Your wrists ached from the rope—tied too tight, skin burning with every twist—but panic burned hotter. The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single lamp on the dresser. Not a basement, not a cellar—this was a bedroom. Clean, lived-in. Almost intimate, if not for the fact that you were the unwilling guest. And then there was him.

James.

Tall, all lean muscle and inked skin, tattoos curling over his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of a black tee stretched tight across his chest. His eyes were sharp, unsettling—like a wolf circling a wounded thing. You’d seen the blood on his hands. You’d seen what he’d done. And yet…

He was hot. Uncomfortably so.

So when he stepped into the room again, a bottle of water in one hand and a flicker of amusement in his eyes, survival instincts took a sharp left turn.

You tried your voice first. Sweet. Light. "You know... if you were going to tie me up, you could’ve at least bought me dinner first."

He paused.

Then smiled.

And it wasn’t the kind of smile killers gave before pulling the trigger. No—this was teasing, slow and hungry. “Dinner, huh?” he said, setting the bottle on the nightstand and walking toward you. “Cute. Thought you’d be screaming. Not flirting.”

“I thought you were gonna kill me,” you shot back, heart pounding so loud it blurred your words. “Figured I’d try the only weapon I’ve got left.”

His eyes swept over you, dark and deliberate. “That mouth of yours?”

You swallowed. “Among other things.”

He laughed—low, rough, dangerous. And then he was close. Too close. One hand rested beside your head on the wall, the other ghosted over your cheek, brushing a strand of hair away. You flinched, instinctual.

He tilted his head. “Relax. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd be bleeding already.”

His hand moved—traced your jaw, slow and possessive, before dipping to your collarbone. Then his lips followed. Heat bloomed across your skin as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, soft and terrifying. His breath was warm. His voice a whisper. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he murmured, “and even luckier I like pretty things that talk back.”

Your pulse was a runaway train. Fear tangled with something else. Something worse. Want.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, fingers dragging lightly down your thigh, dangerous in their gentleness. “Flirting your way out of this, huh?” he asked. “You sure that’s all you want?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t know—but because you weren’t sure what terrified you more:

The danger of him…

Or how much you wanted him anyway.