Hell (Black Heart Romance)

Poor bastards don’t know what to do. They know as well as I do what a massive breach of protocol I’m describing. One of the conditions of the job entails staying out of the room no matter what they hear. These aren’t your typical guys off the street who only think they’re hard-asses because they’ve been breaking legs since dropping out of high school.

“Boss, are you sure?” They exchange a look. “He’s not gonna like it.”

“Are you more concerned with what he likes or what I like?” My unblinking eyes move from one of them to the other. “Because you’re welcome to work for him starting tomorrow if that’s how you feel about it. Now open the fucking door.”

One of them opens his mouth instead of the door, but it’s not his voice I hear.

It’s Rowan’s. And she’s screaming.

“Now.” When neither of the useless bastards moves fast enough, I push past them and throw the door open.

What I see on the other side turns my stomach. She’s under him, spread-eagle, tied down and bleeding.

It’s not the blood that disturbs me. It’s the terror on her face, in her eyes when her head swings my way. Her face is slick with tears, eye makeup running down her cheeks and temples. She’s been weeping and screaming, and the sick fuck on top of her is the reason.

I adjust my cuffs, focusing my gaze on them rather than looking at what’s in front of me. I might do something I can’t undo otherwise. “There’s been a change in plans.”

He’s straddling her with the knife in his hand. “What?”

I make it a point not to look at the erection jutting out from his open fly. “We’ve had to change plans.” I gesture to the pair behind me. “Escort our guest to room four. He’ll find a new companion there.”

“But I want this one.”

“I understand, and I ask your forgiveness for this mix-up.” I hold his gaze, unflinching. “Naturally, we’ll refund you for the inconvenience. Your next companion is on the house.”

He doesn’t move, though he’s at least started to soften. Rowan, on the other hand, hasn’t stopped hyperventilating. Even though Glen’s not paying attention to her anymore, she can’t take her eyes off the blade. Blood trickles in a thin line from the cut on her chest down over her side.

There’s something stark, startling about the sight of a red line over her perfect skin. The light hanging over the table only highlights the contrast. It draws my eye.

Glen needs to get out of here before I kill him.

He takes his time about climbing down from the table, muttering things about professionalism and contracts. But he doesn’t argue—that’s key. The man knows there isn’t anywhere else in town or even within a reasonable driving distance where he’d be able to satisfy his unique needs.

And once I ask a customer not to return, no matter how long they’ve been a visitor, they don’t cross the threshold again for any reason. They could be bleeding to death on the sidewalk, and I would call for an ambulance, but I wouldn’t bring them inside.

It takes a lot for me to get to that point, and I’ve only had to do it twice. After all, a contract is a contract, and I have to hold up my end of the bargain.

Unless Glen plays it smart, he’s about to become number three.

Lucky for him, he plays it smart. My guys flank him on the way out the door, though, just in case he decides to change his mind. I wouldn’t necessarily put it past him—one of those buttoned-up types on the street and a complete psycho in his private life.

No, he’s smart. He doesn’t want to have to hunt his victims on the streets.

I turn to Rowan as the door closes, leaving us alone. “Oh, my god.” Her chest heaves as she sobs, tears soaking her face and her hair. “Oh, my god, please. Please, let me go. Thank you for making him stop. Please, let me go.” She turns her wrists back and forth in the cuffs, and I notice how red and chafed they are. Ankles, too. She’s been struggling.

Goddammit. Glen’s not the only one who gets off on a helpless woman. If this were any other situation, the things I’d do to her.

My cock stirs at the mere thought of it. Even her begging turns me on. It adds to the helplessness, makes it more authentic.

In her case, it is authentic. She’s not playing. The extra desperation in her voice, in the way she struggles even though she doesn’t have a hope of escaping, makes me want to savor this moment. It makes me want to savor her.

What I could do to this woman. What I could make her do to me. Do for me. The need to possess her consumes me.