When I wake up the next morning, I give myself the pep talk to end all pep talks. I will not let him control me. He thinks he owns me, but he never will. It gets repetitive enough to turn into a mantra.

The pillow beside mine has an impression indicating someone slept there last night, but I don’t remember. If Mount did sleep here, he definitely didn’t bother to wake me. Probably a good thing, because I had nail scissors on my nightstand that I might have used to stab him if he tried to touch me.

I come to a complete halt in the bathroom when the thought crosses my mind, and I stare in the mirror at myself.

I look the same, but damn, do I sound like a bloodthirsty crazy woman now or what? That definitely has to be Mount’s influence, because I’m pretty sure I’ve never had a thought like that before. Maybe.

There was that time Jury sabotaged my date with the captain of the football team when I was in tenth grade, and instead of ending up at a party with him, his car died on the side of the road and we had to get help from a neighbor. I didn’t know Jury had put sugar in his gas tank until the next day when I was complaining that he’d probably never take me out again because I was bad luck for his beloved Mustang.

When Jury met my gaze in the mirror and told me point-blank what she’d done, I grabbed the sharpest thing I could find, the pointy end of my makeup brush, and jabbed it in her direction.

“Why would you do that to me?”

“Because he told all his friends he was going to get you hammered and nail you. Then the next weekend, he was going after Imogen, and then me next month. He called it ‘the Kilgore hat trick,’ which apparently has become a challenge for a football player to pull off. But that shit ain’t happening on my watch.”

So, basically, only Mount and Jury make me stabby. And sometimes Imogen when she acts holier-than-thou. Thoughts of my sisters buoy my spirits, but also make me disheartened that we haven’t stayed close as adults.

With that depressing thought, I take an age in the shower before venturing into the closet that almost broke me last night. I refuse to say it did break me, because that would be giving Mount too much power. I take my time choosing what to wear, and don the clothing like a suit of armor.

When I finish and step into the bedroom, I find Mount leaning against the doorway to his office, which is usually locked. He’s perfectly put together in a dark gray three-piece suit that makes his eyes look lighter than they normally do. He’s also holding a black box.

Those damn black boxes.

“If that’s another butt plug, I can tell you whose ass it’s not going up this morning.”

The edges of his mouth twitch but he doesn’t smile . . . except with his eyes.

That’s new. So is the humor in them as opposed to foreboding darkness.

“Don’t tempt me to get the other box,” he says. “Because I wasn’t joking when I said there’s one more.”

Okay, so it’s not a sex toy.

“What is it?”

He holds it out. “A gift.”

“I don’t need anything else added to my debt, thank you very much.” I stand straight, sounding like a stuck-up bitch, but I can’t help it. It’s my only defense against him.

The humor fades from his eyes, but he doesn’t start ordering me around immediately like I expected.

“It’s not. Hence the word gift.” He walks toward me, shoves the box into my hands, and walks through the bedroom and out the door before I can respond.

I stare at the box like it contains all the mysteries of the universe, because honestly, that’s about as good a guess as I have right now.

Carefully, I lift the lid and look inside.

It’s a contract. Between an entity I don’t recognize and Seven Sinners for the purchase of six thousand cases a year of our most expensive whiskeys.

What the hell?

Six thousand cases? I quickly do the math in my head. That would give me enough breathing room for a couple of months, and I wouldn’t have to touch the five hundred grand Mount put in the checking account.

But what’s the catch? With Mount, there’s always a catch.

I flip through the pages of the contract, scanning quickly. It’s a distribution agreement with all the standard terms and conditions that I’d normally expect to see.

When I turn to the last page, something catches my eye. Specifically, my name. The contract is contingent upon me being the point of contact through the duration of the distribution relationship, which is intended to renew annually with increasing quantities unless either party gives notice to terminate. The signature on it is a scribble I can’t decipher.

I stride into the bedroom, but Mount’s already gone.

“Damn you! I have questions!” I yell, but he obviously doesn’t hear me.

I turn the door handle to the exit, expecting it to be locked. When it flies open with a yank, I almost fall on my ass. Mount’s suited figure nears the corner at the end of the wide hallway.

“Hey! Our conversation is not over!”

His broad-shouldered form halts before slowly turning around to face me. He’s at least thirty feet away, but I can see the expression on his face. There’s no hint of the humor that was there when he handed me the box.

His long strides eat up the distance between us faster than I anticipate.

Oh shit. I swallow a lump in my throat and force myself to appear confident, even though I feel like a novice matador facing her first bull charge.

Maybe I should think before I yell at the scariest man in this city?