The night air was cool. The world ahead of us sparkled with chandeliers and the sound of jazz pouring out from inside the building.
And I?
I was wearing a mark that screamed: Property of Salvo Mancini.
Fantastic.
Just freaking fantastic. Anyhow, what can I even do?
"Let's go," Salvo said as he looked forward, his eyes cold and distant.
And just like that, we stepped forward; the hotel doors swung open like the gates of an exclusive hell.
As I stepped in beside Salvo, my arm brushed his slightly as I tried not to wince every time my shirt collar nudged the fresh bruise he planted on my neck like a damn territorial hickey.
Damn it! It hurts.
A few guests turned to look. A few more stared. I could feel their eyes zeroing in on the red mark like heat-seeking missiles.
Oh great. Mission accomplished, Your Highness. Now everyone in this party knows I'm your chew toy.
