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“A gun won’t do.”

A moan escapes me. Can’t hold it in. Can’t hold back the heat pooling between my thighs.

Two thick fingers slip inside my pussy. I gasp.

“God, you’re so wet for this.” He nips at my earlobe, curling his fingers to reach that—oh, fuck—spot. “Desperate for violence. For taking down the people who wronged you. Who wrong others.”

I’m melting for him. I’m a puddle at his feet. Can’t. Think.

“Fight me.” He drags his fingers out, slamming back into me with four fingers. “Fight. Me.”

James stretches me. Pushes me onto the couch. His fingers barrel pleasure upon pleasure onto me. Over and over and over.

My toes curl, and my breath is knocked from my lungs. I come, pulsating around his fingers.

I’m close to being lost to the sensations. To James’s ravenous eyes as he takes me in.

Close.

But then I think fast, twisting my head, clamping my teeth on his chin. My foot kicks his shin. I elbow his stomach.

The quick and sudden attack finally shocks him.

I don’t let go of his chin.

“Fuck,” he growls, eyes narrowed, lust and anger flashing in them. “That’s it.”

His momentary surprise is the only leverage I’ll have in this battle. He won’t let me have another one.

I’m quick to slip from beneath him and slide over to where he tossed the knife.

My ripped leggings, ankle cuff, and chain slow me down. I get there anyway.

My hand locks around the handle of the knife.

I toe off my leggings as fast as humanly possible so I won’t stumble on them.

Turn to face him and?—

“Come here.” James’s hand is demanding around mine. He’s trying to steal the knife, just as he did before. His gaze is dark. His other hand is a manacle around my throat, pinning me to the floor. He’s terrifyingly gorgeous. “That’s fucking better. What are you going to do about it? You’re trapped. Miserable. Overpowered. I can fuck you into the floor. Mark your pretty little cunt with my cum. Your ass too. I’ll have you however I want. Fight. Me.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Adrenaline shoots through my veins. The need to prove to him that I’m worthy of him is overwhelming.

The idea of taking down Oliver, the man who thrived on Baylor’s pain, that helps too.

I lift my head, biting his arm. He keeps holding on to my hand. Dips the knife another inch toward my face. I bite harder. Push back, as challenging as it is.

Twisting the knife toward his face is practically impossible.

So I do the only thing left for me to do.

While I don’t want to knee him in the balls—I love them—I have to. With what little space he’s left me, I do that.

“Jesus.” His lips twitch, and he pins me harder into the floor.

He’s busy protecting his cock, and I manage to spin the knife in his direction. Tear into his shirt, right where his collarbone is. Where I won’t cause him to bleed out or hurt a vital organ, no matter how hard I strike.

“Yes, fuck.” His blood drips on me. I taste him on my tongue. Moan at his feral glare. “That’s”—I slice deeper, moving the knife horizontally—“what I need from you. That’s my girl.”