A flush draws across my skin in a ripple while I struggle to breathe. He wants me to what? I blink back tears. "No."
Nixon looks at me with a smirk, but it's not a nice smirk. It's full of malice and the barely leashed rage he is keeping under the surface. Brandon has finished gathering the tools together and has positioned them on a stainless steel tray which he wheels across the floor.
"It's kill or be killed, Gen. Take your pick," Brandon says in a tone that leaves no room for me to decline him. His voice holds a hint of dominance behind it. I'm willing to bet that it's the voice he uses with his subs in the speakeasy, but it doesn't bring easy compliance the way it does with Lexington. There's no satiation in doing what Brandon says. I have no desire to please him, and I'm willing to bet no other woman does, either.
