3

“Let’s try again. What are you doing here?” He asked.

“I…I am looking for my mother,” I squeezed out of my sore throat.

He gave a low chuckle, making my spine sweat. The silence stretched out, tense but sweetly awkward.

There was one thing I liked about that guy: he wasn’t afraid of the dark. Darkness was my home for two years, and I felt an affinity with people who were not freaked out when it fell on them. Most men squint and curse, trying to make sense of it, looking weak and helpless in the process. Not this guy. He wore the darkness like a second skin, and it looked pretty good on him.

The power was back. He flicked on the bedside lamp, and the light cut through the gloom, throwing his face into sharp relief—strong jaw, dark eyes that didn’t bother to hide the violence underneath. His mouth looked like it hadn’t smiled since the day he learned how to scowl. He hastily looked me over, and something flashed in his eyes. He kept staring at me with awe as if I was a rare bird that had flown in by mistake. I could see the thinking going between his large ears. It felt flattering; as if an escaped tiger picked you out from the crowd to be his dinner. He was a big man, about six feet five, with shoulders not much wider than a king-size bed. His face was tanned and in need of a shave.

I should’ve said something much smarter, but I was too busy remembering how breathing worked. Then I saw a wound on his shoulder. It was dark and wet, smearing crimson against his skin like he’d been dipped in trouble and hadn’t bothered to wash it off. His once white cotton shirt hung open, buttons clinging to the fabric for dear life. A few had lost the battle and lay on the floor like fallen soldiers. This was a firearm wound, and I didn’t feel like letting him know I figured that out. The guy was shot—clean graze from what I could tell, but still bleeding, which meant whoever did it might still lie warm somewhere. His jaw was tense, the kind of tension that meant pain didn’t matter much unless it got in the way of business. He stepped closer to me. Too close for my comfort.

“Who the hell let you stick your face in people’s rooms?” he asked.

I gave him the patented blind-girl smile—soft, harmless, tragically polite. “I’m sorry. I can’t see very well. There was a panic in the corridor. I got confused.”The big guy looked at me as if I just hatched. The bleeding shoulder didn’t do much to improve his temper.

He smirked— in a lazy, crooked way that promised a lot of trouble. “Shit. A useless blind rabbit,” he spit. “I need someone to check my wound.”

“You wounded? I can do it. Just find me the kit. Every room here has one,” I said as calmly as I could.

I immediately regretted saying that. There were about a thousand things I could have said, but my brain kept playing dead. I must’ve looked as terrified as I felt because his grin widened just a hair. He got up and rummaged through the stuff in the metal cabinet hang on the wall next to the door. He grabbed my hand and pushed a glass bottle into my palm, the uneven cotton rag touched my hand. I acted naturally, as if I was still blind. He pulled his shirt back farther, giving me a feel of the blood around the wound. It was raw and jagged but not that deep, just bad enough to leave a mark and make the other guy sorry for trying.

“Well, at least you wouldn’t faint at the sight of blood, bunny. Go on,” he said, tipping his chin to keep his shirt out of the way. “You can manage, right?”

That’s when it hit me—he believed my blind act. I better keep it up. It could prove useful with the animal like him. Even if it was unlikely he understood a concept of compassion.

He leaned back against the bedpost, watching me with the casual presence that comes from knowing you own the room, the night, and anyone foolish enough to cross your way. I grabbed a rag, poured antiseptic on it, and gently pressed it against the wound, trying not to think how close I had to stand.

His skin was hot under my touch, and his pulse beat steady beneath my fingertips. I kept pressing the cloth against the wound. He didn’t flinch. He just kept watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes. I wasn’t used to being under that kind of scrutiny—he was likely figuring out whether to kiss me or kill me. Maybe both and in a weird order.

“You’re good at this,” he said, his voice low and soft. “Not bad for a blind girl.”

I shrugged, trying to focus on the wound instead of the way his breath hitched when I pressed a little harder. “I am used to my blindness,” I said.

He gave me a nod like he knew all along I was lying but didn’t care to call me out.

“Lucky me,” he said.

The rag was soaked now, and he passed a clean one to me. I kept dabbing at the blood. He stayed still like a bronze statue, as if the pain was an old friend of his. I could see the faint smudge of dirt on his jawline and smell the gunpowder on his sweaty shirt.

Then his hand moved—just a shift, resting on my hip. I froze. My heart skipped a few bits and ended up near my throat. He must’ve felt it because his smirk deepened, eyes dragging over my face like he was committing my every wrinkle to memory. I didn’t dare to look up—kept my focus on the wound. If I had met his eye, I’d give away too much.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, like it was a secret he didn’t like sharing.

“Your wound feels deep,” I lied. “You should get it looked at.”

He made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “Nonsense. That will do.”

I hated that his hand was still on my hip, hated how it made my pulse race and my skin burn. I better pull away—being this close to a man like him was playing with a lighter on a gasoline tanker. But I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. His hands moved down my tights. They moved with the simple, gentle care of a wild animal who took a short break from being vicious. Then the time exploded in a continuous fusion of pleasure and fear. The big, heavy, warm tears that started running down my cheeks did nothing to disrupt my ecstasy. He picked me up in his hard, tanned arms and put me on his VIP bed. My hair was streaming down to the ground, the green hospital gown clung to my skin. He started licking away the warm salty tears from my eyelids. He carefully undid the hooks on my gown, letting his trousers open. He went inside me without much warning, taking me in lengthy waves, grinding his teeth, with his eyes closed. I was holding on to him tightly, not ever wanting to change anything in that solitary world of remorseless pleasure. But he pulled out and got up, and I caught myself thinking how impossibly strong his body felt. He turned away from me, shy and awkward, as if he cared what I was thinking.

“I’ve got things to do,” he said addressing the wall.

He walked me to the shower stall, and the first time in two years, I enjoyed it. The water stretched strands of my hair over my back and between my breasts. His VIP suite was furnished with Egyptian cotton towels that felt like rubbing luxury on your body. The toweling gown was on the hook, and I put it on. It was generously sized and had the woody smell of his aftershave.

When the door crashed open, I almost jumped out of my skin. A large, thick-necked guy stomped in, wiping his hands on a rag soaked in someone’s blood. He barely spared me a glance. “It’s done,” he said as a matter of fact. “All dead.”

The big guy didn’t even turn his head. Just gave the goon a slow nod, still not looking in my direction. “Fine. Make sure the boys don’t leave too much mess.”

“On it,” the goon replied, then slipped out like a bulky ghost.

The big guy gave me a look that might’ve been amusement or curiosity, or some twisted combination of both. “You’re lucky,” he said, voice soft as a blade cutting through silk. “You walked into the right room.”

My hands tightened on the rag he damped on the metal chair.

“I’m blind,” I whispered. “I didn’t see anyone. I don’t know anything.”

He laughed—a deep, warm sound that had no business coming from a man like him.

“Sure,” he drawled. “And I’m the Queen of England. Nice try, though.”

He gave me a soft look. I wasn’t quite sure he bought my blind act. But I didn’t have time to reflect. There was a noise behind the door. Two grumpy-looking goons dragged something into the room. Ricky! He was pale and wild-eyed, thrashing like a trapped rat. When he saw the big guy next to me, his face went white like a chalk.

“I’m Vincent Marconi’s son!” Ricky yelled, his voice cracking. “My father will make you pay!”

The big man’s smile was thin and cold. “Everyone in your gang is dead. Your fault. Bad business decisions are costly. You are Vincent’s boy, huh? Thought you’d have guts. Guess I was wrong.”

Ricky swallowed loudly, giving me a side look. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was your shipment. My dad will fix it—just give him some time.”

“Time’s the one thing I’m fresh out of,” the big man replied, his voice bored. “Your father’s been slacking off. The shipments are late. People asking questions. I don’t like questions.”

Ricky babbled something vague, trying to sound tough, but it fell apart in his mouth like a soggy cracker. “I didn’t know. I swear—just give me a chance!”

The big man raised a hand, and Ricky’s mouth snapped shut.

“You’ve got one chance. One. Tell me why I shouldn’t just shoot you now.”

Ricky’s gaze darted to me, and his eyes lit up like he’d struck an oil well.

“Take her!” he blurted. “She’s my father’s doll. Worth more than I am to him. You keep her—he’ll do anything to get her back.”

The big man looked at me, one eyebrow quirking up. “Is that so?”

I kept my mouth shut, but inside I was cursing Ricky from here to hell. The big man considered the offer for a long moment, then looked back at Ricky. “Fine. I’ll take the blind girl. Make sure your father knows who’s holding the leash.”

And just like that, I was caught in something I couldn’t crawl out of, no matter how well I could see.