Branded E-Book

Scarlett Finn

• Herausgeber: Moriona Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

What do you do after watching your employee be raped by men who want information about your oldest friend?
  
Taking them down alone isn’t possible, but Nya Yorke won’t let the bastards get away with murder. Her rescuer wants the same thing they did and he’s capable of committing horrors. That makes him key to completing her mission.
 
Archer wants her oldest friend. If she can broker a deal to get him what he wants then he’ll help her punish the men who attacked her colleague.
 
Nya needs an ally, but quickly learns that wearing Archer’s mark means more than deferring to him, it could change the course of her life.
 
 
Warning: Contains explicit language and imagery. Suitable only for ages 18 and over.

**Book 1 of 3, HEA, no cheating, series complete**


Keywords: enemies to lovers, sassy heroine, alpha hero, bad boy, dark romance, crime thriller, modern romance, urban romance, city romance, smart romance, hot romance, drama, action and adventure, action romance, alpha male, steamy romance, explicit, graphic, R-rated romance, violence, violent, interrogation, torture, bad boy romance, romance hot, romance novels to read, love story books, kissing books, sparks, loyalty, swoon, chemistry, integrity, no cliffhangers, complete trilogy, kidnapped, abducted, captive, prisoner, defend, protect, damsel in distress, strong heroine, payback, revenge, deal, tit for tat, quid pro quo, hot romance, forbidden love, possessive, protective, family, emotional journey, romance books for adults, romance books full novel, romantic suspense, contemporary romance, romantic suspense series, suspense romance, sexy, racy.
 
Scarlett Finn readers have also enjoyed novels from: Kat Martin, Lori Foster, Allison Brennan, Nora Roberts, Linda Howard, Jill Shalvis, Penny McCall, Christine Skye, Susan Andersen, J.D. Robb.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2017, 2024 Scarlett Finn

Published by Moriona Press 2017, 2024

2nd Edition 2024

All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

First published in 2017

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. It may not be used to train AI software or for the creation of AI works.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Original cover by Najla Qamber Designs

www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

www.scarlettfinn.com

BRANDED SERIES

Branded

Scarred

Marked

Read them in order for maximized reading pleasure.

For other titles from Scarlett Finn, please read on after the story.

Click here if you’d like to leave a message for Scarlett.

Enjoy!

for the littlest

CONTENTS

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

twenty-four

twenty-five

twenty-six

twenty-seven

twenty-eight

twenty-nine

thirty

one

AFTER A LONG NIGHT of shaking her ass in Sizzle, Nya Yorke was ready to go home. Her role as manager came with certain demands. Cashing out, locking takings in the safe, that sort of thing. Meant she had to keep her head on straight until the last second of her shift. Even when exhaustion had other ideas.

The muted blue lighting of the vast nightclub was perfect for shady dealings and intimate encounters. Drugs and loud music accompanied partiers in a place where nothing was off-limits. No one batted an eye at the amorous, the lines of white powder cut on the booth tables, or the concealed weapons, some licensed, some not.

The night was over. Strobes were off, music silent. She and Jamie were the only two bar staff left. Three security men did a last sweep. Once the place was confirmed secure, they’d lock up and get out of there.

“Anything else you need me to do?” Jamie asked, flopping her arms on the bar from the patrons’ side.

The cute blonde with the pixie cut drew plenty of attention with her bubbly personality. Most people who worked, or frequented, Sizzle were jaded, cynical, in need of oblivion. Jamie was none of those things. The youth smiled with ease, she laughed, and could turn anything into a positive. Men loved her because she exuded corruptible innocence. Nya had nothing against her colleague, sure, her optimism could be grating, but she was a good worker. No argument about that.

If they were in a better neighborhood, she’d have sent Jamie home already. At three thirty in the morning, no one was safe on these streets. After herding customers out, the rest of the staff were sent home in couples and groups. Leaving alone would be asking for trouble.

Jamie stayed draped over the bar, awaiting instructions. Nya had none.

“No, I’m finished,” she said. “Tell the guys we’re done.”

Jamie walked away, presumably to head for the breakroom accessible on the opposite wall by a door marked, ‘Employees Only.’ Containing a few couches and a stained beanbag, none of the lockers worked, but it gave the others a place to stash their things on shift. Not her. She didn’t leave anything anywhere she couldn’t see it.

Nya ducked to get her purse from a secret corner of the lowest shelf under the bar. She didn’t have anything valuable in her long-strap, leather slouch bag, and there were no more than a few bucks in her wallet. Defending her privacy was the aim; her purse was sort of a symbol of how much that meant to her.

Instead of going to the breakroom, Jamie went toward the corridor that bottlenecked the entrance. To relay the message to the bouncers? To make her way out? Whatever her intention, before she got there, a shout and a scuffle reverberated from that passage, echoing in the cavernous club.

Nya surged to her feet in time to see five masked men burst in. The first grabbed a screaming Jamie and pulled her to his chest, trapping her wrists in his hand between her breasts. Shuffling forward, allowing his cohorts to swarm in behind him, the assailant raised the mass of a silenced gun barrel to Jamie’s temple.

Her colleague’s screaming drowned out the men’s shouted conversation. The one holding Jamie clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her panicked shrieks.

Being the only other one there, all spare guns were pointed at her. On instinct, Nya raised her hands in surrender. Her duties didn’t extend to giving up her life to tweakers.

“In there, go!” the hostage-holder ordered Nya into the breakroom.

With weapons waving at her, she kept her hands up and emerged from the bar to do as directed. Sizzle wasn’t worth dying for. She didn’t benefit from the takings beyond her wage. If these guys wanted a windfall, she’d open the safe, but they’d regret it. The club owner wouldn’t take kindly to being robbed by disorganized chancers like these guys.

Wearing ski masks and carrying guns, their frantic movements suggested they weren’t honed professionals.

Swept into the circle of invaders, they squeezed through the breakroom door, two in front, three behind.

Before the door closed, one of them grabbed her. Struggling to get loose, she was rushed to the furthest wall and thrown against it, pinned by two men. The lump of her purse shielded her when the one in front tried to grind his hips closer. Oh, shit, that was a whole different ballgame. Would she fight for money? No. Her dignity? Damn, fucking, right. She’d rather die.

Trying to lash out, she pushed and kicked. These guys were bigger, her strength didn’t match their capabilities. Long ago she’d learned her petite figure didn’t physically match many people. Despite self-defense classes, her might was pathetic.

Jamie was screaming again, if she’d ever stopped. The gut-wrenching sound of terror was unsettling, but at least it betrayed the woman was still alive. Shaking her hair away from her face, Nya stopped fighting to look beyond her attackers. Their tight hands bruised her limbs, their body weight restricted her breathing, but ignoring them, she sought Jamie.

Checking her colleague was meant to be reassuring, to give her a focus. It did the opposite. Jamie was thrust onto the couch and felt up by two men. The last man was at her ankles, pulling them apart, rubbing his way up her legs, giving his friend access to wrench up Jamie’s skirt.

“Hey! Leave her alone!” Nya exclaimed, forgetting her own problems.

The hip grinding was an unwelcome reminder. She tried to push away from the wall but was slammed back against it. Winded, she struggled for breath as one guy shook her with brutal force.

“You’ll get yours once you tell me where he is,” a grotesque molester snarled in her face.

Any lingering illusion this was a simple robbery was quickly erased. The hands on her breasts had to belong to the second man, because the first still grasped her shoulders. Switching into survival mode, she closed her mind to the assault. Just like old times.

“Who?” Nya asked. “Who are you talking about?”

Jamie kept screaming and kicked out at the man on top of her. Yes, fight. Fight with every fucking ounce of strength. She smiled, maybe that girl wasn’t so innocent and harmless after all.

Payback came quickly. They wrestled her onto the floor. One man kneeled over Jamie, punching her face and chest while another grasped his groin, swearing in pain. Good girl, Jamie, she’d hurt the bastard. Judging by his watering eyes and red face, it was a damn good shot too.

The third wasn’t amused or deterred, he scrambled up the floor between Jamie’s legs and thrust his arm in a stabbing motion at the apex of Jamie’s thighs. His fingers, at least, would be inside her; those manic movements would be agonizing for the kid.

The screaming stopped and the puncher climbed off Jamie to stand up and wipe sweat from his upper lip. He bent down to rip Jamie’s top from her body, exposing her, to use the fabric as a cloth to wipe blood from his hands and face.

Concern iced Nya’s gut, Jamie’s head flopped one way, then the other. Please stay. Please don’t give in. Was there still life in the woman? The groin-clutcher snatched his friend from between Jamie’s thighs and tossed him aside. No loyalty between thieves. He kicked Jamie between her legs and yanked open his jeans, pulling his dick out before dropping to the floor to lie over the unconscious woman.

Each of his violent thrusts pushed bile from Nya’s stomach. Ominous red bubbles foamed at Jamie’s mouth. They could be breaths; please be breaths. There were no other signs of life. Jamie wasn’t conscious or moving, she couldn’t be, not after the assault of blows to the head rained upon her.

The other two men jeered as the third raped the lifeless woman on the floor.

She’d be next.

“Like the show?” A swift slap brought her focus to the thug restraining her. Propping an elbow on the wall over her shoulder, the guy clearly wanted to watch what was going on with Jamie. But he couldn’t suspend the interrogation all night, so got in her face again. “Tell us where he is!”

“Who!” Nya screamed, tormented by the torture of her friend and the prospect of her own fate. “Who do you want!”

“Taggert!” he demanded, spittle and halitosis triggered her gag reflex. “You know! You know where he is! Tell me!”

The one answer she couldn’t give. Wouldn’t give. Jamie was enduring a second man on top of her. A whimper granted her a kick to the head, and the young woman went quiet again.

“I don’t,” Nya said, provoking their already hot anger. “I don’t know where he is!”

Two more masked men burst in, drawing the concerned attention of everyone except the perp on top of Jamie still pumping hard and fast, grunting with each invasion.

“He’s not here,” one of the new men said without blinking an eye at the ongoing assault.

The man with a hold of her was in charge; the two new entrants awaited his instruction. While he was distracted, she assessed Jamie’s chances. While being fucked by one man, the next guy waited his turn. The other, who’d been the first to take his shot on top, spat in Jamie’s mouth then kneeled over her to force his dick between her lips.

Jamie wasn’t moving, her face was a bloody mess, eyes swollen, but when he pushed in hard, his victim’s body heaved and choked. She was still alive, for now, though after enduring this horror, she may wish she wasn’t.

The one standing, waiting for a chance to have his fun, unbuckled his belt in anticipation. Sick. He was excited by the prospect of assaulting a defenseless woman only a fraction more responsive than a corpse.

Her attacker grabbed her chin, compelling her to look at him. “You’ll get your fun, soon as you tell me where he is.”

Hardly an incentive for honesty. Eagerness wasn’t her reason for watching. If the point was to scare her with the spectacle, it was working. Not that she’d show him. Fear burned inside her, fueled by the heat of anger.

“When he finds you, he’ll kill you,” Nya snarled. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

“We know it and we want him. He doesn’t scare us.”

Either this guy was ignorant or had an army larger than the one present. If he wanted to take on Taggert, he’d need one.

“He should scare you,” Nya said. “He’ll torture you and your men for weeks. He’ll make you suffer before he kills you. No one crosses Taggert.”

“A lot of spunk for such a little thing,” he said, pulling his gun from his waistband to step back and press the circle of the barrel to the center of her forehead, rendering her immobile.

Closing her eyes, she waited for the shot. Terror receded to an odd peace that shattered when someone ripped open her shirt. Flattening her palms on the wall at either side, she could do nothing but let this second guy fondle and grope. The weight of the gun heated as it dug deeper, trapping her head between it and the wall.

Opening her eyes, Nya burned her fury into the perverse smile of her jailer. Two men closed in behind him. After feeling her up, one crouched to drag up her skirt.

These were the two new men; the other three had to be with Jamie. The barrel bruised her forehead, fixing her in place, so she couldn’t check.

“Pretty girl like you could show my boys a good time; would that persuade you?” the gun-bearer asked.

Narrowing her gaze in defiance of the invading hands roaming her body, no way would she express how their violation curdled her blood. It would only spur them on.

“Tell us what we want to know and we’ll leave you alone.”

She didn’t believe him but wouldn’t answer even if she did. The door opened again. Holding her breath, she couldn’t see through the mass of men. What had arrived? Salvation or sadism?

What was next? More men? More weapons?

“You fuck everything up, Jonno.”

The hands left her body when the men whipped around. All of them. Clearly in shock. Even the gun at her head fell away as the man holding it turned to gape at the new voice.

Just inside was a dark-haired, scruffy-faced brute. Whoever he was, he didn’t wear a mask like the others. His hands hung loose at his sides, carrying no weapons, no care in the world. The three men on Jamie hadn’t been disturbed by anything. Until this. Until him. Now there was no movement in her peripheral vision; the noise of their jeering and grunting ceased too.

“Fuck off, Archer, we got this.”

The gun was pushed into her ribs until the pressure became pain.

“That her?” the new guy, apparently called Archer, asked.

Archer swaggered up to them. One slow step followed another, like a guy sauntering to a bar for a drink, not one who’d walked in on this abomination of a crime. He kept on coming until he was hanging over Jonno, the one holding the gun.

The newest guy was much taller than the one threatening her. Maybe, what? Six four. Shit, had she thought her strength was pathetic before? His broad shoulders weren’t bulky, but there was a strength in them, a tension that roiled her insides.

Tapered brown eyes met hers for half a second, then dropped to her exposed breasts. “Copping a feel more important than getting the job done, Jonno?”

Lunging past Jonno, Archer snatched her forearm to haul her through the gang. The pain of his locked grip yanked her a few feet until Jonno grabbed her other arm to tug her back. Or try to anyway. The other men approached.

“You’re not taking her,” Jonno snapped. “Not until we know.”

Jonno and his buddies had manhandled her, dangled threats of violence and rape to scare her. They’d worked too, though she did her best to conceal the revulsion. Without physical strength, she’d learned to project confidence. Being fearless, facing adversity head on, was the only way to get through life intact.

The guy trying to steal her from the crime scene remained aloof; he didn’t bat an eye at Jonno’s fierce attitude.

“Has she told you yet?” Archer asked.

The two men growled at each other, sneering and snarling, this was the proverbial circling of the prey. Being right in the middle, if one chose to attack, she’d be caught in the crossfire.

Some of Jonno’s bluster deflated. “We were getting there.”

“Sure you were,” Archer said. While fixated on Jonno, assessing his reaction to Archer’s nonchalance, her nipple was flicked through her bra by the latter’s rigid fingertip. Gasping, she jerked away, but neither man let go. “You had your chance, Jonno, now it’s my turn.”

He jolted her again, Jonno countered. Archer’s chin hitched and his eyes ascended. Ha, this Jonno guy was testing his patience.

“She stays with us,” Jonno asserted.

Archer crowded in close to Jonno, her the meat in their distressing sandwich. “You left those fucking bodies lying in the street,” he growled. “Tick, tock, little man, how long you got ‘til the cops show up?” As if on cue, sirens wailed in the distance, tensing the men. “This bitch is our one link, our one lead, who’ll get what we need? You or me?”

That was enough of a prompt. For some reason, Archer’s question clinched Jonno’s decision. The men shared another brief glare, then Jonno released her and stepped back, hands up. The others retreated as the sirens got louder.

Without waiting, Archer hauled her toward the door. She dropped her weight, pulling back, desperate to delay him. If the cops arrived before he could get her out of there… She had to—if she could just… Fuck, nothing worked, he wasn’t slowed down.

Picking her up with one swoop of his arm, he tossed her over his shoulder and clamped a hand on her ass. The other pinned her legs to his torso to prevent her kicking.

Resorting to using her core, she tried to buck away and punched at his back. But he didn’t slow down, didn’t flinch, just kept shrugging her up to the powerful shoulders she’d been right not to underestimate.

His athletic body had strength from the tips of his hair to the depth of his bones. He carried her out of Sizzle’s front entrance, over the bodies of the security guards dead in the street just as he’d described.

“Stop! Please! Help!” she called at the top of her lungs.

“Hush,” Archer said and paused.

Just when she thought he might put her down and give her the chance to run, she heard a click then was tossed on her ass. Bouncing in a hard landing, she hit the back of her head on something cold and solid. Blinking through a daze, it was… a car trunk, he’d dumped her in a—he covered her mouth with a length of tough duct tape.

Hooking his hands on the edge of the trunk, he leaned down. The sirens were blaring, but she saw no lights.

“Don’t be naughty, Squirm. Obey and we’ll get along great.”

Chucking her chin with the swipe of a knuckle, he winked, stepped back, and slammed the lid on her.

two

THE CONFINED SPACE got hotter with every rotation of the wheels. Bumping along at what felt like an insane pace, she was shaken and tossed, left and right. Without knowing if she’d be thrust up, down, this way, or that, it was impossible to anticipate the direction of the next knock. Battered and beat whenever they turned corners and hit potholes, she banged up her arms and legs trying to brace.

Being enclosed threw off her sense of time. Claustrophobia distracted her awareness of speed and distance. How far were they from the club? If she got a chance, would she know which way to run?

Her joints were stiff, skin bruised, and her head pounded. No, forget injuries and self-pity. Staying alive would take everything. Keeping her wits would be tough but essential. Though… after witnessing what Jamie went through, did she want to make it out the other side?

Jamie. The girl was younger than her, not a lifetime younger, sure, but had so much life left. And what kind of life would that be? The light in the beauty’s pure soul would dim after suffering through that night, and there would be no igniting it again.

Nya knew that too well.

Her body was hurled toward the front of the car in time with the screech of brakes. Dazed, she missed the engine turning off and the driver’s door closing. The trunk lid popped and she was grabbed and tossed over his shoulder again.

Bouncing upside down in darkness, all she could see was asphalt, glowing under the artificial flare of an occasional streetlight. He turned sharply to the left, bounded up one stair and pushed through a communal door.

Urine, dirt, and body odor poisoned the air. Glimpses to each side showed graffiti and grime covering the water-stained walls. He ascended stairs, squeezing her ass to keep her secure as he cleared them two or three at a time.

Fuck, get with it. Wits. Right. Wits. If he got her in one of the apartments in this dilapidated block, she’d never come out again. Using his back, she rubbed the tape from her mouth, working it off into a tight flap. Breathing became easier, shouting was still aways off.

Her struggle provoked the span of his large hand to spread and close, squeezing her flesh. The molesting action enflamed hatred in her belly. How dare he touch her? How dare he use his strength against her, against any woman.

Just as she almost snatched the banister, he walked away from the stairs down a hallway.

One arm loosened and he dug a hand beneath her to pull keys from his pocket. A chance. When he let her go to put the key in the lock, she kicked out on the wall, using everything she had, forcing him to stumble. He didn’t go far, his grip loosened just enough to let her flail.

Falling to the floor on her face, she landed on her hands and shoved up, scrambling in the direction of the stairs.

A strong arm hooked around her belly, hoisting her from the floor. Still fighting, despite the taste of futility, she opened her mouth in a desperate screeching howl. He flung her into a wall, smashing her into it so hard that light flashed across her vision. She choked for breath, unable to suck air into her aching, shocked lungs.

A heavy form crashed into hers; she clawed, fighting to free her smothered body. Metallic jangling sounded. The keys. He was unlocking the door.

After being shunted down the wall, she was propelled forward and fell into an apartment. A rug caught her foot. Before she could fall, he grabbed her again, half-carrying, half-dragging her to the back wall and down a short, dark corridor.

When he threw her into another room, she came up hard against a sink. The door was slammed; she whipped around. He was gone.

Alone, she searched for escape. No windows. Only a narrow vent not big enough for a cat. A bathtub ran the width of the wall opposite the door, fixed shower over it, and a mildew-stained shower curtain.

No sign of a weapon.

The door opened and there he was again, all bulk and menace. He hauled her forward, forcing her onto the floor, squashing her down into a tiny space.

Contorting her leg, he coiled a cold, hard chain around the narrowest part of her ankle and clamped a padlock in the links. Tugging, resisting, struggling did nothing, he hung over her to work, fastening her wrist to her ankle with a handcuff. With the sink to her left, bathtub to the right and the toilet opposite, there was no route to run.

After fastening the chain to the pipe running from behind the sink to under the bathtub, he stroked her from ankle to thigh as he rose to full height. Without pausing to examine or question her, he went to the door like… nothing.

“Wait,” she called. Why would he bring her there and not attack or interrogate her? “What’s happening? Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he replied and came to press a new length of tape to her mouth. Reversing his course, he stepped out, slamming the door in his wake.

***

THE BATHTUB FAUCET dripped all night and he’d left the overhead light on. Sleep was impossible in the awkward corner. Listening to the plop, drip, splash, plop, drip, splash in its irregular rhythm all night drove her insane.

Nodding off in short bursts, she rested her head on the edge of the tub only to be frequently awoken by the acidic scent of citrus. The sink pedestal was cold and the basin hung over her head. The floor around the toilet looked clean, but there was no way she’d put her head there.

Discovering anything about her keeper could give her a foothold in finding a way out. From looking around, all she could deduce was he brushed with whitening toothpaste and used bar soap. Magazines on the back of the toilet were related to weapons and survivalism. Okay, so she didn’t recognize the titles, but it was a surprise to see something other than tittie mags or Anarchist Monthly.

Whoever this Archer was, he wasn’t concerned about being caught holding her hostage. Carrying her over his shoulder in the street and through the hallway of the building showed confidence. He didn’t blink at her protests and didn’t exude any signs of anxiety about being spotted manhandling a woman.

Unless someone had done this before, it would be unlikely they’d have chains and padlocks lying around. Attaching her to the pipe seemed practiced. This was no rookie. He hadn’t had to think about where to take her or how to restrain her, he’d done it on autopilot.

Who could he be? Motive, reason, what drove him? Why restrain her?

Time grew arduous. Or maybe the predicament dragged out the seconds. Hours passed that felt like days, maybe weeks, or months.

God, she was losing her mind.

When the door next opened, she was hanging off the edge of the tub. Startled, she gasped and plastered herself to the wall beneath the basin, tucking her head into her neck.

Her captor didn’t look at her. Wearing only his boxers, she was stunned by the definition of his tanned physique. Athletic, muscular and ready, the sinews in his ribs moved when he raised an arm, adorned with a full-sleeve black tribal tattoo, to scratch the back of his head.

The ridges on his belly were next on his scratch list as he lumbered over, yawning, and lifted the lid and seat of the toilet. Her mouth fell open when he landed a hand on the wall and, with his back to her, peed like she wasn’t there to witness it.

Closing her eyes wasn’t enough. Why, oh, why couldn’t she close her ears too? At least sound signaled when he was finished. Dropping the seat, but not the lid, he flushed, yawned again and padded out, slamming the door as he had the previous night.

three

STILL UNDER THE TORTUROUS light, her vision was blurring from lack of sleep or sustenance or something. Cold and uncomfortable, access to the toilet and water in the sink were the sum of her optimism. That was it. The beacons of hope. A piss pot and hydration. Wasn’t life just dandy.

Throughout the day, she’d picked the duct tape from her mouth. Taking her time, so as not to cause pain, an angry red stamp across her face was unavoidable. She didn’t care. Breathing freely again was some kind of progress.

Next time he came in, Archer pulled the cord to turn off the light and stayed in the doorway. Nothing but blackness shone behind him. It was night again, but in the bitter winter, the light faded early. It could be evening or the dead of night, there was no way to tell.

“What’s the plan?”

She couldn’t take the silence. Her voice was a deep, alien croak; probably because the last time she used it was to scream for her life.

A night of sleep hadn’t softened his attitude. “I know how to make you cry. I can make you beg. I can cause you all kinds of pain.” Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. “But I don’t wanna. Do yourself a favor, Squirm. Cut your losses. You put up a good fight. Just tell me where he is and I’ll let you go. No hard feelings.”

Tag. This Archer might find it simple enough to betray a friend, her outlook was different.

“No,” she said. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

A deep nasal inhale suggested calm impatience. “Your call.”

When he walked off, the door stayed open. Anticipating more from her captor, she squinted, crawling as close to the door as possible, listening for hints as to what he was doing. Metal rattled like a cutlery drawer was being rifled through. Wooden legs scraped on a hard floor. A few moments of nothing, then there was a flare of light and a zippo clicked shut. Light glowed from beyond.

A minute later, he returned. Stepping over her like she was a cast aside toy, he loosened the chain and dragged her away from the wall. She struggled, not that it made much difference with the chain attached to her. The handcuff locking one of her wrists to her ankle still hindered too, making it impossible to stand or run.

Her attempts to resist didn’t slow him down. He picked her up under his arm and carried her into the body of the apartment. Open-plan kitchen and living room, the sparse furniture was hardly visible in the night. The windows were blacked out, barring entry to even a slither of light.

One candle flickered in the middle of an otherwise bare table. He dumped her in a chair then crouched to lock her chain onto a huge, thick eyebolt driven into the solid floor. Pulling and tugging didn’t budge it an inch.

Archer spun the perpendicular chair on a leg, flipping it around to straddle it and wrap his arms around the back. With her ankle and wrist connected, she remained in a half-crouch. Her chin almost rested on the wood, not the most dignified position.

Already pissed she’d been forced to spend the night on his bathroom floor, she was in no mood to be intimidated. Anger wouldn’t get her anywhere, and she couldn’t relax. Everything this guy had done suggested he meant to do her harm. She’d protect Tag’s life with hers, if necessary, although she’d rather not die at the mercy of an unforgiving stranger. Especially since Tag would probably face a similar fate when this Archer caught up with him.

This could be an opportunity for answers. How had she ended up there? What was motivating this guy? And the most pertinent question…

“What do you want with Tag?”

“You think I’m gonna kill him?” he asked, tipping his chair onto two legs to swipe a large roll of leather from the breakfast bar behind him.

Gasping in resented, panting breaths, fear had to be subdued. “Are you?”

Untying a strip from around the leather roll, he laid it out flat at the other end of the table. Inside the pouch, the glint of sharpened blades in all shapes and sizes shimmered in candlelight.

“Give me his location,” Archer said, unnervingly calm.

“Tell me why you want it.”

Carefully, he slid one wooden-handled blade from the sheath. Inhaling as each inch slid out, speculation about his plans flared her horror again.

Rising from his chair to reach her arm, he wrenched it over the table. She swore and pulled back, but his strength was too much, fuck, fuck—her muscles burned, and his grip only grew tighter until she gave in. Shit. The victor, his fingers remained locked around her wrist while his forearm pressed her hand flat on the surface.

Holding up the knife, he turned it above the flame, admiring the blade. “This is a spear point,” he said, lowering the metal apex into the fire of the candle. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The tip’s just perfect for piercing skin soft as butter like yours.” Her heartbeat kicked up. “I sharpen them every day, keep them ready.”

“Ready for what?”

Oh, why the fuck did she ask?

The wry almost-not smile that thinned his lips wasn’t reassuring. Neither was his non-answer to her question. He wanted direct answers but avoided her questions without guilt. This ice-cold, composed guy was definitely a pro.

“This was a gift from a very good friend.”

Did a man like this have friends? Turning the tip in the candle, he heated an inch, rotating the handle to coat the end in heat until it almost glowed.

Transfixed by the metal in the fire, she didn’t register him twisting her hand until his palm pressured hers. In a slick move, he pulled the blade from the flame and forced it flat against the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist.

Screaming at the searing agony until her lungs were empty did nothing to temper the pain. The sickening scent of her own skin cooking contorted her guts until she wretched.

Kicking and shouting, she fought to get away, but couldn’t retreat.

He held her firm without breaking a sweat.

“Please! Stop! No!”

Her words didn’t reach him. Her screeching and yanking failed to get through. When he did release the pressure, she whipped her hand away, holding it to her chest. The pain scorched through to her heart.

Tears soaked her cheeks. Cradling the injury, she turned her forehead to the table and sobbed.

“That’s what I call the warmup,” he whispered into the back of her bowed head.

She couldn’t look up. Pain permeated, pulsing from her injured limb until it reached the other. Numbness collided with agony; heat bled from every fizzing, electrified pore. Was she dead? Dying? Whichever it was, she wanted the hurt to be over.

“Ready to talk?”

Taking half a dozen deliberate breaths, she rolled her head, keeping her cheek on the table. “Why not kill me?”

He wasn’t at the table. At that moment, he leaned against the sink, one ankle crossed over the other, a glass of water at his lips. When he finished gulping, he put the glass by the sink and sauntered back.

“No result and no fun.”

“Fun!” she wailed. “Do you think this is fun?”

Sinking astride his chair as he had before, he opened his hand. “Give me your arm.”

Yeah, right, like she was stupid enough to hand herself over. She wouldn’t do it; she wouldn’t make this torture easier for him. In defiance, she closed her lips tight. The pain was excruciating, but she’d endure it if it saved her friend even for a single day.

With a scowl, he lunged over to wrestle for control of her injured arm and slammed it onto the table.

“No. No!”

Jolting her forward, he squashed her breasts to the blunt angle of the table edge to get her arm as close to him as possible.

As she prepared for more hurt, he grazed a thumb over the wound in a tender gesture rather than a vicious one. What was he…? The perimeter of the pointed injury was an angry, bloody mess, suggesting the edges of the knife had pierced her but been cauterized by the heat.

Within the bowed triangle brand were two unaffected shapes and it was those shapes he traced with a fingertip. The intrigue and pride on his face appalled her. He wasn’t examining it out of concern, he was admiring his handiwork, impressed by his own despicable act.

His grip was loose enough that she could snatch her arm away.

He let her take it. “It’s clean,” he said, resting his arms on the chair back again.

The inflamed flesh would bear his mark from then until forever. Peering closer, she tried to decipher the shapes on her skin that almost looked like connected letters, C and A.

She kept her wrist straight to avoid aggravating the wound. “What is this?”

“What’s next, Squirm?” He relaxed as he selected a new blade from the flattened roll. “Do you like the smell of blood?”

His appetite for torture hadn’t been satisfied by the flame?

“Wha…? What?”

Grabbing her hair, he jerked her head back, urging the point of his new dagger under her jaw. “It’s intoxicating,” he growled. “Thick and rich, sexy when it coats the smooth steel.”

Holding her breath, she waited for the cut… that didn’t come. He trailed the metal down her shoulder, rising as he did, letting go of her hair, giving her command of holding herself away from the blade. It didn’t hurt, it was strange, the threat, the almost—he yanked her chair out from under her, sending her to the floor with a thud.

Was he trying to humiliate her? Punish her? What the fuck did bruises matter? The pain in her wrist trumped everything else. Curling into the fetal position, she waited until his shadow blocked the candlelight before confessing the truth.

“Beat me.” She coughed. “Cut me. Burn me. Rape me. It won’t change a thing, Archer.”

Use his name, remind him of his humanity. Her only hope was to change his mind, divert him, from hurting her. She wouldn’t cave, that left one avenue: breaking through his tough, detached exterior.

“What did he do to earn your loyalty?”

Rocking until she could see him crouched beside her, knife still in his sure grip, the curiosity in his expression outweighed the anger. Her hysterical smile almost became a laugh, but she didn’t have the energy to muster it.

“You’ll never know,” she said. “Even if you did, you’d never understand.”

Archer, a mystery, and a thief, had plucked her from her life to demand she betray her oldest ally. It wouldn’t happen. Never. He was under the illusion there was some kind of choice here, that it was within her power. It wasn’t. There was no choice.

Expecting further interrogation and torture, she steeled herself when he grazed his knife against her cheek to move her hair away. She shivered against the cool metal, but there was no pain.

“We’ve got plenty of time, Squirm,” he murmured. “You need to get used to wearing my mark.”

Unfastening her from the bolt driven into the floor, he seized her arm and hauled her back to the bathroom, attaching the chain to the pipe again.

“I’ll leave off the tape,” he said. “If you get any ideas about screaming, forget it, you’ll piss me off. Around here, nobody gives a fuck.”

As if on cue, a distant argument became a feminine scream. Archer shrugged as he turned and walked out, leaving her with the light and the dripping faucet.

Like she had to be told. She’d grown up in worse places. No one cared about domestic violence, crime, or any woman in need, anyone in need.

In the cramped internal room, she couldn’t hear vehicles or foot traffic. How many floors had they ascended? Damnit, she hadn’t counted. How far above street level were they? Muffled arguments and bangs were more distant than the barking dog that often became frantic about nothing.

Adrenaline and exhaustion weighed her body. She slid down the wall, her spine cooling as it pressed to the bathtub panel. In a final surrender, her head dropped to the floor. Citrus buzzed her senses, but it wasn’t enough to wake her anymore, this time slumber stole her.

four

PLOP, DRIP, SPLASH. Gazing up at the cracked ceiling, arm in her cleavage, the blistering wound ached and itched. Ignore it. Just ignore it. With few distractions, that wasn’t an easy ask.

When the bathroom door opened again, she didn’t flinch. If he wanted her, he’d grab her.

“Give me an address.”

Licking her lips, she moved her tongue to moisten her mouth, delaying her answer. “One, two, three, Bite Me Street.”

“Play your games, girl. You’ve got plenty more skin for me to burn.” That wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat. “Give me an address.”

She didn’t have the energy to sass him. “I can’t. Even if I could, Tag wouldn’t let you in.”

“I’ll worry about that. Give me an address.”

“No,” she said, closing her eyes.

A loud thwack by her ear startled her adrenaline. A knife was embedded in the floor, an inch from where her head had been. Stuttering at the sight, she experienced something positive, for the first time since she got there: relief he was a bad aim.

Negativity returned fast when he came to hunker down. Pulling the knife from the floor, he stuck it in a horizontal sheath on the back of his belt then put a long metal tin on the closed toilet lid.

Transfixed, her eyelids were frozen wide apart when he popped it open. Inside? An empty syringe and an unmarked glass bottle. Panic erased lethargy in a heartbeat.