Page 6 of Merciless Heir
That sarcastic thought dies a quick death. He might be richer than half the born into it one percent, but he’s got chromium in his bones. A ruthless edge I can taste on the air between us that goes beyond boardroom sandpits.
“There’s nothing common about me.”
Now he shows teeth. “Criminal?”
“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
His scent is one of money, power, expensive leather-bound old books that hold secrets. A spice and musk with dark smoke and a hint of deceptive sweetness and it’s a calling to the physical inside.
“You’re Midnight Raven. There’s no one else.” He slides his other hand along my throat, resting his fingers against my jugular and the throb and beat of it echoes in my blood and ears.
I touch him, lay my hand on his chest. The heat of him beneath the open coat, the heat that radiates through the soft merino and silk sweater, belies hot, hard flesh and the air is alive with an intangible need that flares between us.
That need is want. Hot sex.
I ignore it, and will myself cool, my features a mask as I continue to watch Kingston.
“That isn’t any kind of question, Mr. Sinclair.”
“No, Ms. Hess. It isn’t. And you are the coveted cat burglar.”
“The media and the authorities handed out the name Midnight Raven, all because of a feather that ended up as a calling card. It’s the smoke and mirrors of notoriety. Oz behind the screen.” I smile and curl my fingers, deliberately moving down along his chest, stopping shy of his belt.
His poker face is almost perfect.
But that little sharp breath is physiological, something he can’t help.
It feeds power in me.
Good to know the heat and awareness flows both ways.
I can use it if I need to. Manipulate it if I want.
“I use the reputation and the moniker Black Raven for my services. And people have put two and two together and come up with their own answers. I never correct anyone. And it serves me well.”
He leans in, his mouth almost brushing mine, but he moves up to my ear. “So, you’re telling me you’re not that good?”
“I’m the best there is. As to whether I stole from those people…it’s up to you.”
“Thievery is still thievery.”
“Sometimes it’s art.”
“And when is that?”
“When rich fucks like you are the object of victimless crimes. All the things taken were worth more via insurance claims. And every single person could buy those things or others like them ten times over and not scratch their bank accounts.”
This is my fuck you speech.
It also happens to be true. When I did my work, back in the day—not nearly to the level of crimes that have been cast at my feet—I only took from those who could afford it. I never took pieces that I knew were loved for actual sentimentality.
This wasn’t because I’m a saint. But because those pieces often weren’t worth the price tag assigned to them, and when they were, they weren’t worth the trouble. People came after those hardcore.
I was in it for the thrill once I had enough to live on. And I got out once I’d done enough. Transitioned, is the word. I transitioned from the dark to the shadows on the right side of the law and found I could make real money by tracking down stolen pieces and helping build bespoke security for clients.
“Us rich fucks,” he says, voice devoid of rancor, “still don’t like to be stolen from.”
“Pity because you sure like taking from the great unwashed.”