Swearing under his breath, Rion turned away from his office window and the view of the Leather District at dawn on a Sunday morning. So deep in thought, he hadn’t heard his office door open. Or his friend enter. “You need to wear a cow bell or something around your neck,” he snapped at Killian. Damn. It never failed to amaze him how someone so big could move so silently. It was impressive…and eerie. As Killian moved out of the shadows and farther into the room, Rion didn’t bother asking how his friend had spent the night before. The darkening bruise along his jaw and the cut on his bottom lip told the story. More contusions would probably mark his torso, but not many; Killian was damn good at what he did. Another underground fight. Demons rode Killian, and he had two outlets for the rage and pain that seethed under his skin like a boiling cauldron: fighting and fucking. And no woman had caused the injuries to the other man’s face.
