8
Luna
Something digs into my hip, dragging me from the depths of unconsciousness. My eyes flutter open, but the world refuses to focus.
Dim light seeps through a gap in thick beige curtains, casting shadows across an unfamiliar room. My tongue feels like sandpaper, and my head throbs with each heartbeat.
Where the hell am I?
The scent of fresh coffee teases my nose, mingling with something warm and spicy—unmistakably masculine. The kind of scent that makes your stomach clench and your thighs tighten, even when your brain’s screaming danger.
Pushing up on my elbows, I take in my surroundings. Abstract wall art in muted golds and blacks. Extravagant furnishings. And a small gold-embossed card on the nightstand. The Belvoir.
The Belvoir?
I l ift the heavy covers, relief flooding through me when I find I’m still fully dressed. But that only raises more questions—I never sleep in clothes. Did I get plastered last night?
Then, like a ton of bricks, the events of the previous evening crash through my fog in rapid succession:
The seedy club . . . Those piercing green eyes burning into me across the room . . . His macho bullshit in the bathroom . . . The sharp prick in my neck . . .
Oh fuck. That asshole drugged me!
Something awful occurs to me and my hands scramble over my body, fingers searching frantically for needle tracks. Rocky jabbed me with something in the neck.
Could he have taken a blood sample?
My stomach churns as I remember Papa’s threat about the blood test, whether I liked it or not.
Could Papa have hired this guy to get what he wanted?
I throw off the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed, but the moment I stand, the room tilts violently. The marble floor seems to ripple under my feet, and my stomach lurches in protest.
Come on, body, cooperate. I need to get my bearings and figure out how to get the hell out of here.
When the room finally settles, I eye the partially open bedroom door. Through the gap, I catch glimpses of gilded furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Apparently, the guy’s got standards for his kidnapping locations.
Looks like we’re several floors up so there’s only one way out: through that room. And I know Rocky’s in there—I can feel his presence like static electricity in the air.
I don’t suppose he’ll just let me walk out. I’ll need to fight my way out .
So, find a weapon, my rational mind suggests.
I scan the room until my gaze lands on a vase of fresh roses. Not ideal, but it’ll do. Moving as quickly as my unsteady legs allow, I grab the ceramic vase and dump the flowers and water into the bin—well, most of it ends up on the floor, but details.
I wrap the vase in the thick bedcover to muffle the sound, then smash it against the floor. The largest shard fits perfectly in my palm, its jagged edge promising the kind of damage that might buy me enough time to run. I straighten, turning toward the adjoining room.
And scream.
Rocky fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with unsettling calm.
I recover quickly and drop into a low, defensive stance, gripping the ceramic shard until its edge bites into my palm. Every muscle in my body tenses as I take him in. He radiates contained violence, like a beast choosing to stay leashed.
“I’d reconsider taking another step closer.” My warning comes out pitifully squeaky, more kitten than tiger. Even I would laugh if I weren’t so terrified.
Rocky doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, brow cocked, looking at me with the exasperated patience of a parent dealing with a wayward child. His face is stone, but those brilliant green eyes flick over the scene—the unmade bed, the shards at my feet, the muddy flowers by the bin—and then settle back on me.
What the hell do you think you’re doing? They seem to ask.
My heart hammers, each beat a desperate reminder of how thoroughly screwed I am. Since I’m not about to charge at him, so I scramble for something—anything—to say that might throw him off balance. But my mind is blank.
My eyes, though, are another story. They rove over him, unable to help themselves.
Jesus, he’s massive. And beautiful. His dark blond hair is mussed, giving him a rugged, just-out-of-bed look that shouldn’t be this appealing.
He’s wearing a thin white tank top that clings to his muscled torso, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. Bare feet. Large, bare feet. My brain, unhelpfully, drags up a completely useless trivia—some ridiculous correlation between foot size and certain other body parts.
I push the thought away and force my gaze back up to his extensive tattoos—dark Celtic knots and tribal designs inked across his skin. A metallic beaded necklace glints at his neck, partly hidden by his tank top. A rosary, if I had to guess.
Is he Catholic?
Hot doesn’t even begin to cover what Rocky is. He’s like a magnetic forcefield of decadence, pulling me in despite every rational part of my brain screaming at me to run. My core clenches involuntarily, and I want to kick myself for the reaction.
Get a fucking grip, Luna.
Finally, he speaks. His voice, the gravelly rumble I remember from yesterday, but his words stop me cold.
“Clean this up.” And with that, he turns and walks back into the living room.
My jaw drops. Is he fucking serious? He drugged and kidnapped me, and he’s acting like I’ve just inconvenienced him by making a mess.
Anger flares hot in my chest, mingling with confusion. Without thinking, I follow him out.
The living room unfolds before me, a study in luxury. Its floor is gleaming black-veined white marble, and the floor- to-ceiling windows offer a dizzying view of the Chicago skyline.
Rocky pads to the dining nook, drops into a chair and bends over a chunky mobile tablet. A steaming mug of coffee sits beside him like this is just another ordinary morning.
The table boasts fresh pastries and fruit and my stomach growls traitorously at the sight. Ignoring my rebellious body’s reactions—all of them—I march up to him.
“I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where I announced myself as room service. Now, I demand you let me go, before things get really ugly for you.” My voice comes out strong this time, even if my hands are shaking.
After what feels like an eternity of silence, Rocky lifts his head and glances at the shard in my hand. His gaze then drops to my bare feet, and I suddenly realize I’m about as threatening as a wet kitten. Without a word, he lifts his mug, takes an unhurried sip of coffee then returns to what looks like a 3D map on his tablet.
Refusing to back down, I raise the shard higher. “Did you hear me? I said let me go!”
Rocky sets his mug down with exaggerated care, reaches beside him, and then drops something onto the table.
I blink, staring at it. It’s my purse.
“Your shoes are by the bed,” he says, before returning to his tablet.
Wait—he’s letting me go? Just like that?
But my feet are already moving as I rush back to the bedroom, hastily pulling on my boots. It sounds too good to be true, that he’ll let me go, but the thought of freedom propels me forward.
Armed once again with my makeshift weapon, I return to the living room. I needn’t have bothered. Rocky remains bent over his tablet, his back now fully turned.
The sight of the tattoo on his back stops me short. Not fully hidden by the thin tank top, it spreads from one muscled shoulder to the other and from the looks of it, likely extends to his waist.
It’s a black weathered skull with what looks like an intricate knot on its forehead. An emerald gem sits within the knot, its hue matching the molten green flames oozing from the skull’s sockets.
It’s eerie. Alive. Like the tattoo is emerging from his core rather than sitting on his skin.
I shake myself out of the daze and hurry toward the gleaming oak door.
Rocky’s voice stops me cold. “Use the smaller elevator. Code’s 162. You’ll avoid the lobby that way.”
His casual dismissal this morning somehow manages to be more irritating than his aggression last night.
Also, something doesn’t add up. Rocky went out of his way to drug and kidnap me because I wouldn’t follow him, and now he’s acting like I’m an inconvenience he can’t wait to get out of his tousled hair?
The man was staring into my soul last night, and now he’s not even bothered to spare me another glance?
Why?
Because he got what he wanted.
The thought chills me, and again, I run my hand along my neck and the crooks of my elbows, searching for puncture marks.
“Why did you take me last night, Rocky?”
He finally pushes the tablet aside and turns to face me. “That’s a good question, princess,” his tone is mocking. “It would seem I had nothing better to do than play hero to thick damsels who like to gorge on drugs.”
The insult lands like a blow. I reel back, stunned by the venom in his words. “Excuse me?”
“You were drugged last night. Eduardo—the man you were . . .” his mouth twists into a derisive sneer, “using to get my attention—slipped something in your drink.”
I blink, ignoring the jibe and processing the information. Eduardo with his charming smile, the casual way he handed me drinks. He seemed so normal, so harmless. Until I started to feel sick. And then Delilah . . . Oh God, is she okay?
As if reading my thoughts, Rocky adds, “He didn’t drug your friend, in case you were wondering. He only targeted you.”
“Okay.” I fold my arms, fighting to keep my voice steady. “And so you just . . . what? Figured you’d swoop in and save me?”
Rocky’s expression doesn’t change as he leans back in his chair. “I know, idiotic, right? My apologies,” he drawls, not sounding sorry at all.
“You stuck a fucking needle in my neck!”
He shrugs. “There wasn’t time to ask how you preferred to get knocked out.”
I take a calming breath when all I want to do is slap the smug out of him. I need information, and to get it out of this brute, I can’t afford to lose my cool.
“And what exactly did you do with the blood you drew from me?”
For the first time, his expression shifts, his brows arching almost comically and his full lips curving into a smirk. “Your blood, huh? That’s next-level fuckery, princess. Even for me.”
The sharp edge of the makeshift weapon bites into my palm as my hand fists around it. The audacity of this man, to act so blasé after what he did.
“Is it, though?” I snarl. “I know my father hired you to bleed me. And I know you’re a flesh peddler. A disgusting predator who would do anything for the next buck. Now I demand—”
The words die in my throat as Rocky moves. One moment he’s across the room, the next I’m pinned against the door. His hand snaps my wrist high above my head, holding it against the unyielding wood. The shard slips from my grasp, shattering on the floor.
I barely register the pain in my wrist beyond the rage surging through me from his manhandling.
“Listen to me—” His growl cuts off in a grunt as I stomp the heel of my boot hard on his bare foot, following through with a sharp jab at his solar plexus.
His grip loosens from my wrist and I shove at his chest. Both moves are executed perfectly, but with his sheer bulk, they barely seem to faze him. At least the stupid smirk has been wiped off his face.
“Don’t you fucking touch me, Tarzan —”
A large hand wraps around my neck, cutting off my words. It doesn’t squeeze, it’s just . . . there. A silent reminder of how little it would take to shut me up.
I see red. Before I realize what I’m doing, my knee flexes sharp and swift, aiming for his groin. Only, it doesn’t connect—he’s too fucking tall. But my hands are free, and my fingernails can do some damage.
As if he reads my intention to claw his eyes out, he spins me around in one fluid motion. His muscular arm wraps around my waist and he lifts me clear off the floor.
With one single arm.
I thrash in his grip, twisting, trying to break free, my mind cycling through every escape maneuver I’ve practiced. But he’s too strong, his hold too solid, like he’s anticipated every counter. I shov e my heel into his shin with all my strength, but his only reaction is a low, infuriating chuckle that vibrates against my back.
After a minute of futile struggle, realization dawns on me. I’m not hurting him. Actually . . . I freeze as the fight leaches out of me.
I’m turning him on. By struggling.
He’s right there against my ass, lodged perfectly between my cheeks as if they were made to cradle his girth. Shit. He’s hardening. And holy mother of fuck. Of all things big and intimidating.
“Let me go.” I hate how breathy I sound, how my core tightens and the low throb starts where he’s still pressed to me.
“Are you done?”
“Yes, jackass,” I snap, “You’ve made your point.”
Rocky sets me on my feet then spins me around, caging me to the door. My breath catches as I realize I’m back in the position I was before I tried to fight him, only now there’s something different in the air between us—something electric and dangerous.
He towers over me, his palms braced on either side of my temples, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Despite my heels, the top of my head barely reaches his shoulders. The primitive, traitorous slut inside me responds to our size difference, to being thoroughly dominated by this aroused male.
While I don’t dare glance down to see the situation in those sweatpants, my body catalogs every point of contact: the solid wall of his chest barely brushing mine with each breath, the flex of his forearms beside my head, the whisper of his breath against my temple, the faint smell of coffee mingling with his natural scent—citrus and something darker, more masculine.
I t ense my thighs and bite the insides of my cheeks, but it does nothing to stop the moisture from slipping between my folds. . .
His chest rises and falls in a carefully controlled rhythm—like he’s fighting for restraint. A bead of sweat trails down his neck, disappearing beneath his tank top, and I get the insane urge to trace its path with my tongue.
“Now listen because I’m only going to say this once,” he grits out, his voice suddenly rougher. His gaze focuses on a point just above my head, his jaw clenched tight—as if looking at me directly might break whatever control he’s clinging to. It’s as if he’s struggling to be near me. Yet he’s the one pinning me in place, his body curved around mine like a cage of heated steel.
“You’re in danger,” he continues, but the warning loses some of its edge when his voice catches as I unconsciously lick my lips. His eyes track the movement before snapping back up. “There are people after you, and—”
“Oh, please,” I scoff, enjoying how my breath fans across his throat, making the muscles there tighten. “The only danger I see right now is you.”
His tone hardens to steel. “Well, princess, you’d better take off the rose-tinted glasses and open your fucking ears. Clemenza Brando closed a deal with Hector Lobo, the dealer you saw me with last night. Guess who the merchandise was?”
The words feel like ice water down my spine. “That’s impossible. Clemenza is my father’s Consigliere .”
I’ve known Clemenza since I was a toddler. He wiped my tears and bound my wounds. He taught me how to drive a car and shoot. He’s more of a father to me than my own.
Rocky’s dark chuckle sends a bolt of heat through me, reminding me of the inch of space that keeps him from being pressed against me. “Princess. You’ve been bought and paid for. In more ways than one.”
I scramble to make sense of his words, but my thoughts scatter again as he leans closer. His lips don’t quite touch the shell of my ear, but they are near enough that his breath sends electricity dancing across my skin.
“Go straight home. Tell your father, and get on your fucking knees and pray he can protect you from the sharks circling you.”
I shake my head, fighting the dual urge to lean into him and push him away. “You’re lying,” I accuse, my voice husky. “I think you’re the one who wanted to close the deal but couldn’t because you . . .” I trail off.
Rocky shifts, and my breath catches as his hips pin me against the door. Fuck. He’s hard.
“Because I what, princess?”
It’s as if he can read my thoughts and is daring me to say them aloud. Or maybe I’m the one deluding myself. Still, I’m not one to back down. “Admit it. You wanted me for yourself.”
I swear it sounded less desperate in my head.
A sound escapes him, something between a purr and a growl that vibrates through every point where our bodies connect. His eyes stay fixed on the wall, but I can’t look away from the strong column of his neck, at the pulse hammering at the base of his throat.
“You’re a fucking bold one, aren’t you?” His whisper is both wonder and warning.
“Your hard-on isn’t exactly subtle either,” I breathe. “And last night, you gawked at me like a man dying of thirst.”
Finally, Rocky’s gaze drops to meet mine, and the intensity of those green depths hits me like a physical caress.
“Like this?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, unable to loo k away. “Just like that.”
Rocky’s teeth flash, straight and even, making me wonder how a scumbag like him can hit such a jackpot in the looks department.
“I wouldn’t have the foggiest clue what to do with someone like you,” he says roughly.
Something about his tone rings sincere, and Delilah’s insinuation that he is not straight echoes in my mind.
But the evidence pressing hard and hot against me would suggest otherwise. So would the flush creeping up his neck and the way his pupils have expanded, leaving only a fiery ring of green irises.
I swallow hard and drop my voice to a purr. “I think you do, Rocky. I’m surprised you’re not panting right now, given how hard your heart is racing.”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach up and touch his neck. His skin burns against my palm, like velvet over steel. The erratic pulse matches the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat. A muscle jumps beneath my fingers, and I feel rather than hear his sharp intake of breath.
For one electric moment, Rocky leans into my touch. His eyes drift shut, dark lashes fanning against his cheeks, and something shifts in his expression—a crack in that iron control. I slide my fingers up, tracing the line of his stubbled jaw to the throbbing pulse.
Then, like a flipped switch, his eyes snap open. He recoils and takes several steps back so quickly he’s across the room before I can process the sudden loss of warmth where his body had been pressed against mine.
I’m shocked and stung by his reaction to my touch.
“Well,” I mutter, trying to mask my hurt with sarcasm. “Looks like I didn’t need to put my nose out of joint trying to fight you off. All I had to do was touch you to get you to back off.”
“Get out,” he snarls. “Now.”
“Gladly,” I spit, even as my body screams in protest. Without another word, I snatch up the purse I dropped during our tussle, muttering under my breath. “Connard de merde.”
Just as I twist the knob, Rocky growls, “Stay the hell away from Delilah Sinclair.”
I freeze. “What?”
“She works for Hector. Grooms his victims for sale. She was delivering you last night.”
His words are like ice water, dousing the lingering heat of our encounter.
Delilah? The woman who’s been by my side since I returned to Chicago? It can’t be true. There’s no way. Delilah would never . . . she wouldn’t . . .
I shake my head, desperately clinging to the last shreds of what I thought was true.
“You don’t understand. I was the one who suggested we hang out last night.”
Rocky’s voice cuts through my denial like a blade. “Really? Did you also choose the time, place, and company?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Unable to face him or the implications, I yank the door open and stumble forward, but his words swirl around my head like angry hornets, leaving me disoriented.
Delilah . . . Clemenza . . . betrayal on all sides. It’s all too much. Impossible.
The hallway tilts and sways, and I lean back against the closed door to steady myself. Doubt gnaws at my insides.
Cou ld he be right? Could Delilah really have been grooming me for sale? She works for me! Unpaid, yes, but isn’t that because she believes in my brand?
And Clemenza . . . what reason would he have?
The smaller elevator dings, ushering in a woman in uniform pushing a laundry cart. Suddenly remembering Rocky’s warning to bypass the lobby, I slip inside the elevator. My hands shake badly as I punch in the code, fumbling a few times before getting it right.
As the doors slide shut, a feeling of numbness settles over me. Rocky’s presence, heat, and scent still cling to me, but they’re drowned out by something far more familiar—the taste of betrayal, bitter as bile in my throat.
My hand trembles as I clutch the gold rune on my chain, letting the cold hard edge dig into my thumb and ground me.
Delilah, my best friend, could be a liar and traitor. Again.
Clemenza, who is like a father, may have betrayed me.
And Rocky Savage, a flesh peddler, may have been the only thing that stood between me and slavery.
Nothing makes sense anymore.