Though I cannot keep her,
I plan to relish the chase.
Arrows and Apologies, an all-new alluring dark forbidden standalone romance from international bestselling author Sav R. Miller, is available now!
They say every proud man must fall.
Mortals who fancy themselves gods will one day kneel.
I thought myself invincible.
Apollo on Earth.
Mocked my brother when he succumbed to such a fate.
Before I noticed the blue-haired nymph lurking in the background.
Cora Astor shouldn’t have come to this island.
She sneered in my direction, beguiling me with her disgust.
As a Wolfe, hunting is in my blood.
Getting what I want is my nature.
Even when I know I can never have it.
Though I cannot keep her,
I plan to relish the chase.
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“Unfortunately, Ms. Astor’s evenings are no longer available.”
Curling my fingers around the edges of the board, I swing my gaze up to meet Alistair’s. He sidles up to my side, holding a champagne flute in one hand and grazing my outer thigh with the other.
My spine tingles, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the warmth threatening to build.
“Since when?” I reply, tilting my chin up in defiance.
Alistair’s brows quirk up. “Since I said so.” He glances at the other man, who reaches up to tug at his bow tie, seemingly uncomfortable now with our addition. “Ms. Astor is a phenomenal assistant, which is obvious from this party she threw together in a few weeks. I’ll be monopolizing her time for the foreseeable future.”
A small blush creeps up my throat at the praise, but I stuff it down. The man’s second language seems to be innuendo.
“She seems quite talented,” the other man agrees, suddenly standing upright and granting personal space. He smirks over his glass. “That kind of skill shouldn’t go to waste in one office though.”
At my side, Alistair inches closer.
“Believe me, Masterson, her skills are not wasted on me.” He pauses. “And I’m not interested in sharing.”
The guy laughs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Pretty possessive for a boss to be over his assistant.”
Chuckling darkly, Alistair shakes his head. “You’re right, mate. She’s more than just an assistant, so if I hear you proposition her for sex again, I’ll have you fired and chased out of this fucking town. If she goes home with and rides anyone’s cock tonight—or any other night—it’ll be mine.”
The sewage man blinks several times, like he can’t believe what he heard. Maybe he’s so drunk that he thinks he imagined it.
“Mayor Wolfe’s just joking,” I offer, driving my elbow into the soft spot below his rib cage.
“No, I’m not,” Alistair insists, leveling the other man with a weighted look.
After an awkward silence, the sewage guy takes off, muttering something about Aplana being run by an evil dictator. I shake away from Alistair, resisting the urge to smack him with my clipboard, but only because it would draw unwanted attention.
Gesturing toward me with the flute, he gives a small smirk. “Beverage?”
“There’s not enough alcohol in the world to get me to go home and ride your cock.”
As he stares down at me, Alistair’s smirk remains in place. Slowly, he brings the glass to his lips, taking a long sip, and I hate that my eyes fall to his neck instinctively. His throat bobs as he swallows, the veins in his neck straining as he tips his head back just slightly.
Dragging the flute away, he catches a wayward droplet with his tongue, flicking the corner of his mouth.
I feel the movement between my thighs, and they clench involuntarily.
“Wasn’t alcohol,” he says finally, pushing past me and out of the gallery.
I stand there after he’s gone, confused about what just happened.
Seconds tick by, several people coming along to appraise more of the artwork hanging on the walls or sitting on displays until my feet kick in and take me begrudgingly in the direction Alistair just left.
I find him down the hall and through a propped open door, leaning against the wall in some sort of recreational room. Soft music trickles in from mounted speakers, and there are a few people from the gala inside, either mingling by one of the catering tables or spinning slowly around the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room.
Marching over to him, I shove the clipboard at his chest, but of course, he doesn’t make a move to grab it, so the papers and board clatter to the ground, the crash echoing throughout the space.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I hiss, bending down to retrieve my stuff.
He has the audacity to look confused. “I don’t have one.”
“Oh, really? Is dick just part of your personality then? I’m having a real hard time figuring out how you became mayor in the first place.”
As he hums low in his throat, Alistair’s face softens. He glances past me, watching as the few people in the room exit quietly, and then holds out a hand, palm up.
“Do you dance, Ms. Astor?”
Snorting, I cross my arms. “Do I look like someone who dances?”
“You look like a woman who sacrificed her soul to the devil. I learned long ago not to judge based on appearances.”
Rude. “Yeah, well, what’s it say about you if I look like that and you still want to fuck me?”
“Perhaps I’m the devil.”
Alistair’s lips twitch, and he reaches out, tugging one of my hands free and wrapping it around his bicep. The clipboard falls again, but this time, he steps over it, pulling me along with him.
Sweat percolates along my brows as we stop in the center of the dance floor. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as small as I do right now.
Maybe that’s why I have such a difficult time with him; in a world where you’re already considered less than, the added reminder of your insignificance isn’t really welcome.
His left palm finds the curve of my hip, latching on as his other hand takes mine, cocking my elbow. The song overhead changes, morphing into something slow and sensual, and he yanks me closer, pressing our fronts together.
Liquid heat spreads through my belly, a warm kindling that I don’t want to acknowledge.
“Alistair,” I say softly, staring at his collar, “we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“No one else is here.” He spins us in circles, the weight of his hand leaden everywhere it touches.
Every fiber of my being is telling me to reject him. To run as far away as possible and hide from the nightmare that is Alistair Wolfe.
But my feet don’t cooperate, opting instead to mimic his movements as he shuffles rhythmically.
We turn in silence for several steps, my gaze glued to the royal-blue tie beneath his suit jacket. It matches the color of my hair, and I wonder if he did that on purpose.
“I’m glad to see you’re still wearing the ring,” he says after a moment.
“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter, lifting my head. “It’s not an engagement ring. I just don’t want the hole closing up.”
Humming, he pulls me tighter to his body, and shame creeps into the recesses of my brain because I don’t exactly hate the way we fit together. Like two broken pieces of marble, sculpted and buffed and then melded into one.
“So, if not dancing, then what?”
I pull my head back. “Huh?”
“You said you don’t look like someone who dances. I disagree that there’s a look for that, but that’s an argument for another time, I suppose.” He purses his lips, his thumb rubbing circles on my side. “What do you enjoy then, little thief?”
That’s my official party line anyway. The easiest way to turn people off to polite conversation or from getting to know me better. And it’s not untrue—the things I enjoyed prior to Lucian’s disappearance don’t feel the same now.
I don’t really want Alistair to know more about me, but for some reason, an answer comes out anyway.
“Swimming.” I swallow over the knot in my throat, the coarse material of his suit suddenly rough and foreign beneath my fingers. “Did it all throughout school, and I still love it.”
He seems to mull it over, sliding his hand to my lower back. “Now, that doesn’t surprise me.”
“Are you about to make a disparaging comment about my body?”
“Disparaging? Never.” Offense lines his irises, and for the first time, I note the bright green ring around his pupils, just barely noticeable as the blue darkens.
Pressing his palm into me, he swings out, bending me backward in a dip that steals my breath away. Adrenaline spikes in my veins, and I let out a little laugh of disbelief, gripping the lapels of his jacket as he suspends me.
“Your body’s done nothing but haunt my dreams since we met,” he whispers, leaning so he’s dangerously close to my lips.
Reflexively, I fold my mouth together, barring access.
“If I make disparaging remarks about it, they’ll only be about how filthy you look, split wide open on my cock, and only because doing so makes you come harder.”
“Jesus.” I don’t mean to say the word, but it comes out as a gasp, my clit throbbing painfully in response.
He opens his mouth to say something else, but then a door opens, and the cop that’s always visiting him at City Hall stands there, a terse expression on his face.
“Busy,” Alistair snaps, turning me so I’m hidden by his form. He clutches me tight, and the reminder of the trouble we could get in if someone saw our position is a splash of cold water to the face.
Being here serves me no purpose if I fuck up and get shunned by the town before I’ve found anything out.
“Wolfe,” the cop says in a clipped tone, “it’s your brother.”
About Sav. R. Miller
Sav R. Miller is an international bestselling author of dark and contemporary romance.
She prefers the villains in most stories, and thinks everyone deserves happily-ever-after.
Currently, Sav lives in central Kentucky with two pups, Lord Byron and Poe. She loves sitcoms, silence, and sardonic humor.
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