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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.
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He came inside, bare chested, wearing a pair of cotton pants that rode low on his hips, giving me a view of a flat stomach that looked way too hard, way too muscled, to be real. The delineation of his chest, the sculpted set of his shoulders and arms, his entire body looked like he’d been crafted by a master artist.
I had to lock my jaw to keep it from falling open and if not for the bite of my nails into my palms, I might have forgotten what I wanted to say.
Fortunately, he held up the phone and my memory snapped into place.
“Are you going to let me call my brother?” I demanded, taking a step toward him.
He held out the phone.
I grabbed it.
He tightened his grip on it, not letting me take it out of his hand.
“In a moment,” he said, voice cool. “Do not give him any indication of where you are.”
“Agree or I won’t let you call.”
“How do you know I won’t lie?” I demanded, glaring at him.
“You don’t do it very well,” he commented. “You try, but it’s obvious when you’re not telling the truth. If you agree but plan to pull one over on me, I’ll know. So don’t bother.”
I’d never been good at lying, but it pissed me off that he’d already figured that out. His green eyes cut into me, so penetrating, so compelling, and I jerked my gaze away, unsettled.
His bare chest and those muscles that didn’t even seem real caught my attention. My heart skittered in my chest. Heat crashed through me and even though it wassuch a bad idea, I kept looking…lower…lower, until I found myself staring at amassive erection. The hard, heavy length of his cock pressed against the thin cotton of the heather-gray pants he wore and even as I watched, the damn thing pulsed. I felt an answering pulse in my pussy as a hard burst of air exploded out of me.
“Do you want to call your brother?” he asked, the words rough and raspy, almost foreign.
I jerked my gaze up, cheeks flushed. The blank mask of his face was gone and I found myself staring at a hungry predator. It should have terrified me. I should have backed the hell up, found something, anything to put between us—anything more substantial than the fucking phone he still held out to me.
“Answer the question, Tia.”
“What the flying fuck does it matter to you? What does any of this matter to you?” I shouted.
It was a dare, a challenge. To both of us and I needed some sort of answer before I did something crazy. Like reach out and press my hand to his cock. Just the mental image was enough to have me clenching my thighs in an effort to still that unnerving ache.
“You don’t know me. So you didn’t take the job to kill me. Thank you. You could have gone merrily on your way. What’s the point of any of this?”
I let go of the phone and moved closer, glaring at him.
Something flickered in the depths of those hungry, hungry eyes and I wondered if maybe I had lost my mind completely. He closed his eyes for a brief second, then looked at me, the remote, severe expression firmly back in place. “I’ve already explained. I don’t have any intention of letting Tommy O’Halloran have you killed. If I didn’t take the job, somebody else would have.”
“So? What does that matter to you?” I shoved my chin up and stared at him, frustration, fear, and all the insanely confusing sensations crashing through me so intensely, it made it hard to think. Why did he get to me like this? Why did his response matter?
Coming in Last is a Kindle Monthly Deal… only $1.99, and it’s on sale at other venues, too!
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