A deep, rolling chuckle, rich and utterly captivating, cut through the sound of labored, panicked breathing in the room. Her eyes flew to that deeply arresting sound, which sent strange vibrations down her body.
Perched upon the billiard table, perfectly at ease amidst the chaos, stood a man clad entirely in black, save for his bleached cotton shirt. The upper few buttons were open, flaunting a tempting expanse of sculpted chest, beneath a tanned face that could rival the voice of a siren in its lure for danger.
She could not take her eyes away from those deep forest-green ones, crinkled at the edges as if he was vastly amused by the obscene display of vulgarity and pain. Her gaze slid down to the slight greying hairs at his temple, the fine muscled torso, and the way the linen stretched tautly over his powerful thighs, making a dizzying heat pool low in her stomach.
This man had the strongest, most visceral sex appeal, a fact he seemed to revel in.
His thin, aristocratic lips lifted in a dangerous, knowing smirk, and his words brought her whole world to a startling, terrifying halt.
"Moraine Valez. At your service."
It was a tone so cold that the heat in her belly simmered down to a startling cool. Turning to her brother, he raised the belt and gave it a toss.
"If you so dare, dear brave boy" The words dripped with sarcasm, "Try raising your toy on me and I'll teach you how to play."
He was the new King of the West and he had finally arrived.
***
Orion escorted Pamel out of the room, the boy barely conscious, a dead weight in his arms. Her brother, the cause of Pamel's distress, had thankfully left quietly, accompanied by the in-house physician who routinely attended to the mis-treated slaves—a sickening luxury for such cruelty. It was a humiliating, whispered retreat under the vigil eyes of Valez.
How tables had turned, She thought, feeling the acid burn of familial shame.
Inside the opulent salon, Domenico Conti, Minister of Defense and Security, sat on the sofa. He was a man carved from cold marble and old power, sipping his amber whisky as though the scene of brutality he'd just witnessed was a tiresome draft through an open window. Not a single line of worry dared to crease his forehead as he stared, intensely, at Valez.
Ruby settled on the arm of the sofa beside Conti, a silent, predatory stillness about her. Her white silk dress seemed to absorb the light, and her eyes, glittering with dangerous amusement, tracked every flicker of emotion on Valez's face.
She had more than an idea where this was heading; she knew the script, but tonight, Valez intended to tear it up.
"You are at anyone's service but your own, Valez." Conti's voice, when he finally spoke, was rich and lilted with the cultured ridicule of a man who believed his position was sanctioned by God himself. "Even so far in the East End, words from that honeyed tongue of yours cause quite an uproar. I daresay you intend it so."
Valez, however, was not fazed. He was a man built of coiled tension and raw, untamed masculinity —a kind of charm that made men follow him to hell and women willingly stand in the blast radius.
Conti's condescension only seemed to sharpen the glint in his dark eyes.
"East and West are the two sides of the same counterfeit coin, Conti," Valez countered, his voice a low, gravelly promise that slid beneath Conti's polished tone. "You, the Minister of Security, know that better than your doddering counterparts. Those old fools do not know their mouths from their asses, huddled behind their high walls of propriety." He leaned forward, fixing his gaze entirely on the Minister. "But you, Conti, have seen the truth behind the curtain, not the show we put up for the audience. Could you, with a straight face, say the West and the East can act independently and still continue to exist side by side? Or is the lie simply too comfortable to give up?"
The first line of genuine worry—a fine, spider-web etching of doubt—finally appeared between Conti's brows.
"I never said the West can act independently—"
"But to exert absolute control over the West, the East must, eventually, sully their hands and stain those pristine reputations. You would have to take our filth into your own homes and drop this virtual wall that protects your peace while we choke on the chaos." Valez pressed the attack, mercilessly.
His voice dropped to an intimate, cutting whisper. "Middle Nolan would finally expand, yes—but the East would have to spare the inches this time. Are you truly looking forward to that, Domenico? The day your gilded drawing rooms are within spitting distance of our blood-soaked gutters?"
Conti's face pinched, a cold fury rising to replace the initial worry. He was affronted, not just by the suggestion of contamination, but that a Westerner had the gall to speak such sacrilege in his presence.
Ruby was trying so hard to keep herself from laughing. She was falling in love with this man.
"The rot in the West has nothing to do with us. The Glass Wall would never fall. The East Guards will see to that." Conti glared at him.
Ruby had never seen her father so agitated.
"They are getting out of control, Minister." Moraine calmly played out, schooling his expression back into that cold, oily serenade he'd been parading all night. His eyes were calculating and demanding. "You do realize that every time they act in the West—every covert assassination, every midnight raid—they tear down a little more of the very wall you have been claiming to protect."
Moraine paused, letting the silence magnify the weight of his next words.
"Remember this, Conti: The West is not being run by a simpering fool now. If that wall falls, the East is going to be the bigger victim because they are the only ones who have ever known peace. Chaos, for my boys? It's just Tuesday. We thrive in it." He added a goading smile.