Thinks his money means something out here in the dark heart of Haliburton, where the trees stretch tall and ancient, and no one screams loud enough to wake the neighbors.

Thinks I’m gonna slide down and land in his lap like a good little prize.

Wrong, Romeo.

I purr under my breath, letting my fingers trace up my waist and across my ribs. My hips sway. My head tips just enough to let my hair spill down in a golden curtain. I lick my lips real slow, just to make sure he knows I see him.

He grins—sleazy and smug—like he thinks he’s won something. His hand rises, inching up like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Poor thing. He doesn’t realize he’s already dead. And then—he touches me.

Fingertips grazing my thigh, sliding up over my hip, bold as sin and just as stupid. His knuckles brush the leather strap at my waist, and he moans under his breath like he just touched God. Or maybe the devil.

I don’t pull away.

I lean into it, because I live for the game—and this one? This one’s my favorite.

Let him cup the curve of my ass and press his palm against my skin. Let him believe he’s got a shot.

“Mmm,” I murmur, looking down at him with a lazy smirk. “That what you wanted, big boy?”

He nods, mouth slack, pupils blown wide behind his mask.

“You like that, huh?” I coo, dragging my nails up my stomach while he keeps groping, getting bolder now, both hands on me like I’m his.

Like I’d ever be his.

He doesn’t notice how quiet the tent’s gotten.

Doesn’t hear the hush that settles like a blade across the crowd. Poor bastard doesn’t even see the shadow moving in behind him, silent and seething.

But I do.

Hook. Line. Dumbass.

Of course Bjorn saw it all.

He knows how much I love to play.

His whole body tenses as he stalks forward, that big, brutal frame wound tight with purpose.

The firelight catches the edge of his axe, and the runes on his chest look like they’re burning from the inside out.

I don’t even finish my spin before he’s there.

One step.

Then two.

Then—boom.

Bjorn’s hand wraps around Mr. Suave’s throat and lifts him off the ground like he’s weightless—a lamb, mid-prayer, already too late.

Like he’s just a bundle of twigs to be tossed on the fire.

The crowd? Gasping. Panting. Absolutely fucking feral.

The guy flails, his horn cup falling and splattering beer across the dirt. His mask knocked crooked.

He claws at Bjorn’s wrist like that’s gonna do anything.

Please. That wrist has held me down and made me beg for mercy I didn’t even want.