Page 50 of Heist in Paradise

“Stop,” he said.

I blinked up at him, adjusting to the low light. He wasn’t wearing his mask, the material bunched under his chin, and his expression was tense, his eyes too wide, the blue dark and unreadable. His hair was stuck with sweat to his cheeks and temples. I continued downwards, unable to stop myself—his t-shirt was soaked to his torso, with either sweat or blood (god, I hoped it was the former), and his arms were bulging with tension, all the way down to his slightly trembling fists. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied, and that did something to me.

My stomach whooshed.

Not in a bad way, but in a totally inappropriate, borderline crashing out kind of way.

I was not attracted to men who punched walls, chain-smoked, and wore ripped jeans and discolored boots.

I was not. I was not. I was not.

“You should wait outside,” Jax said, in his usual patronizing way. “For your own good.”

“Why?” I shot back. “Did you kill him?”

His brow ticked up, the very faint scar on his cheek tugging at the movement. “So what if I did?”

I gulped. “I didn’t ask for that.”

He shrugged. “You don’t have to like my methods. They’re effective. I got what you wanted.”

My stomach twisted in fear. I tried to glance around him to the others, but his huge body blocked my view. I shoved his chest half-heartedly. His heart was steady and strong beneath my palm.

“He’s not dead,” he said, sounding disappointed by the fact. “But I will kill him. Probably. First, we got some show-and-tell.”

“Please move,” I said. At his stubborn expression, I scowled. “I can handle it. I’m not going to break down now.”

“We’ll see.”

His lack of confidence in me stung. I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest as he stepped aside, and I got my first real glimpse at the basement.

It was…underwhelming.

Not the haunted, cabin-in-the-woods I expected—there were no creepy mannequins or suspicious moving dolls or cursed mirrors. It was basically empty, with a low wood-paneled ceiling, some whiskey barrels in the corners, and a wall of wine bottles slotted into built-in brackets. A dusty tusk chandelier offered tepid light, just enough to make out the naked figure hunched on the floor.

A high-pitched noise escaped me before I could stop it. Jax’s rumbling laugh answered beside me. “Fucker doesn’t deserve your pity.”

I said nothing as I stepped toward the bleeding man, trying to be quiet so I didn’t spook him. It didn’t work. He flinched at my approach, his head snapping up, and glared at me from a mangled face.

I froze at the flash in his eyes. It was fleeting, a mere second before it was replaced with panic.

Did he recognize me?

My heart iced over. Not me. Molly. We looked similar enough that people used to mistake us.

Slowly, I turned and faced Jax again. He smirked back at me, all insufferable and smug.

“Molly,” was all I managed.

He nodded.

I felt no triumph at the confirmation, no bitter victory. I went numb, my fingers tightening on the edges of the guestbook pressed to my chest. Our hostage watched me with nervous eyes, which widened in fear when he realized what I was holding.

Strike two.

“H-How did you g-get that?” He stammered out.

I ignored his question and leaned down, bringing my face close to his. His nose was mangled, bloodied, and swollen between his cheekbones. His eyes flickered over my face, mapping it with dawning horror. I sensed movement to my left and, without looking, knew it was Madoc. The man trembled, his gaze flickering left, his lip wobbling.