symbol it was. And on her shapely body, it took balls to walk around that place like that. But she had to know that and, from the way she’d come on to him so quickly, she believed she had nothing to fear. Either that or she thrived on risk as much as he did.
He leaned against the doorframe as she sauntered across the kitchen to grab a label-less wine bottle and a couple of glasses. No doubt the contents were as home-brewed and subsequently potent as most other alcohol supplies in Blackthorn.
She sauntered back past him, cocked her head as an indication for him to follow.
Glasses clinking between the slender fingers of one hand, the neck of the wine bottle held in the other, she strolled past the foot of the stairs, the sway to her hips as well-practised as her seduction routine. Because it had to be well-practised. There, in Blackthorn, sex was used as a weapon as much as any iron or steel rod. The south, in particular, was brimming with as many deadly females as males. There was no such thing as a superior species there. Women moved in gangs the same way the men did and knew how to fight as effectively as they knew how to seduce and manipulate. There, women would slaughter you mid-act just for the fun of it. And an intelligent woman, like Tatum, was the most lethal of all – smiles and seduction one moment then a six-inch blade in the back or castration the next.
But, for now, Pummel seemingly wanted him alive.
As he reached the foot of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder to see the girl had exited behind them.
At first she stilled, her hand clutching the handle on the door she’d closed behind her. She glanced at Tatum stepping through the arch into the neighbouring house, before glaring back at him. And it was a glare that didn’t falter even as she looked over her shoulder from halfway up the stairs – a glare that brimmed with indignation at his presence.
There was something else behind those brown eyes too – something that exuded vulnerability from his actions. Beneath that vulnerability, though, lingered the silent warning that she’d finished with him about as much as he’d finished with her. That look was as intoxicating as it got for him – ten times more compelling than the sexual swagger of the woman who was escorting him to his new room.
He held her glare for a second longer than he should have, wanting it to be clear to her that nothing had severed their connection despite Tatum having entered the mix. Something he’d be proving to her soon enough.
And he couldn’t help but smile as she frowned. Not only was there a lot to like physically; she had a sharpness in her eyes, a quick retort, and a defiance towards him that screamed challenge. But more than that was a composure, a compassion shining through a haze of corruption and standing out against a backdrop of darkness.
‘Hey,’ Tatum said, recapturing his attention. She glanced up the stairs, but the girl had already, thankfully, disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell. She cocked her head back towards the arch. ‘This way.’
‘What’s up there?’ Eden asked, indicating up the stairwell.
‘Pummel’s room. Homer’s too.’
No mention of the girl.
With her glass-holding hand, Tatum looped a free finger around the front pocket of his jeans, tugging him gently through the arch that had once been a dividing wall to the terraced house next door.
He stopped at the foot of the staircase on the other side of the wall. The same pattern ran all the way through the row – and the further away the rooms, the denser the population, the more opaque the darkness, the more lurid the potential. ‘How many houses are in this row?’
‘It stretches to sixty. Most rows span to about forty.’
‘Have you got any problems with turf wars?’
‘No more than expected. A few have tried their luck with Pummel but no one has succeeded yet. Everyone knows it’s not in any of our interests to have a full-scale war. Not with each
He leaned against the doorframe as she sauntered across the kitchen to grab a label-less wine bottle and a couple of glasses. No doubt the contents were as home-brewed and subsequently potent as most other alcohol supplies in Blackthorn.
She sauntered back past him, cocked her head as an indication for him to follow.
Glasses clinking between the slender fingers of one hand, the neck of the wine bottle held in the other, she strolled past the foot of the stairs, the sway to her hips as well-practised as her seduction routine. Because it had to be well-practised. There, in Blackthorn, sex was used as a weapon as much as any iron or steel rod. The south, in particular, was brimming with as many deadly females as males. There was no such thing as a superior species there. Women moved in gangs the same way the men did and knew how to fight as effectively as they knew how to seduce and manipulate. There, women would slaughter you mid-act just for the fun of it. And an intelligent woman, like Tatum, was the most lethal of all – smiles and seduction one moment then a six-inch blade in the back or castration the next.
But, for now, Pummel seemingly wanted him alive.
As he reached the foot of the stairs, he looked over his shoulder to see the girl had exited behind them.
At first she stilled, her hand clutching the handle on the door she’d closed behind her. She glanced at Tatum stepping through the arch into the neighbouring house, before glaring back at him. And it was a glare that didn’t falter even as she looked over her shoulder from halfway up the stairs – a glare that brimmed with indignation at his presence.
There was something else behind those brown eyes too – something that exuded vulnerability from his actions. Beneath that vulnerability, though, lingered the silent warning that she’d finished with him about as much as he’d finished with her. That look was as intoxicating as it got for him – ten times more compelling than the sexual swagger of the woman who was escorting him to his new room.
He held her glare for a second longer than he should have, wanting it to be clear to her that nothing had severed their connection despite Tatum having entered the mix. Something he’d be proving to her soon enough.
And he couldn’t help but smile as she frowned. Not only was there a lot to like physically; she had a sharpness in her eyes, a quick retort, and a defiance towards him that screamed challenge. But more than that was a composure, a compassion shining through a haze of corruption and standing out against a backdrop of darkness.
‘Hey,’ Tatum said, recapturing his attention. She glanced up the stairs, but the girl had already, thankfully, disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell. She cocked her head back towards the arch. ‘This way.’
‘What’s up there?’ Eden asked, indicating up the stairwell.
‘Pummel’s room. Homer’s too.’
No mention of the girl.
With her glass-holding hand, Tatum looped a free finger around the front pocket of his jeans, tugging him gently through the arch that had once been a dividing wall to the terraced house next door.
He stopped at the foot of the staircase on the other side of the wall. The same pattern ran all the way through the row – and the further away the rooms, the denser the population, the more opaque the darkness, the more lurid the potential. ‘How many houses are in this row?’
‘It stretches to sixty. Most rows span to about forty.’
‘Have you got any problems with turf wars?’
‘No more than expected. A few have tried their luck with Pummel but no one has succeeded yet. Everyone knows it’s not in any of our interests to have a full-scale war. Not with each
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