CHAPTER TWO

That fucking cocksucker.

Think he can mess with my girl? Call her a bitch?

Pistol-fucking-whip her?

I'd laugh at his audacity.

Except I'm way too enraged. Way too furious.

I'm goddamn blinded by my wrath. The red I'm seeing isn't a fucked-up shade of pink.

The crimson red blaring behind my eyes is the color of fire. Of violence. Of bloodshed. Getting redder by the second.

Watching Amara, my pet, falling in slow motion to the floor does that to me.

Her sweet yet crazy brown eyes hide behind her eyelids. Then her body hits the edge of her coffee table, making a noise I never want to hear again in my entire life.

Crack, followed by a thud as she hits the rug.

I don't leap to save her from the crash. She's a tough cookie, this one.

I have more important things to tend to.

I'm sure she'd want me to do the same. Well, I can't imagine she'd want what I'm about to give him. Amara's a little on the wild side, but blood and spilling guts and killing a person?

She could break up with me for ending someone's life.

What she doesn't know won't hurt her. Clearly, I'm not talking about cheating. There's no one else but her. No one else but the man who likes her and me.

No. There's no one else.

I'll have to act before she wakes up.

The lowlife who still has the nerve to stare down my pet doesn't hear me prowling behind him. I bet the fucker's hard from hurting her.

His erection won't last long.

Nor will his life.

Fuck handing him over to the police.

First, if they come, I'll never know who sent him—if someone sent him.

Second, calling the cops is a chicken-shit move. In my world, those who seem weak—those who don't attack first—get hurt.

Sometimes, they even lose their lives.

And I've never been one to be weak or hesitant.

My stepfather—Killian, since I stopped calling him Dad ages ago—knows that. Our hotel members know that.

That's why I'm an equal parts partner in managing Voltage. This isn't because of the underlying, unspoken tension between my stepdad and me. He didn't give me half of what's his because he looks at me that way. Because I had too before Amara came along.

This also isn't Killian pitying the newborn of the homeless woman he helped save years ago. He pitied my mother, sure. Killian was eighteen when he took us into his home. Couldn't stand the sight of a woman and her baby curled up, defenseless, in a dark, filthy corner in the streets of New York.

As the right hand of one of the notorious consiglieri of the underworld, Eduardo, Killian had the means to help us. And so he did. He didn't have to love my mom to marry her and adopt me. He was fueled by a sense of justice, and so he did just that.

But I'm not that baby anymore. Killian made me his partner because I'm family and because I've earned it.

His ruthless partner in literal crime.

The perfect man for the job of avenging Amara.

In three…

I sneak up behind the burglar. My fingers curl around the handle of the pocket knife I carry in my suit jacket everywhere. Cyclone is its name. That's right. I fucking named it. I'm nothing if not a professional.

Two…

The handle feels warm in my palm. The blade shines beneath the fluorescent lights when I unfold it.

One…

My rage is a roar as I watch the fucker leaning in to grab my pet's breast.

My breast.

Zero.

In a flash, I stab the guy in the back of the neck. The small, sharp blade goes right through. I smirk at how it sinks in so easily. The motherfucker's flesh is like butter for my sharpened Cyclone.

"Ahhh!" the man screams, reaching to his nape.

Trying to grab a hold of my knife.

"Not in this lifetime." With one hand on his slimy shoulder, I pull Cyclone out of him.

Blood spurts out of the piece of shit before me, running inside his shirt.

Useless sack of shit that he is, he screams louder.

Amara sighs in the background. Her eyes are closed, but she sighs.

She's alive, thank fuck.

Fortunately, Amara's only neighbor, Sookie, works at a strip club. She's far, far away. Won't be here to hear his pathetic whining. Won't call anyone over.

Yeah, we own a lot of cops and detectives. But there's always the chance of a straight cop showing up.

I don't plan on letting anyone spoil my fun. Or my interrogation.

His screams are louder when I stab him again in the same spot. The second time around, I'm far less merciful.

And I don't stop there. I slide my knife lower between his shoulder blades.

My blade slices through the man's shirt, exposing his pimpled back. I don't gag—hardly ever do. I enjoy the sight of his blood so goddamn much.

His spine doesn't get hurt in the process, obviously. Gotta keep the anonymous bastard awake and able to answer my questions.

He still screeches like the miserable loser he is. And I smile. My smirk widens into my signature, psychotic grin as I take my revenge.

That is until I reach his lower back. Out of fucking nowhere, the man turns quiet.

"I'm not done," I growl.

Other than his labored breaths, he says nothing.

"Goddammit." In a dumb, uncharacteristic move, I release my hold on him to lean over and check if his eyes are open.

Of course, he has to go and lose his balance. He's about to topple over onto the floor. His dead weight will land right on top of Amara. He'll crush my baby.

I'll never let that happen. As fast as humanly possible, I slip my pocket knife out of him while renewing my grip on his shoulder. I loop the other arm around the stranger's midriff, hauling him to my front.

"You're done hurting her, asshole," I hiss in his ear.

"Fuck off," he grits out, his voice laced with agony.

I'm not in a generous mood, so I deliver more pain. My dress shoe connects to the side of his ankle, twisting and crushing it beneath my weight.

His mouth resumes his useless screams.

"You're going to wake my sweet girl over here." I slam my hand on his repulsive mouth. "I can't have her witness our little game."

Can't allow her a glimpse into my world. I fell for Amara's unhinged side first. An adorable, crazy woman that's so much like me. The only girl who didn't flinch at my psycho smile that sends most people running for their lives.

But again, I'm sure that even my firecracker must have her limits.

Over the last six months, Amara Grace Carmichael hijacked my heart. She has no idea, but she has. She and Killian take up the entire space in my rotten chest, and I won't survive either of them leaving me.

I won't.

Amara sells flowers for a living, for fuck's sake. The furthest thing from the violence that bleeds into every part of my life.

The members of our hotel—the only ones who get to stay there—are nothing but criminals and lowlifes. Hitmen, drug dealers, serial killers, money launderers, politicians, and so forth. Then there's everyone who works for them such as their lawyers and accountants.

Amara knows shady people check in there. She just doesn't know it's what our operations are based on.

The burglar mumbles against my palm. He's more awake than before. Good. I need him to spill who he works for in case he came here to hurt me through Amara.

He'll scream the second I let go.

Years of hurting people have turned me into a creative, resourceful monster.

One second, I remove my hand from his mouth. Next, I slip my pocket knife into his gaping hole. I've been meaning to sink the blade into his palate. Unfortunately, for both of us, dipshit moved and the blade sliced into his tongue.

Blood gushes on my wrist, hot and thick.

Jesus, fucking tongues. Once they start bleeding, you can't stop them.

Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about some dick bleeding out. But he's moments from bleeding on top of Amara and her rug. So far, his back has bled onto the hardwood floor and my clothes, so that's fine. Easy to clean up.

Rugs or her body? Not so much.

"Come on, buddy." I drag him toward the doorway, careful with the knife buried in his tongue. "Slow and steady."

An inch to the left or the right, and he'll bleed out before I get to interrogate him. That can't happen. I have to find out what this guy's doing here. Who sent him. Who I have to kill. Or if he's a free agent.

Whatever it is, I have to find out. Have to rule out every other option before I kill him.

If he's here to hurt me through Amara, I have to know.

I've been so careful. Since the moment Amara and I started dating, I've been on edge. Constantly vigilant. Working hard on hiding the fact that we're dating for her sake. We've been staying in or hanging out where we won't stand out. I've been buying her coffee—fucking coffee—when all I've ever wanted was to pamper the shit out of my princess.

I could've too, if not for scumbags who might see my feelings for her as a weakness. Killian and I are the classic description of filthy rich. The rates we charge for a hotel membership and our other services line our pockets, and then some.

Still, I can't spoil Amara. Because of the company I keep.

One of these days, I'll tell her who and what I am. Then, she'll be aware of the dangers and I'll have someone on her all the fucking time. Watching her, tailing her, protecting her. For the time being, it's my secret. Mainly due to the fact I don't want her to run off screaming. I just don't know if she's ready to see that side of me yet.

So I hide the truth. Hide her.

At least I thought I had.

Time to find out.

"As I mentioned…" When we reach the door, I use one hand to slam it shut and lean my weight against it, taking the big fella with me. "You won't be troubling my Amara anymore."

He grunts, splattering blood over the front of his shirt. It hangs loose down his shoulders, exposing the pimples on his collarbone.

"Game time is over." The view of Amara lying there on the floor infuriates me. Snaps me back to the present moment, to why I'm doing this. "Who sent you?"

"Grgrgrgrgr." More blood spurts instead of answers.

Fuck, I should've aimed better.

Since his speaking abilities have been impaired, I don't get the answers I need. He growls, his eyes searching the room frantically for something or someone to save him.

Yeah, right.

I'm fighting against the rage consuming me. At him. At myself. At how I'm doing this instead of kissing Amara and waking her up with my dick in her ass. Fighting and losing.

"Who?" I remove my hand, the blade pulling out slowly from his tongue. I'm used to the scent of copper. Don't mind it. "You've reached the end of the road, you miserable piece of shit. Better give up whoever sent you. Maybe the bouncer in heaven will end up letting you in, you know? Good intentions and all that."

His sliced tongue rests on top of his bottom lip. Blood, blood, blood everywhere.

He gazes up and to the side, at me. Withholding the answers.

"Little piggy likes being punished." In goes the knife again, straight to his chest. "Who?"

He mumbles some incoherent shit. Finally, something that doesn't sound like grgrgrgrgr.

"Repeat that for me, sunshine?" To emphasize how serious I am, I twist the blade inside his chest.

"You weren't supposed to be here this early," he mumbles, spitting blood on my hand. At least, that's what I gather from his broken speech.

He's been fucking stalking her. Stalking us.

I don't mean to be late for our dates. In fact, I hate that I do. Running our type of hotel is more than a full-time job. Asserting our control and mediating between these assholes demands almost every one of my waking and sleeping hours.

If Kill and I aren't careful, they'll think they can take their resentment out on us. And that can never fucking happen.

Besides, this will be the last time I don't show up on time. Other than the fact that she's not staying here a day longer, I'll find a way to balance the two. She's been too considerate. Too accepting.

She won't have to. Never again.

I'll prove it to her.

When she wakes up.

The asshole in my grasp, however, doesn't deserve my sympathy.

He deserves nothing but my unrestrained wrath.

"I'm here now." I start swaying the knife in and out of him, basically fucking his chest with Cyclone. "Here to fuck Amara. The longer my cock isn't buried inside her, the worse I torture you. So why don't you do us a favor and tell me who sent you?"

He's quiet other than the spitting blood noises.

"Anyone tell you what pretty eyes you have?" The gleaming knife at his face is just the incentive he needs. "They are. They'll make such a great trophy on my wall."

"No one sent me." Blood spills down his chin and shirt. Fuck, I'll have a lot to clean up once my movers get rid of him. "No one, I found out who her parents were, and…"

Ah, yes. The bastards who want nothing to do with Amara.

He makes sense. Except I'm not sold. Maybe he's targeting her because her parents and sister live in one of the most secure skyscrapers in the city. Maybe he's here for Killian and me. I can't be sure.

"Hmph." Amara's sweet little body stirs.

I'm going to dig into who this man is and who paid him later.

Two pairs of booted feet thump on the stairs from the hall. My movers, Shawn and Lance. Once I heard the commotion inside Amara's apartment, I texted them my location. No extra explanation was needed. An address meant it was a sign for them to haul ass.

"You haven't been very helpful, have you?" I don't have time for his bullshit. "Goodbye, now."

"Wait, don't—"

The subtle knock on the door propels me to jam the knife deeper. I stab the burglar. Sink the knife as far as it'll go.

"Carter, it's us," Shawn, the father, announces.

I drive the knife up to the bastard's throat. "Be out in a second, honey."

"Okay," Lance answers, unaffected by my ecstatic tone.

Just one of the many benefits of a five-year-long working relationship with my vendors. They know me.

Back to the task at hand.

My grin widens as I slash through the guy's muscles, tendons, and flesh.

"Grgrgrgrgr."

Jesus fuck. Not that again.

"What was that, dear?" I pull the knife out and cut his throat horizontally. There's a bump in the road, the place where I cut him vertically. From there, it's smooth sailing. "I don't think I quite heard you."

"Gr…" is the last I hear of him.

In less than ten seconds, the room bathes in blessed silence. I reach into his pocket, pleased to find his irresponsible ass brought his wallet with him.

"Charlie Smith. Chuck, Chuck, Chuck. We'll find out who you are later." I press the man closer to my body as I swivel to open the door. "Trash."

A gray-haired older man and his blond son who weighs over two hundred pounds of pure muscle wait for me there.

"All yours." I push the lifeless body toward Shawn, standing in the doorway to hide Amara. "I hope it goes without saying, you two were never here."

"Never." Lance passes me one of my black suits, as per our work contract. His gaze moves to the floor and the puddle of blood at my feet. "Need help with that?"

"Nah, I'm good, thanks."

The less people around Amara—unless they're my stepdad—the better. Even more so considering she might stir from her forced slumber any moment now.

They start pushing the body into a floral leather bag to hide the fact they're carrying a body. Meanwhile, I hang my suit on the door handle, stripping the evidence off my body for them to burn.

After I'm in nothing but my black briefs, I hand them over the dirty clothes. The burglar is already crammed into the body bag, and I push a few hundred-dollar bills into Lance's hand.

Their retainer ensures they do their job. That they'll go the extra mile for us.

"Enjoy the rest of the evening." I salute them, shutting the door a second time today.

Finally, silence. No one here except Amara and me.

"Pet." Her nickname is barely a whisper on my lips as I squat down next to her. My knuckles graze her temple. It's a soft touch, unlike my rock-hard cock. "You know how I love to fuck your mouth while you're sleeping or make you come so hard that you wake up. So forgive me for this." I gesture toward the mess the asshole left behind. "I have some cleaning up to do."

I bend to brush my lips across her forehead. Sniffing her hair. Inhaling the jasmine scent of her shampoo.

"Later when you sleep at my place," I growl with a barely contained need, "I'll make it up to you. I'll pound into those plump, beautiful lips until you choke. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Hmph," is all she gives me.

Hmphis all the consent I'll ever need.