Page 27 of The Price of Power

A tick of anger tightened her jaw for a fraction of a second. Real anger.

Her reaction should have incensed me. She had no right to anger, after all. It was her family who owed me money. I didn’t owe her shit.

But for some strange reason, seeing that flash of honest emotion in Liv only made me want her more.

And it wasn’t just the pleasure of her body I wanted, but her.

I’d never experienced that kind of attraction with anyone else.

Truth be told, it was the whole reason I’d been so upset to find she’d disappeared last night. If all I’d wanted was a Round Two, I could have had it from any woman in La Sera. But I didn’t want just anyone.

I wanted Liv.

As far as I was concerned, the woman was a damned unicorn.

“Are you saying that Theo’s life—that my life—is nothing but a game to you?” she demanded.

“Now you’re starting to catch on.”

She tried to pull away, but I held on as she yanked her arm once—twice—before letting go. The force of her struggle caused her to stumble back a couple of steps, and I watched as she rubbed her hand, even though I knew damn well I hadn’t squeezed hard enough to injure her.

Still, she shot me a hard glare. “So my only options are to sit back helplessly while you kill my brother or become your whore?”

“My woman, not my whore,” I clarified.

Her brows pulled together. “What’s the difference?”

“Whore is a part-time position—cash for services rendered,” I explained. “You, on the other hand, will live in my home, sleep in my bed. You’ll accompany me to events and stand by my side at public events. You’ll be open and available to me all hours of the day, with me every second of the night.”

Her lips parted, but for a long moment, no sound came out. When she finally did speak, her voice was even shakier than before.

“B-But what about my job?” she asked. “My apartment? My friends and family? What about my life?”

“I’m your life now, Liv,” I told her.

She shook her head, her eyes blinking furiously. There was no hiding how overwhelmed she’d become as she raked her fingers through her riotous curls.

When she’d finally calmed down enough to talk, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “You’re the damn devil, Gabriel D’Angelo.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“Clearly not enough.”

“Maybe,” I admitted with a smile. “But that doesn’t exactly help your case. After all, you’re the one who told me to surround myself with a better kind of company, the kind of people who would tell me the truth no matter what.”

“I didn’t mean me,” she protested.

I shrugged. “Then you need to start choosing your words more carefully.”

“And you need to be more careful with who you invite into your bed,” she shot back. “You don’t know me or what I’m capable of. What makes you think I won’t snap the moment you fall asleep and stab you through the heart with a carving knife?”

I didn’t bother holding back the bark of laughter that rose up in my throat. “You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because if you ever tried anything like that, not only would you fail, but I’d bring your mother to New York just so I could slit her throat in front of you.”

The color drained from her face in an instant. “Oh my God. You’re not kidding, are you?”