“Ah,” he says, and an impish smile plays on his lips. “And warriors know how to have fun.”

“We do.” Slowly I rise from the coffee table and straddle his lap. I slide my fingers into his hair. “We do know how to have fun.” I lower my lips to his. I feel him respond. His hand moves to my lower back, his mouth opens for me, and he caresses my tongue with his. As I shift in his lap, pressing myself against him, I feel his desire build.

And like that, I can see everything’s going my way. I’m back on track, and without resorting to violence. His suspicions, while merited, were misdirected, and now I’ve been able to spin the story to my liking.

But I’m not pleased with myself.

His hands move down to my hips, pulling me even closer as his kisses move to my chin, then my neck, and I feel his hands move between my legs, adding a tantalizing pressure to this seduction.

I didn’t want him to see me as a gold digger. The truth is worse than that, but his accusations scrape against my skin, making me raw.

He holds me firmly as he raises me up, then flips me over onto the couch. I’m lying on my back, my legs still wrapped around him. I feel the flicker of his tongue against the hollow of my throat, as if attempting to coax out the words I wish I could swallow.

If he had worked out the truth, our poker game would have turned into a knife fight and Lander’s blade surely would have sunk deeper than mine. There would have been so much pain. The wounds he would have inflicted would have been debilitating.

But then again, at least when I bleed I know I’m real. As it stands now, I’m a ghost. A fantasy composed of nothing more tangible than my imagination and his misdirected suspicions.

I grab his hair, this time pulling him back. “I don’t want your money,” I say quietly as my grip tightens.

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes are warm and almost patient. I let go of him and pull off my shirt. Lifting my arms above my head, I drop it over the edge of the couch.

“What do you want, Bell?”

I press my lips together as the truth struggles to escape:

I want justice.

I want revenge.

I almost tell him my real name.

“I want . . .” I whisper. “I want . . .”

What? What can I say? What hateful little lie will I choose to ruin us now?

“I want,” I breathe and then pause as I again catch that flash of mischief in his eyes, the impish curve of his mouth. It’s a challenge. An invitation for wickedness.

I love it.