Chapter Four
Cassian
I should be furious.
If it were anyone else—any other dancer, any other idiot who pushed back against my rules—I’d have put a bullet through their skull before they got a single word out.
Man or woman doesn’t matter.
My temper isn’t selective.
But with her…
When she panicked and choked on her own fear in my office… something in me understood her. That’s the part that unsettles me the most. I’ve never understood anyone in my life. People talk, people lie, people scheme. I don’t listen. I don’t even fucking bother.
But her?
Her fear, her desperation—it makes sense to me. She thought she had no other choice. No other way to survive. So instead of rage, I felt understanding.
And now that I understand her, she’s mine. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked in my world.
If she strips, it won’t be for strangers or for drunk men who treat her like a toy. If she ever strips again, she’ll do it for me.
My little doll.
Only me.
I leave my office planning to talk to her once she’s calmed down, but when I step into the glass hallway on the second floor, I freeze.
She’s fucking stripping on stage. My vision goes white. All the understanding, all the calm—shattered.
There’s a roar inside my skull so loud I swear the glass vibrates. She’s down there taking off her clothes like she doesn’t belong to me. I almost put a bullet through the nearest window just to stop the show, maybe blow up the whole damn building.
No one sees her naked but me.
I take the stairs two at a time, shoving through bodies, ignoring anyone stupid enough to speak to me. By the time I hit the floor, she’s vanished from the stage.
I grab the closest staff member, my hand clamping on his shoulder hard enough to dislocate it.
“Where the fuck is she?” I snarl.
“In— in one of the rooms,” he stutters, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “Someone booked her for a lap dance.”
A humorless laugh claws out of me.
Someone booked her.
Someone is touching her.
Someone has his filthy hands where only mine should ever be.
Oh, someone’s dying tonight.
I shove him aside and storm down the hallway. Each step is so charged with violence that dancers in the private rooms fall silent as I pass. I start throwing doors open without knocking, ignoring bodies scrambling to hide.
I will rip apart every door in this hallway.
I will tear down this entire building if I have to.
Because somewhere in these rooms she’s sitting on some man’s lap, desperate, doing what she thinks she has to do to survive…and that man has no idea he’s already dead.
I kick open the next door.
Anya sits on some bastard’s lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs, his hands on her hips as he drags her over his erection. He tosses cash at her—bills scattering as she moves.
She freezes first.
The man notices me a second later.
My mind goes blank with fury—wiped clean in one violent sweep. I grab her around the waist and rip her off him so fast she gasps. She crashes into my chest, her feet barely touching the ground.
The man opens his mouth, but I don’t wait.
I pull my gun and fire once.
He drops backward in the chair, eyes wide, blood pooling beneath him.
Anya screams. I hold her tighter as she kicks and fights me, holstering my gun and pulling out my phone with the same hand.
“Mark,” I growl when he answers. “Clean-up in Room Eight. Now.”
No explanation needed. This isn’t the first time I’ve killed a man, and with Anya in my life, it won’t be the last. I’ve got a system. My name never sticks. And even if my fingerprints were painted in blood across every wall, the justice system wouldn’t dare touch me. Power is a beautiful thing. No one bites the hand that feeds them.
Anya keeps thrashing, so I throw her over my shoulder before she hits the floor.
“Stop,” I snap, tightening my grip on her legs. Her heel slams into my ribs. “You’re making this worse.”
Her terror is too loud for her to hear a damn thing. She fights me all the way back to my office, but I slam the door shut behind us.
I set her down only long enough to catch her wrists. She jerks away, but I’m faster. I drag her to the chair in front of my desk and tie her to it, securing the ropes tight.
Her breath comes in wild, broken bursts. She’s seconds from passing out.
I crouch in front of her.
“Any money you get,” I hiss, “is what I give you. Any man you touch dies. The only man you strip for is me.”
“Get away from me,” she chokes. “You killed someone. You’re insane. Let me go!”
The chair skids as she thrashes. I drag it back before it tips.
“Please—just let me go.”
Not happening.
I brace one hand on the backrest, the other on the seat so she can’t twist away. I need to see all of her.
My gaze drags down her body. Her cheek is blotchy, streaked from crying. A faint bruise shadows the inside of her arm—maybe rehearsals, maybe some asshole backstage.
I move lower—calves, knees, thighs—checking that the bastard didn’t scratch her, didn’t mark her, didn’t hurt her.
“Stop looking at me,” she begs.
“I’m checking. Making sure nothing touched you that shouldn’t have.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I know.”
I don’t apologize.
“You were on his lap,” I say. “He put his hands on you. I need to know exactly where.”
She lets out a broken sob. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I memorize what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“You will be.”
Her head drops forward. “Please,” she whispers. “That’s enough.”
“I’m not here to hurt you,” I vow. “I’m here to make sure no one else ever gets the chance.”
Her eyes lift to mine—wide, terrified, confused. The ropes dig into her waist. Her bra strains around her heavy breasts, nipples hardened to tight peaks from the cold air… or fear. I don’t care which.
I unclasp her bra until it snaps open. Her nipple grazes my thumb as I squeeze.
“These are mine,” I murmur. “No one gets to feel them but me.”
Tears streak her cheeks as she arches away.
“Where did he touch you? Tell me. Every spot.”
She bites her lip, shaking her head, but her body betrays her—her thighs press together, trembling.
“His hands were on your waist,” I say, gripping her hips, kneading the soft flesh. “Like this?”
“N-no.”
“Good.” I still suck a mark above her hipbone anyway.
“Anywhere else?”
Her panties cling to her pussy, already soaked.
“He… grabbed my thighs. When I tried to get up.”
Rage detonates in my chest.
“Show me.”
She points to the inner curve of her thigh. I lower my mouth and suck hard, leaving a dark bruise blooming under my teeth.
“Anywhere else?” My voice is a growl as I hook my fingers into her panties and yank them down. Her pussy is shaved, glistening—wet enough that I want to drown in her.
“He… he touched my breast,” she whispers, flushing deep red.
If he wasn’t already dead, he would be now.
“Which one?”
“The left.”
My mouth clamps onto the underside of her left breast, sucking viciously.
“And here?” I ask, parting her cunt with my fingers. A bead of arousal trickles down toward her ass.
“N-no— not there,” she gasps, but her hips lift into my hand.
“You’re wet for me. This cunt is mine. Say it.”
“It’s not.”
I grab her ass, spreading her so I can see everything.
“Tell me again. Where else? Don’t lie.”
“He… brushed my arm.”
I bite her bicep, hard enough to leave teeth marks.
“You’re all mine now,” I whisper, surveying the marks covering her body—my marks. “No one touches what’s mine.”
I bury my face in her pussy, pressing my nose into her heat, inhaling deep like a starving animal. Her scent fills my lungs—salt, sweat, her creamy wetness. I rub my face side to side, smearing myself with her. I lap at her lips as her hole clenches.
“Fuck, you smell like mine,” I growl, inhaling again. “This cunt reeks of need. For me. Only me.”
My tongue pushes into her, shallow thrusts, tasting her, claiming her.
Then—
Cold steel presses against my throat. How the fuck—?
Adrenaline explodes through me, mixing with the taste of her still on my tongue. Her furious face blurs in my vision, her scent still thick in my nose as the smaller razor digs into my skin.
My body seizes. Darkness rushes in, swallowing everything but her face.
Then nothing.