13. Layla

13

LAYLA

The zip ties dig into my wrists as I squirm against the tight knots, searching for any weakness in their embrace.

The Scythe watches my struggle, his tone a mix of impatience and amusement. "You won't break free."

After a tense, silent drive, we arrived at an old warehouse on the outskirts of town near the rarely used, dilapidated docks. It loomed before me, appearing like a giant, evil castle out of the night. The Scythe pulled me out of the car and ushered me inside, his hand like a shackle on my arm.

In the center of the ground floor, a solitary chair stood like a throne in a neglected kingdom. He tied me to it, his movements swift and precise. I was powerless by alcohol, the vision of my friend abandoned on the street, and all the ways this man could hurt me now that he's hidden me where no one will hear me scream.

"What is the point of this?" I snarl, whipping my head around to face him. My hair tangles in front of my face. "If you're so intent on ‘protecting' me, why am I tied to a chair?"

"Because you still don't see the gravity of your situation. Tonight proves that. You think I'm your enemy, but I'm the only one standing between you and death."

I scoff. "My ‘knight in shining armor,' right? More like a captor in a Batman suit. You can't keep me here forever."

The Scythe halts in front of me. Before I can blink, his hand snaps out, his fingers and thumbs digging into my cheeks when he forces my gaze to his. "Watch me."

I cry out, and I'm ashamed to admit it's not entirely from fear. "Oh yeah? And what will you do now that you have me?"

His free hand trails down my arm. "Everything you've been too afraid to ask for."

Without warning, he releases me, leaving a throbbing pain in his wake, and retreats into the shadows of the room. I watch through tendrils of my hair as he disappears from sight, wondering what he's up to now.

I try wriggling against the restraints again, but they hold fast. There's little else to do, so I keep trying, testing, kicking and picking at the chair so maybe I can grab a piece of wood for a weapon.

Time passes slowly. The moon's gleam through the small window tells me it's still night, but I don't know when the Scythe will return, or what for. Mumbling curses at him, I fight against the chair, my wrists becoming slick with blood and my palms throbbing with small splinters, none of them weaponized.

The alcohol has faded and left a nasty headache behind. I'm really thirsty, and I need to use the restroom.

Sighing, I let my head fall back, my rapid pulse more obvious in the stretched skin of my neck.

I'm starting to panic.

The Scythe hasn't hurt me before—in fact, he brought me to orgasm instead. But this feels very different.

I'm teetering on the edge of a meltdown when an unexpected sound breaks through the quiet. My body goes rigid and my heart leaps into my throat, expecting the Scythe to emerge from one of the many gloomy corners. Instead, a sleek black cat pads into view, its green eyes reflecting faintly in the light.

Paws land silently on the cold concrete floor as it approaches, whiskers twitching with curiosity and a motorboat operating in its stomach.

"Nice kitty," I croon. "Your stealth matches your owner."

The cat tilts its head at me before resuming its purr-fest. The oddly soothing noise does nothing to ease my predicament. If anything, it seems to emphasize just how hopelessly trapped I am.

With a graceful leap, it lands on my lap. But as it kneads my legs, then curls up and gets cozy, its glowing green eyes meet mine again.

"Are you spying on me for him?" I ask my fellow inmate.

"Reaper," a voice orders out of nowhere, causing me to flinch.

The cat is unfazed, merely tilting its head toward the source of the sound. I watch in confusion as the Scythe steps into the rays of moonlight, looking more human than I've ever seen him.

His mask is gone, his chest bare, allowing the soft light to play over his ruggedly handsome body that would've been considered beautiful if not for the striking display of tattoos and scars covering him, each one telling a story as complex as the man himself.

The Scythe advances slowly, his posture relaxed as he reaches out to rub the cat's sleek black fur, then picks Reaper up, cradling the cat against his chest. I'm taken aback by his gentleness, struggling to reconcile this image with the cold and ruthless man who's tied me to this chair.

His shirt is off. His. Shirt. Is. Off, I needlessly repeat to myself .

And I can't help but ogle.

I've never seen anyone look so deadly and so achingly gorgeous all at once.

He's not bulked up like a bodybuilder, but honed, every inch of him chiseled with potent strength.

A tattoo sleeve on his left arm seems to depict a tragedy. It's a blend of intricate patterns and symbolisms interwoven with images of death and rebirth. Eerie and beautiful. His jet-black hair is tousled, making him seem less like a terrifying figure of the underworld and more ... well, more like a man.

But it's his face that captures most of my attention.

The most striking of all is the scar snaking from his jaw to under his eyebrow, the silvery threads giving him an intense, intimidating allure. It's a painfully familiar mark—a mirror image to the one I saw on my savior the night I was almost run down.

My body tenses as this visual confirmation threatens to drown me like a tidal wave.

"It really is you," I whisper.

His pale-blue eyes stare at me with a force that freezes my lungs, until I remind myself to take a breath.

"I'm getting tired," I say. "And now I'm bleeding, if you're here for a status update on your captive."

No response.

"Can I please have some water?"

I hate saying please to him, but maybe that's what he wants. A begging, pleading submissive before he lets me go. "Or use the bathroom?"

"Come," he croons.

Not to me. But to his pet cat.

Then he disappears again.

"Hey!" I call out to him. "Come back!"

A familiar clicking sound draws me away from his retreating form, and as I turn to look, a match is lit in the far corner of the room. The aroma of a cigarette fills the air, making my nostrils tingle with its pungent scent.

Then slow, unhurried footsteps approach and a figure emerges from the black, sauntering toward me with an arrogance and cruelty that makes my skin crawl.

No burn marks. No scars. No tattoos.

This isn't the Scythe.

His aura is different—more menacing, more volatile. He flicks the spent match onto the cold concrete floor and takes a long drag from his cigarette before he finally meets my gaze.

"Would you look at those eyes." He smirks. "Nature's own little freak show. I always wanted to fuck something rare. Guess it's my lucky day, dollface."

I blink, taken aback. He's taller than the Scythe, larger in build, and his face—though handsome in a pock-marked sort of way—is twisted with barbarity.

Panic surges, but a part of me still believes this is a ruse—until his unfamiliar, rough hand hooks my chin.

"Pretty young thing, aren't you?"

"Who are you?" I manage to choke out.

The man chuckles, an awful, grating sound. "You can call me Bonesaw. And you, dollface, are my new dissection project."

He releases my chin, only to trail his fingers down my neck and over my collarbone. I shudder, trying to shrink away from his touch, but the zip ties' teeth hold me in place.

"The Scythe will kill you for this," I say, mustering up what courage I have left. "He brought me here. I'm his ... captive."

Bonesaw barks out a laugh. "You think he cares about you? Oh, that's precious. The Scythe, if that's indeed who it is, only cares about himself and his precious mission. No one truly knows him. If he had a name he was born with, that's long gone. He goes by reputation only. He's succeeded in every one of his contract kills. Very expensive guy from the sounds of it. Me, I come cheaper, likely because I'm … messier."

He takes another drag from his cigarette, then blows the smoke directly into my face. I cough and sputter, my eyes watering from the acrid sting.

"Besides," Bonesaw continues, flicking ash onto the floor, "I have an arrangement with the guy who gave me the tip you were at this warehouse, trussed up and ready for me. He won't interfere with my fun so long as I don't interfere with his plans."

He traces a gnarled finger down my cheek, scooping up an errant tear, then raises it to his lips and flicks his tongue out.

"Mm. Tasty, but I bet your pussy has more seasoning."

Ice floods my veins. The Scythe knows about this man? Allowed him to be here, to torment me? The betrayal cuts deep, even though I know I shouldn't have expected anything less.

Bonesaw seems to sense my despair because his smirk widens. He stubs out his cigarette on the back of the chair, inches from my bound wrists, making me flinch. Then he leans in close, his breath hot and rancid against my ear.

"Now, let's see what makes you scream, shall we?"

His hands roam lower, tugging at the hem of my shirt. Bile churns into my throat and I thrash against my bonds, splinters digging deeper into my palms.

"No! Stop!" I'm beyond pride now, openly pleading. "Please, don't do this!"

But he just laughs, his fingers tightening on my hip hard enough to bruise. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the worst?—

"Looks like you're all mine now, sweetheart."

I clamp my lips shut, the tears running freely now. Did I imagine the Scythe without a mask? Was there ever a cat? Am I having a nightmare?

Oh God, please let this be a really bad dream…

My body stays in fight mode, pulling uselessly at the restraints, bucking up and down without actually making any headway. Sweat and blood have made me slippery, but not enough to escape what this man wants to do to me.

A feral snarl rips through the air, followed by a yowl of pain. My eyes fly open to see Reaper latched onto Bonesaw's arm, claws and fangs sank deep into his flesh.

He curses, trying to shake the cat off, but Reaper holds fast. Taking advantage of the distraction, I rear back and slam my head into Bonesaw's nose with a sickening crunch.

He staggers back, blood gushing down his face, and Reaper leaps free. The cat lands gracefully on its feet and races off into the shadows.

"You fucking bitch!" Bonesaw roars, one hand cupping his shattered nose. Murder flashes in his eyes as he lunges for me again.

I brace for impact, but it never comes. Instead, a dark shape blurs past me and slams into Bonesaw with the force of a wrecking ball.

The Scythe.

The two men hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, fists and feet flying in a brutal, no-holds-barred brawl. I can barely track the vicious blows as they roll across the concrete, grunting and snarling like wild animals.

Bonesaw manages to get in a few solid hits, his knuckles splitting open the Scythe's eyebrow and lip. But the Scythe gives as good as he gets, driving his knee into the other man's ribs with an audible crack.

They scramble to their feet, circling each other like wolves, both bloodied and panting. The Scythe's eyes are chips of blue ice, promising death.

"I warned you," he growls, voice guttural, "not to touch her."

Bonesaw spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

"Yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?" Bonesaw's split lip curls into a mocking grin. "She's just a piece of ass. Since when do you care about the meat?"

The Scythe's nostrils flare. His muscles coil, every inch of his exposed skin stretched taut over sinew and bone. "You forget your place. I am not one of Morelli's lackeys to be trifled with."

"Fuck Morelli. He didn't say how hot she was. And fuck you, too." Bonesaw lunges, a glint of steel flashing in his hand.

The Scythe twists, the knife scoring a thin line across his ribs. Crimson wells, trickling down his side, but he doesn't even flinch. His hand snaps out, seizing Bonesaw's wrist in a vise grip. Bones grind together as he applies pressure, the knife clattering to the floor.

Bonesaw howls, his free hand scrabbling at the Scythe's iron hold. But it's futile. With a vicious wrench, the Scythe dislocates Bonesaw's shoulder, the wet pop reverberating through the room.

Bonesaw's agonized scream cuts off into a gurgle as the Scythe's other hand clamps around his throat. He slams the larger man against the wall, concrete cracking under the force.

"There's no question that I'll kill you," the Scythe hisses, his face a mask of cold fury. "The only difference is, now I'm wondering whether to feed your entrails to Reaper and leave your carcass for her kittens."

Bonesaw's eyes bulge, his good hand clawing weakly at the Scythe's implacable grip. His feet kick uselessly, dangling a foot off the ground .

"But I don't feed them rotten pork," the Scythe continues, his voice dropping to a lethal purr.

He leans in closer until they're nearly nose to nose. Bonesaw's face is turning purple, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, deliberately, the Scythe reaches behind his back and draws a wicked-looking knife from a sheath at his waist. The blade gleams.

Bonesaw sees it.

"Wait," he croaks, throwing up a hand in a feeble attempt to ward off the Scythe. "Wait, we can?—"

The Scythe releases Bonesaw's neck to grab a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back to expose the vulnerable line of his throat.

The knife flashes down. Bonesaw gurgles as the keen edge parts his flesh, splitting him from ear to ear in a gruesome spray. Blood spurts, painting the Scythe's face and chest.

I scream, thrashing against my bonds until my skin splits open. Tears soak my cheeks and blur my vision, but I can't look away.

The Scythe steps back, letting Bonesaw's lifeless body slump to the floor in a spreading pool of crimson. He turns to face me, the knife still clutched in his hand, dripping.

His expression is unreadable, his eyes two clear glaciers in a face streaked with gore.

The Scythe takes a step toward me. And another, his footfalls like gunshots. I shrink back in the chair, my heart rabbiting against my ribs, every instinct screaming at me to flee.

But there's nowhere to go. I'm trapped, helpless, completely at his mercy.

He reaches me and crouches down until we're at eye level. Slowly, almost gently, he reaches out and wipes the tears streaking down one cheek. I gasp in a shuddering breath, tasting salt and copper on my tongue.

"P-please," I whimper, my voice cracking. "Please don't hurt me."

Something flickers in his gaze. His jaw tightens and he looks away, as if he can't bear to meet my eyes anymore.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says roughly.

The Scythe straightens and steps back, giving me space. He wipes the knife clean on his pant leg before sheathing it at his waist.

"That," the Scythe says to me softly, nodding toward the lifeless form on the floor, "was your future."

I shudder involuntarily, terror gripping my heart. "You ... you killed him."

"You really think I'd let anything happen to you, Layla?" He stares down at me, his dark expression severe. "Every word I've told you is the truth. The threat is real. It's deadly. And it's my job to protect you from it."

"You ... you really brought him here to do this to me."

It hits me then. This was all orchestrated. The Scythe lured this assassin here, dangling me as bait, to prove his point. It's a brutal, visceral demonstration of the threats surrounding me—and of his willingness to eliminate them.

"Yes, Wraithling. Really. I'm trying to save you from this world, a world where men like him are around every corner."

"Why? I don't even know your name, and you're professing your loyalty to me like we're important to each other, somehow. I've fought you at every turn."

My voice fractures on my next question, from trauma, from hopelessness, from fear. "Why aren't you just leaving me to die?"

Something shifts in his gaze. "I knew a girl like you once. She was much younger, but she was forced into a world she didn't deserve to be a part of, and it was my fault. I'm not making that mistake with an innocent again."

"But I'm not her."

"No," he clips out. "You're not."

His confession only deepens the mystery surrounding him. The Scythe's bitter stare sinks through my skin, seeking understanding, perhaps even absolution. But I have none to give.

"What happened to her?"

The question slips out, unbidden.

A muscle tics in his jaw. For a long moment, I think he won't answer.

"She died."

Two words, spoken with such finality, such grief.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

And I am. Despite everything, despite the gore still raining down on me, I feel the weight of his loss.

"Her death was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Unnecessary. Avoidable. Much like yours would be if I left you to the wolves."

He turns back to me, his expression hardening. "I won't let that happen again. No matter how much you fight me."

I believe him. God help me, but I do. There's a conviction in his voice, an impenetrable determination that brooks no argument. He will protect me, even from myself.

But at what cost?

As if reading my thoughts, the Scythe crouches down once more, bringing us eye to eye.

"You're not my prisoner, Layla."

"What am I, then?"

His lips quirk. "That's what we're going to find out."

This is a man who only refers to himself as the Scythe. If not unhinged, then he's definitely unstable. He just happily supervised an assassin threatening to rape and murder me, then killed him in front of me. Now he's telling me I will only be able to survive if I stay by his side.

And I'm still tied to a chair.

"Untie me."

"Do you believe me?"

"I don't know what to believe."

The Scythe takes his time studying my face. It's a survey that makes me shatter, like he's trying to reach too far inside me to get his answers.

He says, "Normally after witnessing what you just did, a person would easily do as I say."

I shake my head tiredly, adrenaline evaporating as fast as the alcohol did. "You've made it clear that no matter what I say or do, you're going to prove your point, anyway."

"You needed to see what these men want to do to you if they catch you."

"I don't need lessons in murder."

I say it harshly, my voice ragged and emotional. It hasn't hit me yet—that there's a dead man a few feet away from me. And that staying late at work one unlucky night caused a killer to take the wheel of my life.

"Then consider it a wake-up call," he bites out. "Because soon, more than one man will be sent. A group of them will. How do you think you'll fare then?"

I don't realize he's grabbed me by the hair until my head's yanked back, my scalp stinging from how hard he commands my attention.

My stomach lurches under his gaze, but I keep my expression schooled, staring into the power burning in his eyes.

"You're mine. Must I prove that to you as well?" he asks, his stare morphing into something untamed.

"I'm not yours," I spit, jerking my head back. A clump of hair tears free in his fist. "You're insane. "

The Scythe's expression crystallizes into exactly what everyone, even fellow assassins, are terrified of. "You still don't understand the danger you're in."

"I understand plenty." My voice shakes. "You murdered a man in front of me. You tied me to a chair. You're threatening me."

He shakes his head. "I'm trying to save your life."

"By terrorizing me?"

"Yes. Because sometimes terror is the only teacher that works."

As he straightens, I notice the bulge in his pants and how it strains the fabric every time he moves. Under my nervous study, he pulls at the zipper, his dick springing out as if released from prison.

With my head back in his vise-like grip, he pushes his hips, rubbing the tip against my clenched mouth.

"Taste it," he commands. "Put the flavor of my growing obsession with you on your tongue."

The heat of his shaft sinks into my lower lip, warming where I once trembled. I should be appalled right now. I should scream and bite his dick off and act so off-my-face crazy he'd have no choice but to release me.

Instead, his pre-cum leaks into the seam of my lips, his salt bursting with flavor. I've wanted to see him—all of him—since we were on top of the lighthouse. And when I touched myself in bed, knowing he was watching.

I open my mouth obediently, but with hesitation, lapping up more of him. I lick it off slowly, savoring the tangy flavor and eyeing him through my lashes to see my effect.

He groans in approval, pushing my mouth open wider to push more of himself into my mouth. My lips part under his demand, my eyes locked on his.

"You like this, don't you?" he asks, his voice a quiet dare .

I nod, unable to speak, my tongue curling under the base of his shaft.

"You want me."

His words are more of a statement of anguish than a question.

I moan in response, unable to deny the truth in his words. He continues his sensual assault, pushing deeper until he's almost at the back of my throat.

I gag, but he doesn't pull out to give me air.

"You look so fucking perfect around my dick," he murmurs, his voice uneven. "You've never been touched like this before, have you? Tied down, helpless, choking on cock."

I shake my head, terrified yet thrilled by the thought.

His eyes darken in approval as he positions himself, spreading his legs enough that I sense what he's going to do, and I brace for him to slam his entire length inside my mouth.

He starts moving, hard and fast, heedless of my choking sounds, the gargle of my voice mixing with saliva as I try to take him in. Strange, panicked sounds escape my throat as he hits the back, again and again, my nails digging into my palms.

My fingers flex against the ties binding my wrists, desperate for freedom, but also needing to connect with him. Each thrust sends waves of shame and pleasure through my body, making him moan my name louder.

He releases my hair and moves to my cheeks, indenting them with his fingers and thumbs so hard, sparks of pain flash into my vision.

This is raw and fierce, fueled by desperation and lust and something more addictive than I can comprehend.

Suddenly, he pulls out, causing me to cry out in both shock and relief.

He makes an agonized sound in his throat, reaching down to pump himself and aiming directly for my face.

"You still want me?" he asks, his voice curt and gravelly. "Despite what I am?"

Blinking back tears, and fairly certain that my eyes need to be pushed back into their sockets, I nod.

Because I can't lie.

"You want a Scythe to fuck you?"

I raise my head, willing to stare him down while he comes all over me, refusing to flinch.

Every breath I take is filled with the scent of the sea air mixed with his musk and sweat, making me drunk off it.

My lips open again, and without waiting for permission, I dart my head forward and take him in my mouth. He groans deep in his throat, too in the throes of ecstasy to scold me for disobeying him as my head bobs up and down, taking him in as far as I can while bound.

Taking control.

My tongue swirls around the head, tasting the saltiness. My eyes close. I feel him grow bigger inside my mouth, stretching my jaw to its limit.

Both of his hands grip my hair roughly this time, pulling me closer to him, his hips bucking forward, demanding more.

I retch and choke as he pushes deeper still, my throat aching from the force of it. But I don't stop, knowing it's what he needs from me. My eyes water as I struggle to breathe, but I take him all the way to the hilt, feeling the balls of his heavy sack press against my chin. I taste the metallic tang of my own blood in my mouth, and when that taste mixes with salt and cream, I force myself to swallow all of it as he shouts indecipherable words above my head and comes again.

My heart races, my chest heaving as he releases my hair, stepping back to admire his handiwork as he tucks himself back in. He gives me the once-over, and I feel like a prize he's caught .

Slowly, he walks around me, circling his prey, his gaze trailing over every disheveled inch of me.

But he's panting.

His cheeks are flushed.

And his eyes are bright with satisfaction and … apprehension.

His proximity sends tremors down my exhausted body; his presence is a living nightmare, yet I ache for him despite the trauma I've just endured.

He kneels before me, taking my chin in his hand. "Say my name."

"Scythe," I say automatically, my voice a shell of its former self.

His lips form a bittersweet curve, and there is true fear behind his eyes when he murmurs, "Kaden."

"Kaden," I repeat it like an obedient child, but I like the feel of it on my lips. The sound of it with my voice.

He leans forward, capturing my lips in a devouring kiss, his hand roaming down, over my stomach, then around the back of the chair where he snaps my ties open with the same knife that killed a man. Many men.

I make a grieving, pathetic sound when he pulls away.

"That name belonged to a different life, a different world. One I thought I'd left behind."

The Scythe—Kaden—regards me thoughtfully for a moment before helping me stand. "But your voice makes my name sound like a promise. I never thought I'd want to hear my real name again."

I regard him warily. This is the part of him I don't understand—the soft part, the tattered soul hiding within a lethal body with heartbreaking force.

It unnerves me more than any of his threats.

Because now, I need to know why.