There’s less trouble getting into my enemy’s castle than I expected. Ian Abernathy really should bother to set his alarms. The kingpin has plenty, but as I go to disarm them, I find they’re left casually off. It’s like he thinks the fourteen hours it took me to drive from London to his retreat in the Scottish Highlands will keep him safe. It won’t. The most brutal and wealthy of the Scottish mafias is causing chaos for my father’s “business”. I’ve been sent up here to fix the problem. Permanently. The best assassin in London to take out the notorious mafia boss. According to the profile my father gave me, Ian is five foot ten, green eyes, big black beard and obscenely wealthy as well as ruthless. Sinfully rich and rich in sin. It makes little sense that he’s bothering with the Whitlock mafia, small as it is. Ian Abernathy is also basically already dead, so, I guess, never mind about the slack security and dubious motivation. After I deal with the surveillance panel by the front door, said door is still bolted. I can pick the locks, but the deadbolt is more tricky. I sneak around the castle, silent and invisible in my black leggings and long black top, my hair back in a ponytail that’s constantly falling out, looking for other ways in. Black is my look. So is breaking and entering. Where most girls at nineteen years old are interested in hair straighteners, music, boys, and social media, I’ve always been a bit different. A downright loner. It was the books. And probably the knives too. They tend to put people off being friends with me. Which was why it was odd that when I looked earlier at the photo of my target—I try not to think about their names too much, it puts me in the wrong frame of mind—I felt a warm shiver of recognition, like I knew him well. Obviously that’s not the case. I’ve only had one friend in the last four years, for one night, and although he was also Scottish, he was clean-shaven and six foot three. Finding an open window only one floor up is childishly easy. I always was good at climbing. So easy in fact, that my idle brain begins to think about the man. The man from the masquerade ball for the London mafias. Anonymous. No names allowed. A glittering, deadly, glamorous, champagne and caviar event. Not really my scene, with my penchant for black jeans, no makeup, and a simple ponytail. Nervous as I was, I spent all evening yakking the ear off a man with ivy-green eyes. I was supposed to be inconspicuous and not talk to anyone while I waited for my father to send a message that the target was in place. Strict orders to not speak, because I run my mouth. Whenever I’m worried, I chatter. The only time I’m quiet is when I’m focussed on my job. When the danger is taking up every part of my attention. The rest of the time, I talk. Sometimes even to myself. It’s a problem when you’ve killed as many people as I have. It’s rare that anyone wants to listen to me, but the man from the masquerade ball did. He appeared at my side and asked me to dance. Just offered his hand. As though tall, dark, handsome men were interested in me. Like an orphaned baby bird imprinting onto a bear, I looked at his massive burly shoulders and hands the size of dinner plates and I didn’t want anyone else. And I thought he liked me too. He stayed by my side. He barely took his eyes off me, except to flicker to any ruckus and guide me away from it. The inexperienced, awkward assassin who couldn’t stop babbling, pretending to be a mafia princess, and the big Scottish mafia man. I felt protected and cherished with him which—let me tell you—is unusual when you’re an assassin. He had the most lyrical accent when he spoke. I wanted to get him alone and make him reveal all the things in that swoon-worthy gruff voice. And climb him like a tree. It took most of the night until my father’s call came through and in that time, first he persuaded me to dance, then talk, then dance again. He listened when I spoke too much. It was like he enjoyed my company and wanted to be with me. I guess he was too old for me. Closer to forty than my age. But those few silver hairs I saw as we danced—invisible from a distance—and the quiet confidence he held himself with just made me want him more. I creep out into the blackness of the corridor, up the stairs and down the hallway to where I know from the schematic his bedroom is. I expect it to be locked, but the door handle turns noiselessly under my palm. There’s a gap in the clouds. Moonlight spills from the massive windows, illuminating the room in silver and dark shadows, and I’m reminded of how that masquerade ended. With my phone buzzing the black level-ten alert indicating imminent danger of death to our whole team. I apologised as I ran. He tried to catch me and demanded my name as I melted into the crowd, my slight frame making it easy to slip between people while he was stuck in the crush… He followed, but, well. Some things just aren’t meant to be. Like Ian Abernathy’s continued heartbeat. The kingpin sleeps with absolute confidence. On his back, the covers at his waist, face obscured by the clouds as one floats past. His chest is toned, with strong, defined pectorals, and a six-pack that disappears under the duvet. It’s also crisscrossed and peppered with scars and partially hidden by dark hair. An unexpected bolt of lust goes through me. I’ve never felt attracted to any of my marks. But then, they aren’t usually gorgeous. It was six months ago that the man at the masquerade lit up my dormant libido. Maybe that’s it? Like an anniversary that my body is celebrating with inappropriate responses. I’m desperate to run my fingers through the hair on Ian’s chest. Would it feel soft, or coarse? If he awoke as I did so, would he give a rumbling purr like a petted lion, or bite my arm off? I’ll never know. Wait, I shouldn’t be thinking of him as Ian, as a person with a name rather than a target. I should shoot him from here. That’s the obvious solution, but it’s too dispassionate and clinical. I can tell when assassinations will haunt me, and this will be one of them. It was doomed from the moment I felt that warm shiver. A bullet is too easy, and I won’t be a coward. So I leave my gun in its holster around my chest and slip out my knife. If I’m going to murder Ian Abernathy, it has to be the old-fashioned way my father taught me: slitting his throat as he sleeps, his eyes flying open to stare accusingly into mine in his last seconds. I move soundlessly across the room and stand at his bedside, over him. The bed is huge, but I can’t risk putting weight on the mattress, for fear of waking him. Because if there’s one thing that would be worse than how I’ll feel after this job is done, it’s being caught. He wouldn’t have any more compassion for me than I have for him. So I lean over, using my core strength to hold me as I reach out. The clouds part and reveal his face, and my chest collapses. Because in the moonlight, in beautiful repose, is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He has ditched the beard in the photographs in favour of stubble, and his lashes fan shadows onto his cheekbones. It’s… It can’t be. I never saw his face. This is just my overactive imagination taunting me with what I most want in the world. He’s the man from the masquerade. Not possible. He was taller. I would have recognised him in the photo, wouldn’t I? But the beard… I catch a scent that evokes the memory of being in that man’s arms, dancing. I lean closer, my knife hovering by his throat and breathe him in. Delicious. I’m not a fancy perfumer, so I don’t know what the component parts are, but he smells exactly as a man should. Warm, a hint of sweat, something earthy and intrinsically male. He smells exactly like the man from the masquerade ball. I close my eyes. I inhale the scent of him again. It surrounds me and I imagine I can hear his heartbeat above the thud of mine. I’m hesitating. I never hesitate. But I can’t do this. I can’t kill the man who was everything to me that night. I’ll have to leave— Pain shoots through my wrist and neck. My eyes fly open to find Ian’s green gaze boring into me. His hands are clamps on my flesh. “You’re here,” he hisses as his grip tightens further and I flail. I fall onto him, unable to hold myself up through the agony, and simultaneously reach for my gun. I’ve screwed up. He’s going to choke me to death in the next few seconds unless I take his life first. Before I do more than close my fingers over the cold metal of the pistol, I’m under him. He releases my neck and I suck in air as best I can, given the intense weight of his body pressing me into the mattress. I realise, as he brings my hands together with ruthless efficiency, pinning them with one of his, that I’m going to die. When he reaches for his bedside cabinet, I thrash, and kick, and yank so hard at my arms I’m surprised I don’t dislocate something. But it’s no use. Within seconds there is rope around my wrists and they’re forced above my head. My thighs are held down with his, and it’s the work of a moment before first one ankle then the other is captured and bound, each tugged out to the side, my legs spread. When his weight lifts off, a sob escapes me. I stare up at him. His arm darts out and I try to shield myself from the blow, tugging at my bindings helplessly and turning my face away as I’m blinded. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to see what’s coming. “Open your eyes. ” His voice is deceptively calm, but he’s breathing hard. I blink and blink against the light from the bedside lamp. Ian Abernathy is a dark shadow over me. Gradually my pupils adjust and I see him, my eyes going right to his face, the line of his jaw that I examined that night. Then, my gaze slips lower. He’s gloriously naked. The hair on his chest and arms that I saw a thousand years—a few minutes—ago, is echoed by a smattering of hair over his thighs and a thicket between his legs. And yeah, I look, because honestly I’m not going to survive this and if Ian Abernathy’s cock is the last thing I see, well, there’re worse views. It’s big, and chubby. Not erect, but not… Not erect either. My mouth goes dry. The most likely scenario here is that he shoots me point-blank. Maybe drags me outside by the hair first, to avoid making a mess of his bed. But there are obviously other things he could do with a girl tied up on his bed, and fear tingles down my limbs. “You’re supposed to leave a shoe, Cinderella. ” He picks up my knife from where I dropped it on the bed, examines it dispassionately. He knows who I am. He recognises me. My stupid heart thrills even as he focuses on the leather strap around my chest, just beneath my top. It’s the holster for my weapons. There are two more knives, my gun, and ammunition. There’s no hesitation as he grasps the strap between my breasts and slips my knife underneath it. His strength and the knife’s sharpness mean it cuts like butter, but all I feel is the brush of his knuckles on the side of my breast. Then the shoulder straps go the same way, and my top is sliced right down the middle, and he slides the broken pieces from my body. The few steps he takes to the window ought to horrify me. Those knives were gifts from my father, if you can call work tools a present. But instead I admire the smooth planes of muscle on Ian’s back. He shoves open the window, tosses it all out, and recloses it with a click. Why has he disposed of my weapons if he’s going to kill me, as his reputation suggests he would? Then his attention returns to me. He drags his gaze down my body, and I feel it like a caress. A shudder of shameful desire racks through me. And damn him, but he sees it, his eyes flaring. “What am I going to do with you. ” It’s not a question; it’s vocal annoyance. I’m suddenly very aware of my position. On my back, small breasts bared. My legs are spread and my leggings are stretchy and insubstantial to aid in the getting in and out efficiently that is part of my effectiveness as an assassin. I’m not exposed, technically, but I feel it. And my treacherous body likes the sensation. Strong-and-silent type Ian Abernathy continues to take in every detail. Watching him heats me everywhere. Notably the vicinity of said spread thighs. “Let me go? That’s a good idea. I like that idea. ” I don’t know if I do, actually. But I maybe like it more than being dead? He scrapes his hands through his hair in a frustrated gesture that serves to bring my gaze back to his strong arms. We seem both trapped in stasis. He doesn’t want to harm me any more than I did him. I squirm a little. My arousal is growing with every long second this big man is regarding me fixed to his bed. It must be the adrenaline, but I’m more turned on than I can ever remember. Fucked up? Well. I suppose I am. I’m completely under his control. The fear is receding and I don’t think I’m imagining the heat in his eyes. I venture my gaze lower, and my mouth opens in a gasp. He’s hard. Watching me like this has stiffened his cock to an aching rod. “Stop it. ” He snaps his eyes up to mine. I shake my head in confusion. My heart is still hammering, but it’s no longer with panic. It’s rate is elevated like from a rollercoaster, swimming in the north Atlantic waves, a horror film. Or the anticipation of a huntress. The good kind of fear that’s safe as well as exciting. Because that’s when I realise. I might be tied up here, but I’m a long way from helpless. I’m as strong as he is. Ian Abernathy wants me. And I—I’ve wanted him since I first saw him. The charming stranger who danced with me. I don’t know how this ends, but right now, I’ll use every trick at my disposal, however much it makes my cheeks heat. His brows slam together and he seems to make a decision as he prowls towards me. “You don’t know what sort of trouble you’re in, Cleo. Then he’s over me and through the flurry of awareness in my chest I wonder how he knows my name. But I can’t focus on that because—frustratingly—he’s not touching me anywhere. He holds himself aloof. Books Chapters Are Daily Updated Join & Stay Updated For All Books Updates… I watch his eyes as he peruses my neck, shoulders, face. My skin heats everywhere he looks. He snags on my mouth and a growl escapes him when I lick my lips. “Do you remember that night?” he murmurs. I have a good memory. But I’m also capable of forgetting things too. Like we could rewind to that night, and forget any of this ever happened. The, me trying to kill you, thing,” I clarify when he doesn’t answer. I gulp under his scrutiny. Well done, Cleo. I don’t think he’s forgotten you tried to kill him even if he’s talking about the time you ran out on him. “I think about it all the time. ” His voice is rough, dark, tortured, and it’s like he didn’t hear my babbling. This is why I don’t get caught. Because I’m shit at keeping silent. “I regret not forcing you to tell me your name. I regret not ripping off your mask. I regret not stealing you away the moment I saw you, before you could run. “I…” For once I’m speechless. He lowers his mouth and for a second I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. But he halts just short and his breath is hot on my lips. This is deranged. A minute ago I was… And now… “You are so fucking beautiful. I want to take you like this. Tied to my bed. I could have what I’ve wanted. After you tried to kill me, surely that’s only fair? I could sink into you. A little whimper escapes me. I’d like to say it’s anger, fear, or some other sensible emotion. But it’s not. It’s pure need. He’s so still for a second I think he’s brittle. That he’ll snap and do exactly what he just said in glorious detail. But he doesn’t. He eases back. “You want me to release you. “Yes,” I lie. “Beg for my cock. Freelance photographer Violet Beck is forced into an engagement with CEO Roy Payne. He is everything her wild heart rebels against: proper, predictable, and painfully kind. But love has a way of devel...