2. Chapter One

Chapter One

My head lolls to the side, causing a sharp pain to shoot up my neck. It settles into the base of my skull, an aching thrum. I flinch, clench my jaw and force my eyes open. Everything is a mix of grey and blue blurs and blobs. I blink a few times to clear my vision and after a moment, things come into focus.

A generic wooden writing desk with no chair directly in front of me. Two curtain-covered windows behind it. Scuffed up hardwood floor. Simple floral wallpapered walls.

I don't recognize the room, but I recognize the feeling of poly rope—AKA bondage rope—binding my wrists behind my back and my body to the wooden chair I'm in. It's wrapped around my thighs, calves, and chest with such precision it's almost art. My ass is numb, telling me I've been sitting here a while.

How I got here? Couldn't tell you.

Who did this to me? Don't know that either.

Yet, with both of those questions left unanswered, I feel not a single bit of panic. Thinking clearly will get me out of this alive. If I allow my fear to take over, it's a death sentence. It's likely whoever did this needs something. If they wanted to kill me, they'd have killed me already. If they wanted to beat information out of me, I'd already be bleeding. Other than a stiff neck and my muscles aching from being in this awful position, I'm fine. Slight headache, but that could be from whatever drug they gave me to get me here. I sure as fuck didn't come willingly.

Whoever it was probably needed a crane to do so. I'm six foot three and lingering around 250 pounds. Definitely not an easy load for an average guy. Unless it was multiple people. My employer's enemies, maybe? But then why am I alive? And why would they come after me? I'm no one in the grand scheme of things. Not worth any money. Hardly important. I don't have any family secrets—I'm not even part of the family, just work for them. I do a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

"You think too fucking loudly."

The voice is deep, husky, and with a slight accent I recognize immediately.

Russian.

Nothing about it is familiar though.

Since when do the Bellancas—the Italian family I work for—have issues with the Russians? Far as I know, they don't. They've got issues with other Italians and the shitty Irish, which is only seeming to get worse. So this is something different. Or new.

Would be nice if I could remember something to help me figure out what's going on. Like how I got here. What day it is. Where here is. What I was doing beforehand. Who the hell this guy is and what he wants with me.

I don't say a word, and instead wait for this man to say something else. Captors like to talk. Always have something to say. Pretty sure they're all narcissists. I know from being around them too often. Can't say I've been taken before today, but there's a first time for everything I guess.

Slow and heavy booted footsteps sound behind me, growing louder as they get closer. He sounds big. Careful. Meticulous. His breathing is quiet. Had I not heard him walk toward me, I wouldn't know he's there at all. Which is why I didn't know he was there until he spoke. Couldn't even feel him standing behind me, but that also could be the effects of the drugs I was given.

Something niggles at the back of my brain. Something familiar. Something I should know but can't remember. Fucking drugs. This is why I don't do the shit. Won't deny they make you feel good, but the aftereffects? No fucking thanks. The withdrawal, the loss of memory, the cost? I'm good.

I tighten my jaw and don't fight my restraints as my captor stops directly behind me. I keep my gaze ahead, the heat of his body causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. My skin prickles with acute awareness. Yet, it still isn't nerves. It's something else entirely.

My goal is to get out of here alive. I'll figure out what this guy wants, and then be on my way. Arguing with him isn't going to help. Using all my strength to fight against rope is only going to burn my energy.

Keep calm. Stay smart. Think clearly.

"It's always funny when the prey catches the hunter." His deep, rumbling voice sends a shiver up my spine.

"I'm not laughing," I respond, without a single idea of what he's referring to.

"You wouldn't be, though, would you? Considering you're helpless."

"I'm not helpless," I snap.

"No?" There's a bit of humor in his voice, which is odd. It isn't a cynical type of humor, but more like he's entertained. Like what I said is cute. Like he's holding back a laugh. That annoys the hell out of me. "If you can get free of the restraints, I'll let you go."

Okay, maybe I should have thought over my words before I said I wasn't helpless. Maybe I am a little helpless in this situation. I'm not getting out of these restraints. At least, not any time soon. The knots are tied well, and they're done in such an intricate way. The guy knows what he's doing. Could possibly be a Shibari master.

"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thanks," I deadpan.

The man, who is still standing behind me like a fucking weirdo, chuckles. It's a raspy sound that has my skin prickling. I'm glad he finds this funny. I'll admit his calmness is unnerving. It's never good when your adversary is calm. It's why it's so important for me to keep my cool. When you lose it, you get messy. You fuck up. And if he isn't going to fuck up, this is going to be much more difficult than I'd thought.

A large, warm hand settles on my shoulder. I fight the urge to look at it. "You like being tied up?" he asks, causing my heartbeat to quicken.

"Maybe I do. Don't judge my kinks."

He hums a satisfied sound, pulling his hand away and saying, "Not judging you at all, Hawk. Just admiring."

The guy knows who I am. It shouldn't be a shock, but it is. Or maybe that isn't what was shocking, but instead the way he said my name. Raspy. Sultry.

Is this guy trying to get in my pants? What the fuck is happening here?

"Are you just going to stand there and watch me all night?" I bite out.

He's silent for a moment, then says, "I've considered it."

"And what did you come up with?"

"After thinking long and hard about what to do with you, I've decided we're going to play a game."

"A game?" I ask in disbelief. "Okay, Jigsaw. But it seems I'm at a disadvantage."

"You were at a disadvantage the moment you were born." Uh, okay. Whatever the fuck that means. I don't have time to think about it because he adds, "And even more so when you chose to come after me."

That rocks something in my brain. A memory. Something just out of reach. I decided to go after him? What was the last job I was on? I have memories but no sense of time. Everything is jumbled.

"Excuse the blow to your ego, but who are you, exactly?"

He huffs a sigh, saying, "The ketamine fucks with your memory. I may have given you a little too much. Sorry about that. I've never used it on a man so big before."

The way he says man so big almost sounds sexual. Like he's thrilled about it. First my name comes out of his mouth all sexually, and now this?

Please god, don't let this be a psycho stalker who is going to rape me. Please. Please.

"That didn't answer my question," I say.

The room falls silent again. I hear nothing but the whooshing of blood in my ears. Until he takes a step to my left, then another and another until he's standing at eleven o'clock. I look up… up… and up. Sure, I'm sitting, but he is a fucking giant. And he commented on me being big? This guy is like Bigfoot. He could actually be Bigfoot. Kind of looks like him, with all the hair and shit. He has to be at least 6'5", maybe taller. 300 pounds easily. Long dark hair that's pulled back in a thick, messy bun. Shorter wavy strands are loose from the band, falling around his face that's sporting a thick but neat beard. His eyes are dark, so dark they're almost black. Full pale pink lips, slightly crooked nose. The guy's arms are as thick as a normal person's thighs, and his forearms? The last thing I want this guy doing is punching me, that's for sure.

Black jeans cover his tree-trunk legs. His black t-shirt is tight around his biceps, shoulders, and chest, but slightly loose around his tapered waist. Expensive combat boots are on his feet.

Tattoos snake up his hands and forearms, disappearing under his shirt but popping out around his neck. There isn't a single ounce of color in them. Letters are across his knuckles but they don't spell anything. I make out A, B, C, D, E, F, G. Maybe the guy has a hard on for the alphabet.

Hard on? Do I want to imagine the size of his dick?

No, Justin. No you do not, you sick fuck.

He's not even close to being my type, but that isn't stopping my heart from pounding at the sight of him, and thoughts of his dick crossing my mind even though it's the last thing I should be thinking about. I'm not about to become some helpless Stockholm syndrome victim, so I pull my gaze away and instead focus on the desk in front of me.

"Figure out who I am yet?" he asks. The smugness in his tone is clear.

My mouth goes dry as that voice comes out of those lips. There is nothing traditionally handsome about this man. He looks like a cross between a mountain man and a yeti. Only he smells really good, and my body is reacting to him like he's Henry Cavill as Geralt.

He crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at me with a smirk.

I blink and snap myself out of it. I don't care if this man was Henry Cavill, he took me, and for that he can go fuck himself.

"Nope," I taunt.

And it's true. I would definitely remember this guy had I seen him before.

He leans down, getting eye level. His masculine, cedar scent invades my nose, and I hold my breath.

His eyes narrow, and his gaze turns scrutinizing.

"You feeling any dizziness? Headache? Nausea?"

"What are you a doctor now?" I snap.

"I'm a lot of things. Answer the question."

"No. No. And no."

Not sure why I answer him. There's a weird impulse to do as he says. I'll chalk it up to wanting to get out of here alive.

He leans closer and I suck in a breath. His dark eyes hold mine and then he smiles. A gorgeous grin that doesn't fit his rugged stature in any fucking way. A smile that pulls all the air from my lungs for no good reason. All the hard features on his face soften. There's not a single intimidating thing about him right this second.

How the fuck is that possible?

"Good," he says, not moving an inch. "I'd hate for there to be permanent damage. This is going to be more fun than I thought."

He lifts his giant hands, that look about the size of a grizzly's, and grips my shirt beneath my left pec to tear it open.

"What the fuck," I growl, staring down at what he's doing.

Bigfoot reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a switchblade. The sight of it, though small, has panic flooding me at an all-time high. I'm tied to a chair, for fuck's sake, and even a toothpick could do damage if it were inserted in the right places.

"Look, you really don't have to ki—" My words cut off when he brings the knife to my skin and slices. He doesn't stab me, thank god, but it hurts like a bitch! I shout inaudible sounds as pain lances through me. My body jerks instinctively, instantly breaking into a sweat. This psycho makes a few slices, like he's carving a picture into me. I'm grateful he isn't killing me, but damn, he needs to stop.

"What are you doing!" I growl, panting through the pain and fighting my binds. It isn't the worst pain I've endured, but it doesn't feel good. And who knows what his crazy ass is doing?

"If you hold still, it'll come out better," he says simply, his brows pinching as he focuses on my skin.

"Come out better? What the fuck are you doing!"

I wiggle against the restraints, but it does absolutely nothing. He laughs as warm blood dribbles down my side. After what feels like forever, the carving stops and he straightens. My ribs are burning, the slices stinging fiercely. I glance down, but all I can make out is bloody lines.

"Here's how this game is going to go," he says, flipping the switchblade closed and putting it in his pocket with my blood still on it. "Every time I catch you, I'll add another letter of my name. And when the last letter is there, I won't let you go."

He steps back, his face stoic. I gape, wondering if he's fucking with me.

"What kind of game is that?" I shout, when he does nothing to make me think he's kidding.

All he does is laugh as he moves past me. My mouth opens to scream at him, but he loosens my hands from the bindings, then leans by my ear and whispers, "If you're as good as you think, you'll get out of the rest of the bindings. Game on, little birdy."

His footsteps sound again. This time as he leaves the room.

"Wait!" I scream. "What the fuck is your name?"

I jerk in the chair, trying to get out. His footsteps get quieter until they disappear. A door closes somewhere in the distance, and I'm left here, panting, bleeding, and fucking confused.

What kind of sick fuck is this guy?

I look down but can't see what he put into my skin to even get a hint as to what his name is. Is it something short like Al? Or is it something long like Frankenstein? Yanking on the binds, I bring my attention to getting out of here before I bleed out.

Who the fuck is this guy, and what the hell does he want with me?