Twelve Mile Limit
Brandy Hynes
Nothing’s more exclusive than Noire Underground.
Serving the wicked and reaping rewards.
Secrets. Lies. Soot and cinders.
Rhythm. Blades. Games and gore.
A knife like a claw and the strike of a needle.
This hidden haven is a throne of chains.
Maddox
Tessa Lockhart is what dreams—and nightmares—are made of.
Since she works at the resort I own, she’s technically off-limits, but rules are suggestions I tend
not to take.
Especially when it comes to the silver-haired tattoo artist with a sharp tongue and quick wit.
The only problem is that she hates me.
Nah. That’s pretty perfect too.
I took care of something for her, and there’s been some new developments, so it’s time to cash in.
But there’s only one payment I’ll accept.
Her.
Tessa
Maddox Noire is tragically gorgeous and infuriatingly demented.
His sinister king-of-the-underworld persona and urge to dance through life used to give me those
giddy, schoolgirl-crush butterflies.
Pathetic, I know.
Then he opened his mouth. And blew up my life.
For two and a half years, I’ve been indebted to him.
He claims that his new demands are my payment and not because I’m in danger.
As much as I despise him, dealing with a Noire is the lesser evil.
Because if our secret is out, our time is up.
Excerpt from
Rolling 75
“And you’re going to sacrifice the droves of women drooling over you and throwing themselves into your bed to keep one off your back?” Mercy’s hands fly all over the place, as if she were envisioning those droves of women in the room with us.
“Make it make sense.”
“I don’t consider it a sacrifice,” I tell her honestly. “And based on Chad, I’d say the
dating pool has been dry for you. Or itchy, considering that goddamn mustache. You won’t be
sacrificing anything either. You’ll be doing exactly what you love, have your license in good
standing, no gap in employment, be making well above the salary of most of your peers, be
living in lavish accommodations, with a group of people who will support you and help you raise
your son. The drawback is that you’ll have to wear a ring that can be seen from space, tell people
you’re mine, and be on my arm and let me spoil you rotten in front of a crowd once a week. How will you survive? The only asinine thing would be for you to say no.”
“You’re right. Where are my manners? This is a Cinderella story.” She clasps her hands
in front of her chest in a puppy-dog-eyed plea until she sobers to stone. “Is condition four a
requirement to be in your bed? Are you bringing me back as a lawyer or as your whore who gets
to play in the law offices when I’m not on your leash?”
“You paint a colorful picture, Miss Phillips.” I wink, and it makes her blush despite
herself, which is all the encouragement I need. “There is no fourth condition, no requirement to
be in my bed. If you agree to the first three, you’ll be begging for that anyway.”
There’s a two-second pause when her breath hitches in her throat as she dissects the
credibility of that statement. But then she bursts out cackling, like a goddamn hyena, as though
begging to be in my bed is the most ridiculous notion she’s ever heard. And I’m torn as to
whether I think that’s adorable or incredibly insulting. Both. It’s definitely both.
But the two-second pause was far more telling. I can work with that.
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