“You’re supposed to leave a shoe, Cinderella.” He picks up my knife from where I dropped it on the bed, examines it dispassionately.
He knows who I am. He recognises me. My stupid heart thrills even as he focuses on the leather strap around my chest, just beneath my top. It’s the holster for my weapons. There are two more knives, my gun, and ammunition.
There’s no hesitation as he grasps the strap between my breasts and slips my knife underneath it. His strength and the knife’s sharpness mean it cuts like butter, but all I feel is the brush of his knuckles on the side of my breast. Then the shoulder straps go the same way, and my top is sliced right down the middle, and he slides the broken pieces from my body.
The few steps he takes to the window ought to horrify me. Those knives were gifts from my father, if you can call work tools a present. But instead I admire the smooth planes of muscle on Ian’s back.
He shoves open the window, tosses it all out, and recloses it with a click.
Why has he disposed of my weapons if he’s going to kill me, as his reputation suggests he would?
Then his attention returns to me. He drags his gaze down my body, and I feel it like a caress. A shudder of shameful desire racks through me. And damn him, but he sees it, his eyes flaring.
“What am I going to do withyou.” It’s not a question; it’s vocal annoyance.
I’m suddenly very aware of my position. On my back, small breasts bared. My legs are spread and my leggings are stretchy and insubstantial to aid in the getting in and out efficiently that is part of my effectiveness as an assassin. I’m not exposed, technically, but I feel it.
And my treacherous body likes the sensation.
Strong-and-silent type Ian Abernathy continues to take in every detail. Watching him heats me everywhere. Notably the vicinity of said spread thighs.
“Let me go? That’s a good idea. I like that idea.” I don’t know if I do, actually. But I maybe like it more than being dead?
He scrapes his hands through his hair in a frustrated gesture that serves to bring my gaze back to his strong arms.
We seem both trapped in stasis. He doesn’t want to harm me any more than I did him.
I squirm a little. My arousal is growing with every long second this big man is regarding me fixed to his bed. It must be the adrenaline, but I’m more turned on than I can ever remember.
Fucked up? Well. Yes. I suppose I am.
I’m completely under his control. The fear is receding and I don’t think I’m imagining the heat in his eyes. I venture my gaze lower, and my mouth opens in a gasp. He’s hard.
Watching me like this has stiffened his cock to an aching rod.
“Stop it.” He snaps his eyes up to mine.
I shake my head in confusion. My heart is still hammering, but it’s no longer with panic. It’s rate is elevated like from a rollercoaster, swimming in the north Atlantic waves, a horror film. Or the anticipation of a huntress. The good kind of fear that’s safe as well as exciting.
Because that’s when I realise. I might be tied up here, but I’m a long way from helpless. I’m as strong as he is.
Ian Abernathy wants me.
And I—I’ve wanted him since I first saw him. The charming stranger who danced with me.
I don’t know how this ends, but right now, I’ll use every trick at my disposal, however much it makes my cheeks heat.
His brows slam together and he seems to make a decision as he prowls towards me. “You don’t know what sort of trouble you’re in, Cleo.”
Then he’s over me and through the flurry of awareness in my chest I wonder how he knows my name. But I can’t focus on that because—frustratingly—he’s not touching me anywhere. He holds himself aloof.
I watch his eyes as he peruses my neck, shoulders, face. My skin heats everywhere he looks. He snags on my mouth and a growl escapes him when I lick my lips.
“Do you remember that night?” he murmurs.
“Yes. I have a good memory. But I’m also capable of forgetting things too. Like we could rewind to that night, and forget any of this ever happened. The, me trying to kill you, thing,” I clarify when he doesn’t answer. I gulp under his scrutiny.Well done, Cleo. I don’t think he’s forgotten you tried to kill him even if he’s talking about the time you ran out on him.
“I think about it all the time.” His voice is rough, dark, tortured, and it’s like he didn’t hear my babbling. This is why I don’t get caught. Because I’m shit at keeping silent. “I regret not forcing you to tell me your name. I regret not ripping off your mask. I regret not stealing you away the moment I saw you, before you couldrun.”
