Why didn’t she kill me? I came here to assassinate her, and I would have if she hadn’t gotten the drop on me. And Eshe knew that, so when she had the chance, why didn’t she…? It can only mean one thing. Eshe wants something from me. As long as I’m useful, I’ll remain alive, and not for one second longer. But that won’t stop me from completing the job I was sent for. Especially not now.
Kill the Mwuaji olori and bring Eshe’s heart to her aunt.
I close my eyes, and that’s a mistake. Because immediately, I feel the red-hot edge of her knife on my skin, splitting me open. Feel dark pain, delicious pain. Feel the wet, hungry suck of her mouth on the seeping wounds.
Feel that same mouth swallowing down my dick as she cut me, smearing blood and cum on her and my skin.
Shit.
She is a dream and a nightmare.
Heaving a sigh, I open my eyes and turn my head—and my gaze lands on the bedside dresser.
And the key sitting on top of it.
Son of a bitch.
So fucking close, but it might as well be a damn state away. Her petty ass knew what she was doing. Another gotdamn torture tactic—letting the literal key to my freedom be within my reach but not accessible.
When I get out of here, I’m definitely gutting her ass. Up close and personal. Heavy on thepersonal. Shit, I might take this job pro bono.
Eshe Diallo fucked up; she’s become my motivation.
Gritting my teeth, I inhale a deep breath, brace myself—then pop my shoulder out of socket. Pain shoots through me, and I clench my jaw harder, exhaling hard past the initial agony. I inch closer to the edge of the bed, going as far as the chains will allow. When my hip brushes against the end of the mattress, I block out the radiating pain and focus on moving my arm, though with the dislocated shoulder, there’s a very limited range of motion.
By the time my fingers fold around the key, sweat pours off my forehead. In seconds, I transfer the key to my other hand and release my injured arm from the handcuff and then my ankles. Turning to the heavy wooden headboard, I lean against it, suck in a deep breath, draw back, then slam my shoulder against it, popping it back in place.
My chest rises and falls on harsh, grinding breaths filled with a deep, grim satisfaction. Quickly, I free my other hand and, rising from the bed, tuck my dick in my pants. Bitch couldn’t even fix my shit. Just got me hanging out in the gotdamn wind.
Another thing she’s got to answer for.
They just keep adding up.
And that ass is gonna pay.
Three hours later, I pull my GTO into the underground garage of the warehouse that houses my loft. As I whip into the parking spot between my dusty Land Rover and my white Chevy cargovan, my shoulder complains. It isn’t the first time I’ve dislocated it—purposefully or by accident—and it won’t be the last, so I ignore it. Besides, compared to the other shit I’ve suffered, it’s not even worth mentioning. Pushing open the car door, I slide out, and though it’s in my secure garage, I still hit the fob, locking it. When you come from where I have, which is Ain’t Had Shit, you don’t take anything for granted. You protect what you have at all costs.
Heading for the elevator, I stride past my custom black-and-green Kawasaki Ninja H2R, and like a switch, my mind flips right back to Eshe. Shit, not like it’s been far from her. Not with my shoulder throbbing, the cuts on my body stinging until I can get some ointment on them, and my cock still half-hard.
I bet she rode away from the cottage on a bike. Though my feelings for her lean toward the homicidal, seeing her with a powerful motorcycle—because the kind of woman she is, she wouldn’t have been on top of no pussy touring bike—between her legs would’ve been hot as fuck.
Shaking my head, I aggressively stab the button for the elevator, and a second later, the doors soundlessly slide open, and I step into the ruthlessly clean box. After I twist the key in the lock, the doors close, and I swiftly rise to the only floor accessible by elevator. When it stops and I step out directly into my loft, legs as skinny and soft as a spider’s creep across the back of my neck. My pulse throbs in my head for several moments, then quiets, and every one of my senses go on high alert.
Something’s wrong. Off.
This is my home, and I know every inch of it.
The light left on over the oven isn’t an accident; the razor-thin string stretching from the counter over the island and to the bar has been disturbed.
I don’t use air fresheners, don’t use colognes. They cling to your skin and can give witnesses something to identify—that is, if I left witnesses. Still… there’s a hint of jasmine on the air. Faint. But it’s there.
And I’ve smelled it before.
I reach behind me for the…Fuck.My knife and my gun are gone. Eshe removed them both from me before she chained me to that fucking bed.
She fucked me. And not with her mouth this time.
“I have to admit, I’m disappointed. Having heard so much abouttheHuntsman, I expected, I don’t know, more excellence and care with your work.” Abena strolls out of the darkness of my living area, the cream of her long fur coat and pantsuit stark against the shadows enshrouding my place. Strolling around the nearly bare room, she trails her long, elegant brown fingers over the back of my black leather couch, strokes a hand over a shelf of the full bookcase. Stares at the blank exposed-brick walls.
