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I want to send him a message. It’s important to me that he realizes I was fully aware of his actions and I’m not someone to mess with.

Recapping the needle, I continue my exploration.

The bottom drawer is locked, but it’s a simple latch. It doesn’t take me long to open it at all. I expect to find money or maybe even a weapon, but instead, there are several manila folders. I place them on the desk and begin flipping through them.

I freeze, my breath catching. Neatly sleeved in plastic are rows of small, typed slips of paper. I recognize the font immediately from the dark web. There’s no fucking way. I flip through the files, pulling out a list of people who have been murdered throughout the years.

I immediately recognize all of them, but a few stand out: Thomas Ridley, Vance McCarthy, Leo Fuller, and Michael Long. All rapists and murderers who were taken out by my favorite hitman. A small slip of paper flutters to the floor. I pick it up and observe it.

It’s a list of victims that Franko hurt. A sharp gasp leaves my lips when I spot my sister’s name. My heart rate is through the roof, and I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. Is Jericho The Cleaner?

There’s no way. While most killers are messy and driven by a frantic need for blood, The Cleaner is different. He’s organized, a professional, a ghost. Or maybe a vigilante is a better word. He goes after the vile monsters the law won’t touch and balances the scales. I’ve spent years looking up to him. There’s no way the amateur who botched the kill with Franko is The Cleaner. There’s no way the infamous hitman would have kidnapped me and bound me in such a way that would be easy to escape. There’s no way, right?

I’ve spent hours in my own dark bedroom planning my kills while wondering how someone like The Cleaner manages to leave everything so pristine while leaving a message so loud. I flip through the photos and the surveillance shots of all the people I assume he murdered. These aren’t the trophies of a madman. These are the files of an executioner.

The knobs of the shower twist, and the sound of the water shuts off. Quickly, I place everything back into its proper folders and shove the drawer closed. I don’t have time to escape. I tiptoe back into the bedroom, contemplating whether I should pretend to bind myself.

But if chances are he is The Cleaner, and he’s finally on his game, he might notice and take matters into his own hands. If that’s the case, it would be better for me to be completely unbound with a fighting chance.

Fuck, what if he is The Cleaner? Excitement buzzes through me. Footsteps sound, and I know he’s about to walk out that door. At the last second, I make a stupid decision. Instead of fleeing, I sit on the corner of his bed, displaying myself like an offering.

As soon as he steps out of the bathroom, it’s as if my world tilts on its axis. I’m no longer in control. Seeing this man in nothing but a towel, with steam billowing behind him and water clinging to his muscles, has me swallowing hard.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

His eyes jerk up to mine. “How the fuck did you get out of your bindings?”

I give him a playful smirk, but I can already tell my voice is still shaky as soon as I speak. “You know, your silk sheets feel like a dream, but your knot-tying skills are quite lacking,” I tease.

He growls at my joke, but I like to think this is how the big brute laughs.

I’m still so turned on from our whatever-the-fuck that was earlier that I am extremely grateful I buttoned up my pants.

“I said, how the fuck did you get out of those ropes?” he repeats. I chuckle softly, feeling like I’ve gained the upper hand again.

Standing, I saunter toward him, reveling in the way he takes a step back. He swallows hard, and I can’t help but appreciate all the beads of water dripping down his chest. When my eyes trail back up to his, I notice a fire there. There’s no way this amateur is The Cleaner. He would never be this distracted or unprofessional.

He’s probably just some superfan trying to mimic his style. I trace a finger through a few droplets of water and caress his chest. He growls, capturing my hand in his. My heart is pounding, and my chub is fully erect now. Holy crap, I think I really do have a kidnapping kink.

My stupid, stupid body wants him to take control and bind me up all over again, and do whatever the hell he had planned. But truth be told, there could be a good chance his only plan is killing me once he has his wicked way. And what’s even more dangerous than a stupid brute ready to kill? My lusty thoughts, that’s what.

Before I can let my body truly win, I yank him toward me, closing the distance between our lips. Fuck, I want to kiss him so bad. I lean forward, and to my delight, so does he. I smirk in triumph and pull the needle out of my pocket. Right at the last second, just as he closes his eyes, I pop the cap and return the favor.

His body jerks violently against me, probably registering the sting in his neck. His head recoils, and his blue eyes bore into mine.

“Well, fuck,” he slurs, damp towel falling to the floor. “I guess karma really is a bitch.”

I laugh. A genuine, full laugh before my lips pull into a wide smile. It’s something I haven’t done in forever. Then his striking blue eyes drop down to my lips as if he’s just as shocked that I’m smiling.

His scent consumes me and floods my lungs. It’s a clean, intoxicating drag of shea butter laced with a sinful trace of vanilla. Giving in to the madness and the undeniable gravity of him, I let my mouth ghost over his lips. He groans, and I swear I feel the rumble all the way down my body. To my surprise, he uses the last of his fleeting energy to firmly press his lips against mine, reverently nibbling and sucking until he goes lax in my arms.

Fuck me. My lips tingle, already missing his warmth. I’ve never experienced a first kiss quite like that before.

Dazed, I murmur a ‘thank you’ to the man who now feels like a corpse in my hold.

Shaking my head, I snap back to reality. “Ooof. I’m so fucking thankful I work out so much as I do, because there is no denying you’re heavy as fuck. Aren’t you, big guy?” Not to mention, he’s also dead weight. I struggle to get his thick body to the bed. Once I do, I take far too much pleasure repositioning him to my liking. Slightly out of breath and questioning my life, I pant as I stare down at my handsome kidnapper. Another bout of laughter tumbles from my lips. “Damn,” I say out loud. “I wish we’d met under different circumstances. I think I might like you.”

Thanks to the crushed white amethyst I added to the sedative, he should be out for several hours. Which means I have enough time to explore. I’m really curious why this man was targeting Franko. Was it something personal, or did he actually take a hit? He didn’t react well to me asking if he was the mafia’s dog. I mean, sure, I did call him a bitch, but usually people in the mafia flaunt it. Especially the goons.