Myth. Monster. Mine.
I wasn’t even a man when I took a life for the first time, although you couldn’t say I was a child. If I’d ever had a childhood, it hadn’t lasted long. My father, may he rot in hell, had seen to that. I took his life as well and that, too, happened before I was old enough to be considered a grown man. I never regretted it for a second.
That path almost led to my own grave, and would have, if I hadn’t stumbled across somebody who was as different from my father as day was from night. Sarge had seen the monster lurking inside, so he took control, gave me guidelines, rules, so I wouldn’t be the monster my father had planned.
It worked. I restrained the worst of my rage and honed the skills that had been drilled into me—theft, stealth… assassination. The broken child ceased to exist and I became Spectre, an assassin spoken of in whispers, hired to take out the worst of humanity.
Then I was sent to kill her…and my world came to a screeching halt.
It’s taken a long time, but I finally had a nice, steady routine. I stopped trying to conform to the neurotypicals of the world and found my own normal.
Normal went out the window when I walked into my kitchen and found a strange (hot), dangerous looking (so fricking hot) man drugging my new dog.
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to leap at him like a banshee and attack, but that’s what I did.
When my attempt to wreck the vehicle was averted, my kidnapper didn’t hurt or threaten me. In fact, he told me he wanted to protect me.
This (hot) guy had to be crazy. But if he was crazy, what did that make me? Because I believed him. More, I found myself seeing something beyond the rigid, blank mask he wore.
He kept trying to push me away, but I couldn’t seem to keep my distance. He calls himself a monster…but when I look at him, that isn’t what I see. I just see him…and I know he’s meant to be mine.
Warning: This isn’t a snuggly, comfy read. The male MC is a hired killer, while the heroine is neuro-atypical. Some dark material is involved—the hero kidnaps the heroine. There’s also violence when he goes on a rampage against those who put a contract on her. Also references of abuse (not against the heroine). Also very graphic, erotic scenes with minor bondage play.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
I relaxed in his grip and met his eyes. “I’m trying to figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out!” He half yelled it and as his voice bounced off the walls, his eyes widened, as if he was shocked by the sound of his own voice.
I couldn’t stop the smile that spread over my lips.
His hands tightened convulsively on my hips.
“You know…usually in the Stockholm scenario, it’s the hostage taker who has more control,” I told him. He hadn’t been entirely wrong earlier. This was a dangerous risk I was taking, but for different reasons than he’d meant. He wanted me to think he was a threat to me, that he was dangerous and might harm me.
There was no doubt he was a threat. In some ways, he was the biggest threat I’d ever known.
But if I did nothing, I ran the risk of doing myself more harm.
It was the craziest thing and something that logically shouldn’t make any sense at all.
But looking at him made sense.
Touching him made sense.
Listening to him speak made sense.
Gazes locked, I saw the war waging in his eyes, followed by the resolution as he made his decision. His rejection cut all the way to the bone when he jerked his chin toward the ladder.
“Go.” His expression became colder, features harder, and words more clipped. “Get the fuck out of here unless you’re really ready to start playing by the rules of this game, Tia. And in case you haven’t figured it out yet—you’re not ready.”
He practically wrenched himself away and turned back to the table.
“You’re such a liar,” I said, the words coming out in harsh, ragged bursts. I leaned in and pressed my mouth to his back, then traced my lips over the hot, smooth surface of his skin, like silk stretched over steel. I breathed him in. “I think you are the one who isn’t ready.”
Catching his hips and squeezing, I pressed myself more fully against him.
A hard shudder racked through him, then he went still again—that strange, predatory stillness that made the hindbrain whisper, Be still, freeze, don’t move, don’t breathe…
Only that message fell on deaf ears.
In the past few minutes, I’d gone and turned into some brazen, ballsy hellbitch with no limits, no boundaries and no sense of self-preservation.
Without thinking, I shoved between him and the table. There was barely enough room and the heat of him scorched me. Before he could jerk back, I grabbed the cheeks of his ass and hauled him against me. His cock was a brand against my belly and I moaned as the want rolled through me.
An answering noise, too animalistic to describe, emanated from him.
I couldn’t hold him where he didn’t want to be, and despite his pretenses otherwise, he most definitely wanted to be right there. He had no willpower when it came to me. There, at least, we were on equal footing.
His chest crushed into my breasts and I could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the heavy, hard rush as he struggled to catch his breath.
Tipping my head back, I stared at him.
His eyes were too wide, too dark.
“If this is just sex, why are you so concerned about anything other than fucking me?”
He grabbed my head between his hands, staring at me wild-eyed.
“Damn you,” he muttered. “Damn you for making me feel.”