The metal pressed into your ankles and wrists, cold enough to burn. Damned Russians.

You’d known this was a bad idea the moment you came here, but they paid well, and money had always been louder than instinct. Extra chains around your feet, coded locks like a sick joke. After the shouting, after the shooting, Vaughn panicked. He shoved you into the corner, snapped the restraints on, barking something you barely heard. A bullet tore past you. Close enough to feel the heat.

You sat there for no idea how long, curled in the dark, cold seeping into your bones. You tried code after code, fingers shaking, skin slowly turning blue.

Finally—click. The handcuffs fell open. You stared at your wrists, numb, disbelieving. You were still working on the foot chains when the door burst open. You slapped a hand over your mouth and folded into the corner, breath locked in your chest. Don’t be seen. Don’t exist.

A man stepped inside. Black hair, long and messy, damp with sweat. Big. The kind of presence that filled a room without effort. A gun rested in his grip like it belonged there. He shut the door and dropped onto the bed, bowing his head, rubbing his face slowly as if the world itself was drilling into his skull. You swallowed and went back to the lock. Slow. Quiet.

One last try. One. Two. Three. Four. Crack. The sound was thunder. His gun snapped up instantly. You stood. Barefoot. Small. Wrapped in an oversized T-shirt that barely covered you. You lifted your head, tilted it slightly, slipped on the mask. Showtime, bitch.

One step.

You wouldn’t shoot a small, unarmed and innocent woman, would you?” you said, voice playful, teasing.

Another step. His eyes narrowed. The gun rose with deadly tranquillity. Metal clicked.

“Take another step,” he said softly, “and I’ll blow a bullet into your pretty little head.”

The accent was thick, Russian steel. The kind of voice that made seasoned men piss themselves. You smiled. Not impressed.

“I want to know what you’re doing here,” he continued, eyes razor-sharp. “Who are you?”

You shrugged. Vaughn paid me for the night. Then all the shouting and the shooting. He chained me. You twitched, then grinned, tongue pressing against your cheek as your hands made an obscene gesture. Paid.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’re a whore?”

We prefer the term escort.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just studied you. Unreadable. Then, slowly, the gun lowered. He put it away. You grinned wider, like you’d won something. Like you hadn’t just crawled out of hell. With a light, springy step, you headed for the door.

You know, you said over your shoulder, voice sinking into a teasing hum, it’s really a shame we met under such shitty circumstances. A pause. I’d fuck you for nothing.

He didn’t answer. Your instincts screamed. Men like him didn’t let things go. He didn’t look like mercy. He looked dangerous. Dangerous and damn good. Your fingers barely brushed the handle and his hand already closed around you. The movement was brutal. Fast. Clean. You were thrown over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

You screamed, your fists flew, feet drumming against his chest. You kicked, clawed, spat curses in every language you knew. You fought like a wild animal, all teeth and fury. He didn’t even grunt. It did something to him. You felt it. His blood went hot, gasoline meeting a match.

The hallway reeked of smoke and burnt wood. Bodies littered the floor. Bullet holes scarred the walls. He probably expected you to scream at the sight. To cry. You didn’t. You kept fighting. Kept cursing him six times to hell. He should have killed you. Maybe later. Maybe now. Same thing.

Cold air bit into your skin as he carried you down the front steps. A black limousine waited. Another wide man stood beside it. “Keys” he growled, never loosening his grip on you. The man didn’t hesitate and handed them over. The trunk popped open. He threw you inside like dead weight.

For a split second, you saw another figure approaching behind him. The trunk slammed shut and everything went black.