Page 6 of Brutal
He says nothing.
That’s good enough for me. For now, at least. I turn away from the booth and start toward the exit.
Halfway across the room, I react to something. It’s not obvious, just a quiet chill that skitters across the back of my neck.
Something I never fail to ignore.
I look toward the bar.
A woman sits alone beneath a wall of backlit bottles. She isn’t looking directly at me. She’s watching the mirror behind the liquor shelves.
When I stop, her gaze shifts from the mirror to my face.
I expect her to look away. Most people do when they encounter Samson Vexley.
She doesn’t.
Interesting.
I watch her for a moment.
She’s beautiful, though not in the loud, polished way of most of the women here. No evidence of Botox or fillers, and her hair is a natural color. Dark chestnut—not a purple highlight in sight—and it falls past her shoulders in smooth waves. She wears a basic black dress with a neckline high enough not to show any cleavage…and damn, I’d like to see some. She looks pretty stacked.
When she lifts her glass, the light catches something at her throat.
A thin silver pendant.
Two small scales.
Justice.
An odd symbol for a room like this.
I move toward her.
The bartender notices me first. “Mr. Vexley?—”
“Leave.”
He disappears.
I stop beside her. “You watched the whole thing,” I say. “With Darnell.”
She takes a sip of her drink. “It’s hard not to.” Her voice is calm. Low for a woman.
“Did you enjoy it?”
She turns her head and looks directly at me. Her eyes are a striking silvery blue. “I wouldn’t say I enjoyed it.”
“No? What would you say, then?”
She tilts her head. Her hair caresses the swell of her breast.
Fuck…
“Preston Darnell doesn’t intimidate easily,” she continues. “I suppose I’d say I found it educational, watching you flex your power like that.”
A faint heat spreads through my chest.
