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“What? Am I wrong?” His words slur a bit, but I can still hear the sass.

My lips twitch. I never imagined Skylar to have a tempting, bratty side.

A plan begins to form in my head. Maybe if he thinks I’m new to this whole hitman thing, I can let him go. Assuming I can persuade Skylar that I took the job purely because I’m some newbie desperate for money. Or maybe I can tell him I’m a brand-new bounty hunter. A legal one who never intended to kill Franko. Or maybe I can convince him that his life is in danger since he tried to flee. Hell, it might even be true; it’s not like Skylar took cover with Franko. For all we know, Franko might assume Skylar was in on it with me.

That protective urge overcomes me again, but I bat the emotion away. This pretty porn star is going to get me killed if I don’t get my head on straight.

Clearing my throat, I let a mask fall over my face. Let him think I’m some novice who sucks at being a bounty hunter. It’s a pretty little lie that should keep Skylar from suspecting I’m a trained killer.

His brown eyes turn guarded in the mirror, before drooping again. The sedative looks like it’s finally taking effect. Skylar curses again before his eyes drift closed. Good. At least this way, the minx can’t memorize how to get to my place.

I smirk. Sleep well, sweetheart.

Chapter five

Skylar

The eerie silence surrounding me is the first thing I notice when I wake up. I flutter my eyes open and notice the ceiling isn’t the usual dark blue paint of my bedroom. It’s white. My body recognizes the effects of waking from this particular sedative, but it takes a moment for my brain to catch up with how wrong everything is. This isn’t one of my little experiments where I try to build up a tolerance for certain poisons or sedatives through the process of mithridatism. No. I’ve been motherfucking kidnapped.

Memories whoosh into my mind, causing me to jerk up. Only I don’t get very far. My arms are bound above my head, and my wrists are tied to the bedposts. I’m stretched out on a large, soft bed like some erotic offering. Fortunately, my clothes survived and are still on my body, apart from my dress shirt, which was torn open at the top during our alley fight.

I squirm against my bindings, instantly recognizing the material of my favorite rope I sometimes use in my porn shoots during our Shibari videos. Not quite as soft as hemp, but it’s definitely an upgrade from the sharp zip ties that were originally around my wrists. Interesting. Did he do it for my comfort? I test my range of motion and realize the knots aren’t very tight. Because the material of the rope is jute, its firmer, less stretchy nature will make it easier for me to untie quickly.

My heart races with adrenaline and hope. I can totally escape. Looks like my captor is all muscle and no brains. Poor brute. There’s no way he’ll ever make it as a hitman.

Noise in the other room catches my attention. I’m assuming I don’t have much time. I take in my surroundings. The bedroom is large and luxurious. Two windows are covered in expensive-looking blackout curtains. They might be the perfect escape route, except I have no idea if I’m on the first floor. So there’s a good chance the windows might be absolutely fucking useless.

I get to work, maneuvering my wrist this way and that. Once the first hand is free, the rest will be a piece of cake. In no time, the rope is loose enough for me to yank my wrist through. It hurts like a fucking bitch, but at least I didn’t have to dislocate my thumb.

The bedroom door creaks open, and I freeze, praying he won’t see my unbound wrist. My stupid, sexy brute walks in carrying a tray—an honest-to-god metal tray—with what I’m hoping is water and food, and not some torture device. The man’s eyes snap toward me as the thought makes me chuckle. “I never imagined being drugged and kidnapped would lead to breakfast in bed.”

He pauses in the doorway, a deep furrow in his brow as his striking blue eyes roam all over my body. Lust is evident on his face, only to be chased by confusion, then anger. His gaze lands on my wrist. Dammit.

He steps into the room, quiet for such a large man. As he approaches the bed, he uses his free hand to reach for the cup, then tosses the metal tray violently onto the nightstand next to me. The loud clatter is harsh against my ears, and I jump, embarrassed to admit the sound startled me.

He towers over me, making me feel tiny. If I were untied, I’m sure I would have a fighting chance, but like this? I’m so royally screwed.

It doesn’t matter how dumb the guy is; he must be at least two-twenty to my one-seventy. No doubt that all that extra weight is muscle mass. My thoughts wander to the way he easily tossed me over his shoulder earlier. To the way I’m trapped. To the penetrating look in this man’s eyes. My cock jumps, slowly getting hard.

Painfully hard.

Fucking hell. Why is he so damn hot? There’s no denying he’s my type physically. In every single way.

My deepest, most secret desire when it comes to the bedroom is being dominated by a big man who thrives on control. All those things I do to my co-stars in my porn videos are things I wish someone would do to me.

No one knows this, but I only top in my videos because it’s my one guarantee that I’m in control. I never want someone to hurt me on camera the way they hurt my sister. But in private? I love to be dominated. To be forced to submit.

And fuck me, with the way he’s looking at me with lust and rage in his eyes, my stupid dick thinks it’s go-time. There’s no way in fucking hell I’m going to let him see the way he affects my body.

Chapter six

Jericho

Fury surges through my veins as soon as I see his free wrist. I can’t believe I have Skylar King tied to my bed. How many times have I pictured him here like this? For years, I’ve kept him pinned in the center of my mind like my greatest trophy. My pretty obsession. It’s not just the porn; it’s him as a whole. The social media influencer, the entrepreneur. The generous man who donates to various charities specializing in helping victims of domestic abuse.

Sure, he’s the only man I jack off to nowadays, but having him here in my house is also a stark reminder of how much I’ve isolated myself over the years. When was the last time I even fucked anybody? Gone on a date? I used to think my profession was reason enough not to find a significant other. But what if my partner were to ever discover just how much I love to kill?

Let’s put aside the high possibility of going to prison or being locked away for life; it’s the fact that I’ll never have that one thing I desperately want most: to find my person. That single individual who will trust me to keep them safe, no matter what. Someone who will love me, darkness and all.