smile is razor-sharp. “Think of it this way, if she leaves you now, things get messy. Marriage keeps things nice and… tidy.”
She’s right. In her own warped way. In Marquez’s world, loyalty isn’t earned—it’s bound. Paperwork, vows, blood. Whatever it takes to keep the secrets from spilling.
I glance at Adena. She's staring at Marquez like he just put a gun on the table between us.
My throat’s dry. My heart’s slamming against my ribs so hard I’m surprised they can’t hear it.
I should laugh it off. Make a joke. Buy time.
But this isn’t just a test of loyalty. It’s a show of power—how much Marquez holds over his people.
My throat goes tight. This is the edge. Once I step over, there’s no walking it back. Every instinct screams to refuse. To call this what it is—a trap.
But rather than acknowledge any of that, I rationalize. It's cover. Deep cover. People do worse to maintain their position. This is just logistics.
The words come before I can stop them. “Sure,” I hear myself say. “Why not?”