37. Addie #2
“I can’t see you, but I can hear you. And I know you can hear me.” Beck’s deep voice rumbled in my left ear. My lip wobbled in response. “You can do this, Adelaide. You’re my Ice Queen, Dek’s Deadly, and Van’s Pretty Girl even if he hasn’t said it to your conscious face.”
I huffed a short, quiet laugh, wondering about all the things Van had waited to admit till I was snoring.
“So freeze that too-big heart of yours. Frost those veins. Don that mask. And go do what needs to be done. Dek and I are on our way up to you right now in case things go sideways.”
“They’ve already gone sideways,” I whispered. “It should have just been Lewis. Just one man. Now there’s four and I—I don’t know if I can—”
“You can. We trained you.”
“You’re the girl who carried Beck’s hefty ass out on her shoulders not too long ago,” Dek said. “This is child’s play in comparison.”
I allowed myself a smile—my gaze snagging on blood-red lips curved up in the mirror, on the face of someone I didn’t recognise. But maybe that was good. Maybe I could pretend to be her. Someone else. Someone who had the tenacity to pull this off.
“Okay,” I whispered back, reaching for the zipper between my shoulder blades. “I wish you were here to help me out of this dress though, Beck.”
A cough came through the line, swiftly followed by a deprecating chuckle.
“Next time, babygirl,” Beck whispered, barely loud enough for me to hear. “I’ll be with you soon, okay? Just get the job done, then we can all go home, and I will personally see to your dressing and undressing needs,” he murmured, inciting a moan—on more than just my part.
The fact that either Dek or Van also found the thought of that scenario hot sent a shiver down my body and gave me something to look forward to. Resolve warmed me as I finally stepped out of the gown, letting it slide to the floor, looking eerily like a puddle of fresh blood.
Clad in nothing but that pair of lacy black panties, a matching strapless bra, and my new favourite classic red-soles, I plucked my crimson velvet clutch off the floor from where I’d discarded it a few minutes ago.
There wasn’t much inside it—just some cash, a utility knife, and a brand new, black, rectangular vial of lip gloss.
And given I was currently lacking anywhere to hide the blade, I pulled out the gloss instead.
Killer Crimson 010. Whichever tech genius named it clearly had a sense of humour because the contents of this tube were decidedly lethal.
Uncapping the lid, I twisted its base and applied a thin, careful layer of poison to my lips.
Absorbed through the skin, the toxin would paralyse my victim in three minutes flat—systematically shutting down all motor control, then all autonomic bodily processes like breathing and heartbeat.
Said victim would be dead approximately three hundred seconds from the moment my lips touched theirs.
Tonight my kiss would kill.
My own were protected by the layer of protectant Pyotr had meticulously applied in an equally deadly shade earlier—but if the poison were to touch me anywhere else, all bets were off.
I shot myself one last steely glare, donned the mask as Beck instructed, then turned the faucet off and straightened my posture.
“Knock ‘em dead, Deadly.”
You got it, boss.
Sauntering out of the bathroom, scantily clad in lingerie and a venomous smile, I walked right up to Henry Lewis, reclining on the dark suede sofa, spread-legged and scowling. He and his buddies watched, fixated on my every step, ogling every inch of skin now laid bare for their benefit.
“That is decidedly not unwrapped, Katarina,” he growled.
I stopped, right between his Oxford-clad feet, angling my body the way I’d been taught. Even Marie would be proud at the smirk I provoked, from the man who only had a limited number left to give.
Swallowing the nausea and ignoring the way his eyes darkened, I tried my luck. “You’re right. I thought you could help me out of the rest,” I said slowly. Suggestively.
Lewis spread his legs even wider, showing off his pitched trouser-tent with pride. He ignored the sniggers of his friends, beckoning what’s-his-face over.
“Chase, come help our girl out, would you?”
Chase. Typical rich, college-frat-boy name.
“Gladly,” Chase answered excitedly. He rushed over, wasting no time with pleasantries, reaching around to cup my freshly-waxed honey pot.
He probably thought he was good at this. Probably thought I was actually feeling something other than bone-deep revulsion, as he rubbed over my slit up and down, over and over.
I played into it, of course. Ignoring the static silence through my comms, I faked stuttered breaths and soft moans, twisting on Chase’s arms to better reach him.
“Still too much clothing,” Lewis announced softly before reaching up to rip my panties clean off.
Chase groaned, grinding against my hip.
Poor, tiny dick, rich kids.
Somewhere behind us, the distinct smacking sound of a furiously jerked-off cock sounded and I learned that these boys weren’t shy about what got them off.
Degradation made them hard. Abuse got them off. Assault made them blow their disgusting little loads all over each other, probably.
Chase shoved his own pants down in a rush, prepping for what exactly, I wasn’t sure. But I wasn’t about to find out.
I reached up to palm his cheek and locked my fingers in the dirty-blonde hair at his nape. Dragging him down, I smiled, before pressing my lips to his in a shallow kiss.
And the countdown begins.
Shoving him roughly away, to Lewis’ ever-growing amusement, I padded closer to the one who really mattered. With practised grace, I lowered myself onto his lap. My knees straddled his thighs, and my core rested against his crotch—bare skin on soft fabric.
He couldn’t help but drag himself upwards—some ingrained testosterone-fuelled response driving every action as his brain slowly left the building. His hands grabbed my hips roughly, shoving me down atop him like he could take what he wanted, even with the fine wool of his pants in the way.
“That’s it, baby,” I crooned. “Take what you paid for.”
“I hate this,” someone muttered through the receiver, distracting me from a move I should have seen coming.
Lewis backhanded me, dislodging the earpiece and sending it flying across the carpet.
Blessedly unaware, he snarled, “Don’t talk.”
Poking my tongue at a dislodged tooth, I fought every instinct to fight back. With Chase still wondering why his hand couldn’t grip his dick as well as usual, there were still four players to contend with.
I leaned in, ready to kiss Lewis and end this, ready to deal with Randall and Spencer’s fallout. But just as I got close enough, he reared back, sinking his fingers into the skin of my upper arms so hard it’d leave more bruises.
“You think I kiss whores?” he spat vehemently, twisting and shoving me face first into the couch cushions so hard I couldn’t breathe.
So hard my lip gloss smeared all over them.
The telltale stickiness across my cheek informed me that my own countdown had started, too.
Fuck.
The sound of a body falling through a glass table ricocheted through my ears, startling my assailant into a looser grip.
Hoping the microphone in my earring was still working, hoping they’d be able to hear over the crash of shattered glass and a cussing CEO, that Dek would know and understand I whispered “Duck.”