Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

over the black upholstered headboard.
God, I want more than anything to march back upstairs, flip her over on
the mattress, tie her to the bed posts, and reenact our time together at
Christmas.
This time, I’d stay. When she awoke in the morning, bloody and raw
from my cock and fingers and knife, I’d work her over until she was pleading
for another ride. Begging for me to cause her pain all over again.
And then I fucking would.
“Blimey,” Jonas says, rounding the desk with two dark pink drinks,
strategically keeping his eyes trained above my head. “If you need a moment
alone with her, just say the word and I’ll take my information and
skedaddle.”
Rolling my eyes, I shift so my lap is situated better beneath the desk,
taking the tumbler he extends to me. The drink is refreshing and tangy as I tip
it to my lips, sipping slowly, waiting for him to continue.
He gulps his vodka cranberry down in five swift swallows, dragging the
back of his hand over his mouth when he’s finished. “Right then. On to why
I’m here. We’ve been trying to trace the identity of the person who sent you
that sex tape for three days now. We’re no closer than we were seventy-two
hours ago, and Ivers says there’s no end in sight. Whoever uploaded it onto
that flash drive didn’t want to be found.”
“Ivers International is supposed to be the best fucking security firm
around, but you’re telling me they can’t find a simple origin file or
computer?”
“They’re running the drive through the wringer—Boyd Kelly’s words,
not mine—but evidently it’s quite the process. He just wanted to inform you
that he’d need an extension.”
Clasping my hands together, I exhale, irritation making my skin itch.
“Fine. But if I have to step fucking foot in King’s Trace myself, there will not
be an Ivers International when I leave. Make sure he gets the message.”
Jonas raises his eyebrows, his purple eyes piqued with curiosity. “Isn’t
that your protégé’s family company?”
True, Kieran Ivers took over for me when I scaled back on my work for
the Ricci’s remote operations in Maine; the twenty-seven-year-old hermit
took to fixing the way I took to Elena Ricci—as easily as inhaling a single
breath and releasing it back into the air.
Though he’s hardly my protégé. I taught him everything I know because I