Kyle stood frozen in the opulent dining room, the pen pressed firmly against Cleopatra's throat, his arm locked around her waist like a vice. The guards hovered at the threshold, their pistols half-drawn, eyes darting between him and their boss. The red dot from the sniper's laser sight danced steadily on his forehead, a silent promise of instant death. His heart hammered in his chest, but he held his ground, breath ragged.
"Back off," he growled again, his voice echoing off the marble walls. "I mean it."
Cleopatra, pinned against him, didn't flinch. Her body remained relaxed in his grip, her damp hair brushing his cheek, that fresh shower scent—citrus and clean skin—wafting up like a taunt. She tilted her head ever so slightly, as if the makeshift weapon at her neck was nothing more than a mild inconvenience because she could easily take care of Kyle if she really wanted to.
Then, with a subtle smirk curling her lips, she raised one hand in a slow, deliberate gesture.
