Chapter Three
Damien
F uck.
I raise my pistol again and pull the trigger. The man chasing me doesn’t even get the chance to scream before the bullet rips through his skull. He drops, blood pooling beneath him like a crimson halo.
One down. Three left.
I keep moving. Fast.
When I got the order to eliminate James Brown—the king of child porn distribution—I expected some outrage. But not this. Not ten fucking men tailing me like I’m some cornered prey.
Too bad for them. I don’t get hunted.
I am the hunter.
A bullet slices past my cheek, close enough to burn. I pivot, raising my pistol and squeezing the trigger. It should be another clean kill, another body to drop, but nothing happens.
Click.
Empty.
Fuck.
I push harder, my muscles burning as I take off down the alley. Hiding isn’t my style, but without bullets, I don’t have a choice. My boots hit the pavement loudly as I scan for cover. My eyes lock onto a small restaurant at the corner of the street. It’s dark, closed, and empty.
Perfect.
I round the building, crouching low. The back door is unlocked. Tsk. I’m amused at the sheer stupidity. A mistake like this gets people killed. But tonight, it’s saving my ass.
I slip inside, as quiet as a ghost. The restaurant is small; just a couple of wooden tables pushed against the walls, a tiny spotless kitchen, and air thick with the scent of old grease and stale coffee.
I sink into a chair, muscles coiled tight, grip still firm around the empty pistol. A habit. Through the tinted windows, I watch them sprint past, guns raised like they expect me to pop out and make their job easier.
They lost me.
No one would be this pissed over James Brown’s death unless they were just like him; filthy, disgusting predators. The kind of men who deserve a bullet between the eyes. The kind of men I’ve spent my life hunting down.
I lean my head back against the chair. I should get up and leave now that my trail has gone cold.
But something tugs at me. That deep, primal instinct I never ignore.
Get up. Look. Hunt.
I push to my feet and start moving. The restaurant is dark and silent, but something calls me deeper.
My boots barely make a sound as I stalk across the floor, down a narrow hall, past the kitchen, toward stairs leading down.
Logic says, Turn around. Get the hell out. But the voice pulling me to investigate is louder than logic.
I move down the steps. The air shifts as I reach the bottom; it’s colder, heavier. There’s a door at the end, cracked open. Dim light spills through the gap, stretching toward me like a hand trying to pull me in.
I step closer, and I see her.
Lying on a bed, wrapped in blankets, deep in sleep.
An angel.
There’s no other word for it. She looks like she was put here by mistake; something divine trapped in a world full of filth. I've never seen anyone so perfect in my thirty years on this earth. Her hair spills over the pillow in waves. She’s flawless and delicate in a way that makes something violent stir inside me.
Her chest rises and falls with every breath. Adorable little snores escape her.
I just stand there. Watching.
What the fuck is she doing here?
And why do I feel like I was meant to find her?
She doesn’t belong here.
Not in this rotting excuse for a bed. Not in a fucking storage room that smells of damp wood. Not wrapped in a blanket rough against skin that should only know silk and lace.
A girl like her should be in the finest penthouses, where monthly rent costs more than most people make in a year. She should have people falling at her feet, desperate for just a second of her attention. She should be covered in diamonds.
Instead, she’s here. Forgotten. Vulnerable. Mine.
The light above her illuminates her doll-like features. She’s ethereal, like a being put on this earth just to test men like me.
I could swear she glows from the inside, like something holy.
She doesn’t turn the lights off to sleep.
Is she scared of the dark?
She has every right to be. Because tonight, a monster crawled out of it and basked in her innocence.
I kneel beside the bed, close enough to feel the warmth she emits. My fingers itch to touch, to take, to claim. She’s so small. So soft.
I barely brush my knuckles against her cheek, and the heat that sparks up my arm is enough to make me repent. Something deep inside me snaps like a cord pulled too tight.
I do it again, drag my fingers across the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat.
She stirs, shifting slightly. I twist a strand of her hair around my palm, bring it to my face, and rub it along my jaw, my lips. I could drown in her scent. I could fucking die in this moment and be happy. I let the strand slip from my fingers, watching as it falls back across her pillow like spun gold.
My fingers twitch. Fighting the urge to bury themselves in it. To fist it. To pull. To mark .
My lips part, breath ragged. I lean in to press my nose against her temple, breathe her in, and my eyes roll back at the scent of her.
Something sweet. Something innocent. Something pure.
I could stay here forever.
Watching. Waiting. Guarding.
No.
Not just guarding.
Owning.
She needs me.
She has no idea, but she does.
If she’s here, sleeping in a goddamn storage room, then she has no one. No family. No friends. No one to protect her from the world.
No one but me.
I’ll give her everything.
A life fit for a queen.
I’ll worship her. Ruin her. Corrupt her until there’s no part of her left untouched by me.
She’ll wake up wrapped in silk. In gold. In my arms.
She just has to accept it.
Even leaving her now seems impossible.
I swallow hard, possessiveness clawing at my throat.
No. I won’t leave. Instead, I crouch down, pressing my hands to the cold floor, and slide under the bed. The wood creaks at my weight, but she doesn’t wake. The curve of her arm dangles over the edge, close enough to touch.
I clench my fists to stop myself.
I close my eyes.
And I wait.