PROLOGUE
ABBY
The masked man is waiting for me in the midnight shadows of my apartment.
I stumble slightly as I close the front door behind me and search blindly for the light switch. Before my palm brushes the hard plastic knob, strong fingers ensnare my wrist, and a broad body slams into mine. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my shocked cry. My arm is wrenched behind me, and I’m forced to turn when my shoulder screams in protest. The intruder uses his grip on my arm as a lever to control my body, and I’m pinned in an instant, my cheek pressing against the inside of my front door.
The lingering, pleasant buzz of alcohol disappears from my mind like fog evaporating beneath harsh morning light, and my entire world sharpens in a burst of adrenaline.
I try to shove away from the door with my free hand, but my short nails scrabble uselessly against the peeling ivory paint. My other wrist is pinned behind my back, and my attacker’s weight keeps me trapped between him and the door.
A low growl rumbles against my nape. The man’s hand on my face slides upward, covering my nose and mouth. I can’t breathe.
My entire body seizes with panic, and I writhe in his hold.
He releases my trapped wrist for a split second, but I don’t have the time or space to fight him off before a sharp clicking noise is followed by a cold blade at my throat.
“Quiet.” His voice is deep and rough, almost inhuman. “Don’t fight me, and I won’t hurt you.”
It’s a lie, but I have no choice: I comply.
My tears fall in silent streams as my world shatters, and my masked attacker breaks me down to reveal the most painful, darkest parts of my soul.
1
DANE
Three Months Earlier
The stunning woman at the bar has a quirky purple streak in her hair and a striking freckle on her right cheekbone. It’s large enough that it’s visible even at a distance. In my line of work, patients have asked me to remove smaller blemishes, but the longer I look at her, the more I think that it suits her. The mark makes her unique, and I admire the fact that she wears it with pride. She hasn’t made an effort to conceal it with makeup.
Her posture is perfect, but her eyes stray to the floor even when she’s speaking to her friends. The dichotomy intrigues me. She’s shy, but her bearing indicates confidence.
A man approaches her where she’s swaying her hips near the bar. She can’t seem to fully stop dancing even while she’s waiting in the queue to order her drink.
The man steps into her personal space without invitation and leans in close to speak in her ear, presumably under the guise of being heard over the Latin music.
She stops swaying in her gentle dance, and her willowy body goes stiff.
The bastard doesn’t seem to notice her obvious discomfort.
I’m prowling toward him before I realize what I’m doing.
“Dane?” I hear my associate, Meadows, call after me, but I wave him off.
He’s known me long enough that he won’t be offended by the dismissal; he’s never gotten in the way of a conquest before.
I’m with her in seconds, and the man is still far too close to her. My hand closes around his shoulder, and I drag him away from her. My grip is firm enough that the threat of violence is clear, but I don’t toss him to the ground like I want to. I’m not sure how she would react to that, and I don’t want to scare the woman who’s captured my full attention.
And I don’t want to get into a bar fight on my first night out in Charleston. That wouldn’t reflect well on my new practice with Meadows. He has social connections in the area, and I can’t afford for word to get out that I’m dangerous.
The man who was harassing her tenses in my grip and whirls to face me. His fists clench, but before he can raise them, his eyes meet mine.
I don’t bother to hide the monster within. I let him see exactly how cold and unfeeling I am—hurting him means absolutely nothing to me. I could destroy him without a second thought.
One of the advantages of lacking the impulse for empathy.
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I say smoothly, looming over the smaller man. “You should go.”
