SIX - Alana

SIX

Alana

Panic stifles the scream in my throat. This impossibly strong man has an arm around my legs as he jogs through what appears to be a storage area and kicks open a door. How could he murder the sweet waiter like that? The guy was just trying to help me.

Terror clogs my throat, but I keep my lips shut. The waiter's blood is on them and I don't want to taste the fresh liquid. Then we're barreling through the abusive rain. I'm tossed into the backseat of an SUV and I roll over, my shoulders hitting the far door. The murderer jumps inside. "Go," he snaps.

The driver punches the gas, and we speed down the alleyway. I scramble to sit up, trying to focus my eyes in the darkened interior. I futilely try to wipe the blood off my face. "Who are you?"

The man turns toward me. Everything inside me goes quiet before exploding tumultuously alive with raw terror. A jagged scar slashes from his forehead, through his left eyebrow, and across the bridge of his nose to the other cheekbone, and blood also dots his lower jaw. From the poor waiter.

The killer's mere presence is a warning as he takes up more than his fair share of the backseat. In contrast with the men in the bar I just left, he wears a rough black leather jacket, ripped and faded jeans, and battered but high-end combat boots. Rain dots his thick black hair, curling the mass beneath his ears. The breadth of his shoulders alone intimidates me, and that's before I notice more blood on his neck and the bruises on his knuckles.

So I turn, facing him, pulling one leg up on the seat in case I need to pivot on my knee and attack him. The difference in our sizes makes that idea stupid. But I know letting any kidnapper take me away from a public space is a death sentence.

"Who are you?" My voice trembles this time. His eyes are black with, I swear, flecks of silver. Not gold, not brown, not amber, but silver. I have never seen the color before, but I know those eyes. "You've been watching me." I flash back to the other night.

"You're very watchable," he says, his voice deep and rich like a Macallan Sherry Oak 18 Year Old scotch.

A chill snakes through me and I shiver. "Why did you kill that poor kid?" I whisper. This guy is big enough he could've just knocked out the waiter.

"He was in my way."

My stomach revolts and I wipe frantically at my lips.

"Stop it."

I stop. Hopefully the blood is off my mouth, at least. I can feel the stickiness on my shirt, soaking through to my bra. I don't want to die. "You don't know my father, but he won't pay a ransom." It's the truth and a fact that has been drummed into me since I was a little girl.

My kidnapper's eyes twinkle for a second as if I've amused him. If he doesn't want money, what does he want? Panic has me pushing away from him. "Just let me go." I reach behind my back for a door handle.

"That door doesn't open," the driver says, sounding bored, even though he's driving so fast the buildings on either side of the rainy night meld together.

I look again at the man who carried me so easily away from the building. "Did you plan this whole night? How many people just died?"

"You'd do better worrying about yourself than others right now," he says, losing the amusement.

I search for any sort of escape.

He settles his massive shoulders against his seat. "You should relax because we have a bit of a drive in front of us."

I focus on the scruff covering his jaw—his very angled, cut, and masculine jaw—with the waiter's blood down his neck. Surprising tears prick the back of my eyes.

All of a sudden, the driver yanks a phone to his ear and starts barking orders in Irish Gaelic. Something about three ports of entry and taking control of shipments. I taught myself Gaelic in order to read several histories about crystals . . . as well as poems. I enjoy Gaelic poems.

I love languages and I love to read, and many books aren't in English, so I set myself to learning several languages on my own years ago. For now, I try to comprehend.

My captor lifts his own phone to his ear, his voice a low rumble that licks across my skin with both fear and something else I can't identify. I tremble. What the heck is wrong with me? Did I hit my head? Am I suffering from some sort of nervous system malfunction from nearly being split in two by a bullet?

Why do my feet feel like they're falling asleep? Does fear do that?

Snapping out a bloodcurdling series of orders dealing with movement, timing, and sanctioned bloodshed, the dark-haired brute next to me ends his call and slaps his phone against his muscular thigh.

Yep. Short-circuited. "Listen," I say softly, scrambling again for a lever to open my door. Based on what I decipher from the calls, my captor is orchestrating strategic hits against the shipments of his rivals. There isn't a doubt in my mind that he's in the Irish mafia, which does not bode well for me. At all. The one good thing is that they have no idea I comprehend Gaelic. Most of the scary words, anyway. "It's obvious you two are busy, so how about I take off now?"

He turns toward me, lifting his head slightly with his nostrils flaring, as if catching some sort of scent.

There's nowhere for me to hide.

"Say something else," he orders. No man has ever looked at me like he's starving and I'm the perfect meal. Until now.

Air catches in my throat. I clear it. "Why?"

"Something sweet."

If he's trying to terrorize me, he's doing a good job. I try to firm my jaw and face him directly, but my lips tremble. I lick them and then wince at the taste of copper.

"Damn it." The driver swerves, one hand still on the phone at his ear. "Thorn? We should be at the port." He spits the words in English.

Thorn? As in Thorn Beathach? I gulp. "Um . . ."

"This is more important," Thorn growls. "The boys can handle the job."

My fear of the Irish mafia pales as reality slaps me upside the head. Hard. "You're Thorn Beathach?" I whisper, my heart clanging against my rib cage so fast my chest compresses. I hope I'm too young for a heart attack.

His lips part slightly. "Say my name again."

There is a reason Beathach has stayed out of the public eye: he's nuts—as well as being a cold-blooded killer. I can't find the door handle and start to babble, as is my defense mechanism when terrorized. "I seriously doubt your boys will succeed without you at the port, so how about you drop me off and go get your work done?" No doubt the job is illegal and I don't want to know anything more than what I just heard.

He breathes in as if he's breathing me.

His phone buzzes and he lifts it to his ear, instantly launching into a spate of Gaelic.

I have to get out of this vehicle before he wraps those humongous hands around my neck. If my door is locked, perhaps his is not. The guy is twice my size, if not more, and looks like solid head-to-toe muscle. But I know better than to let them take me to the woods or wherever they plan to kill me. So it's now or never.

When he turns to look out the window and issues even more orders, I find my chance. Taking a deep breath, I launch my body across the seat, elbow him hard in the throat and yank on his door handle. The door starts to open and my heart leaps into my throat at how fast the wet asphalt flies by. Doesn't matter. I have to jump.

Without seeming to move, Thorn manacles an arm across my waist, dumps me onto his hard-assed lap, and slams the door shut.

I jerk and look up, meeting the driver's gaze in the rearview mirror. "Fuck," he says, the tone almost admiring.

Sitting perfectly still, I try to calm my breathing, hunching in on myself to protect my face in case Thorn starts punching. My skirt has ridden up to my thighs, and the material is trapped beneath my rear, so I can't pull it down. Not only are Thorn's thighs hard, his entire body is warm. Hot, even. The heat seeps toward me, circling me hotter than any hellfire threat.

He finishes his call and places his phone on the armrest. "Look at me, princess."

I feverishly push against him, trying to retake my seat. His abs are rock hard and ripple beneath the T-shirt. His arm doesn't tighten but I'm held immobile. The arm is solid steel. Where is that knife of his? I almost whimper, reliving the murder of the waiter. So I turn, my breath catching at the raw heat in Thorn's eyes. Instinctively, I know that begging won't work with a monster like him. "Let me go."

"No." His gaze drops to my lips, and they swell. Or at least, they feel like they swell. None of this makes sense. He continues in that raw and now dominant tone. "I hadn't planned on establishing your rules until we arrive, but apparently I need to do so now."

Rules? My head jerks and my legs shake. "Rules? Before you kill me?"

He licks his bottom lip and lets out a soft hum. "I'm not going to kill you."

Oh, God. My insides feel hollow, but I can't ask the question—the one careening through my head. What are his plans? Instead, I focus on anything else. "Where are we going?" I ask, my butt feeling soft against his legs.

"My place."

"You're going to kill me at your house?" I lean in, studying his eyes. Clear pupils, no sign of being on drugs. Then I lose it, so much fear in my head all I can do is babble. "You know that's a mistake, right?"

One of his dark eyebrows rises. "Do tell."

My brain finally just explodes and my mouth takes over for my mind. "You know, DNA evidence—blood, saliva, tears, and all of that. If you're going to murder somebody, you want to do it far away from your house. Also, leave the murder weapon." Though, looking at him, I know he is the murder weapon.

He cocks his head and a glint of what I hope is humor flashes briefly in his eyes.

I take that as encouragement, my ears ringing. "Now that you know those facts, you should plan better. How about you let me off here, and I'll meet you near the Golden Gate Bridge next Saturday night? That way, there's nothing to connect us." I know it's stupid to hope he's that crazy, but it's all I have going for me right now.

"You promise you'll be there?" he asks.

I brighten, a sliver of hope cutting through my fear. "Absolutely."

His free hand settles across my throat, his long fingers wrapping all the way around to my nape. His massive paw is heavy and heated, and there is no doubt he can snap my neck in a second if he chooses.

I jolt, swallowing and then finding relief that I can swallow. But my breathing turns rapid and shallow, and I can't draw in enough oxygen to relieve my lungs.

He leans in and slightly squeezes, and my palms start to sweat, even through the chills attacking me. "That makes two rules of mine you've broken within ten minutes, Alana Beaumont. You break another one before we get home, and I'm going to flip you over and spank that perfect ass until you're screaming and the taste of honey is the only thing in my head."

The threat, from another man, would infuriate me. But this one? His hard and possessive tone paralyzes me. More tears fill my eyes. I can't move. He won't let me. "What do you want from me?"

"At the moment? Obedience." He glances at his buzzing phone.

"Bummer," I blather.

His gaze returns to me. "Excuse me?"

"There's a gene that creates a tendency to obey," I say, my head spinning. He's holding me too tightly for me to grasp the door handle again; I need to loosen his grip. "Researchers have identified it on the Y chromosome, which I do not have." I try to push away from him . . . but don't move an inch. His strength petrifies me. "But the good news is that learning to live with disappointment builds character. So with more disappointments like this, you should be a decent guy in about a millennium. I'm grateful to have started you on this journey."

His stare deepens and I want to blink but can't look away. "You have a sense of humor. I had not expected that."

I tremble. Somehow, I tear my gaze from his, looking down at his broad chest. "You have enough going on, Thorn. You don't want to start a war with my father." Is there a way to reason with him before he kills me? Or worse?

"I'm already in a war. Having another adversary doesn't change the chess board much," he counters.

I gulp. "Um, I don't understand the honey reference. How would, um, well, spanking me fill you with honey?" My butt clenches as I say the words and for a second it's a relief to concentrate on anything but that knife he must still have close. Perhaps if I understand his insanity, I can work with it.

"I have a form of Lexical-Gustatory Synesthesia," he murmurs.

What in the world? I've read about synesthesia but have never met anyone who has it.

He clears his throat. "It's a rare form of synesthesia where people's voices trigger certain tastes in my mouth. You're all honey, baby." He describes the condition as if I'm not smart or educated enough to know what it is. Oh, I get it. He thinks he knows me.

I look up. "You follow me on Aquarius Social."

He nods.

"And in real life." I know I've seen his eyes in the darkness before.

"Yes. You're an obsession."

Adrenaline shoots through my veins. "That's awfully honest." In fact, telling me about the synesthesia shows a level of trust that doesn't make sense.

"One of my rules," he says quietly. "Number one, actually. There will be no lies between us. Ever."

Between us? Just how long does he plan to keep me? So I violated his rule when I said I'd meet him at the bridge to die. "What other rule did I break?" I have to believe there will be a chance to escape if he lets me live long enough to do so.

He loosens his hold on my neck and swipes a callused thumb along my jawline. "We're traveling at a hundred miles an hour, and you tried to jump out of the vehicle. Rule number two is to stay out of danger. Period."

"You're all danger," I say without thinking.

His grin is quick and so fleeting I'd wonder if I saw it if my chest didn't heat quickly. "Smart girl."

Obviously he doesn't think that, which is good for me. Being underestimated can only help. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No."

I narrow my gaze, trying to read him, but it's like staring at a wall of slate. "I'm going to fight you."

"Good."

My vision tunnels in, darkening the interior of the shadow-filled vehicle. Then I waver, my head turning heavy. Shouldn't terror shoot adrenaline through my system? Why is my body shutting down? Is it a defense mechanism? "Why are you taking me?"

"I want you."

Simple words. Terrifying ones. I need to get my hands on that knife. "That's too bad."

"Is it?" He leans in, his lips brushing my neck.

My body performs a tremble head to toe. Confusion blankets me.

His hand rests on my bare thigh and heat flashes up to my core. "I'm thinking you like danger." His hot breath singes my throat, and my nipples harden against my flimsy tanktop. His chuckle, right against my skin, rumbles through my body. "Want me to prove it to you?" That heated palm slides up my leg, his fingers curling around my thigh.

"No," I squeak, partly because the driver is right there, and partly because I'm not sure what Thorn will find. My body is rioting.

He inhales deeply, his voice a dark whisper in my ear. "You're wet. We both know it." But his fingers don't move.

I look down at his bruised and cut knuckles. He didn't get those in the brief scuffle with the waiter. "Why are you bleeding?"

"Fought on the streets earlier."

Thorn Beathach fights on the streets? An odd hobby for a billionaire. "How many people have you killed tonight?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

"Tonight? Just five."

Oh. God.

Then his damaged hand slides up, and one finger flicks across my clit. Shock spirals through me along with electricity. A dark need. Heat bursts into the apples of my cheeks, and I duck my head, hating my body as much as him.

His chuckle moves his muscled abs against my flank.

I clench my bare thighs together and barely bite back a moan. "I would like to get off your lap now," I say primly. How is this possibly intriguing? What's wrong with me?

Thorn studies me. "Pity." Then he releases his hold, lifts me, and settles me safely back in my seat.

Shock catches me for a minute. Is he trying to keep me off-balance? My eyelids become heavy. Shockingly so. Coldness sweeps along me and I miss his heat as I yank my flimsy skirt down as far as possible, which isn't very damn far. There's only one reason he's kidnapped me. He doesn't need money, and he's already at war. "My family will come after you with everything we have."

His eyes actually burn through the darkness. "Let them come, as I love a good fight." He lowers his chin. "Besides. Your family has absolutely no idea where you are. Nobody does."