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“No, but he knows we’re here. Don’t worry, I’ll get him. The man’s going to wish he never set foot in New York.” Then he turns to me. “And you’re not going to be out of my sight.”

Oh boy.

It shouldn’t turn me on, his barbaric words. And the powerful killer at the heart of Callahan, one I’ve seen up close in action more than once, should shock and turn me off.

Especially this time when he thought he was alone, when he didn’t immediately notice me. Or maybe he did and he didn’t care. But this Callahan was dangerous, a killer with utterly no remorse.

I don’t think that he’d have let the man go, even if he told Callahan what he wanted.

But when he kissed me, it surpassed that very first meeting in the park, one I could have, if I wanted, passed off as an act of heroics. After all, he saved me.

Yes, and then killed a few more people.

Violence evidently turns me on.

His brand of violence, anyway.

And it shouldn’t.

“What is going on in that mind of yours, Lucie?” he asks as he strips down to his boxer briefs and goes into the bathroom, turning on the shower.

It doesn’t take me long to strip off the dress. And I follow him, not letting myself think, just… I don’t know.

Wanting him.

“That maybe something’s wrong with me,” I say.

He stops, his back to me, but his gaze is locked on my image in the bathroom mirror and I stare, too.

Not at him looking at me, but at the tattoos on his back. A warrior’s fist clenched, dripping blood. And the word “freedom” that runs along the bottom. Surrounding it are images: a Celtic cross, more writing in what I assume is Gaelic. Bloodiedimages and a small tree. All of it mixed in perfect, chaotic symbiosis.

Now my eyes drop down to his ass, tight in the black underwear. “I liked it.”

He turns. “Liked what, Lucie?”

“The violence.”

“No, you didn’t. I’m a fucking killer. There’s nothing but ambition and grudges and lack of conscience in me. You like that I’m nice to you. You like the attention. You like?—”

“You,” I whisper, pushing down my panties, aware I’m still in the heels. “I like you.”

“That’s fucking stupid. Don’t. You belong to me, Lucie. I’ll treat you right. I’ll keep you safe, but good? I’m not good. You’re the type who likes good, not violent cunts.”

I stalk up to him and shove him. “Don’t tell me what I like.”

“And don’t poke the fucking bear,” he says, sliding an arm around me. “Consequences.”

I tug at his underwear. “Maybe I want those consequences.”

His eyes narrow and he picks me up, carries me out of the bathroom, and throws me on the bed. “Maybe you don’t want your virginity.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“Then face your consequence, because once I take you, this ownership is complete. You’re mine. Always.”

Oh God. That shouldn’t sound good. I know it isn’t. I know the words are, at their core, terrifying, but right in this moment I don’t care. He pushes off his boxer briefs, and that thick, beautiful cock juts out, pierced, the end beaded with precum, just for me.

And he gets on the bed, pushing my legs apart as he settles in over me, up on his elbows. It’s a tease of his cock brushing me. It’s an electric live wire I’m up against and I’mhot, my flesh damp, every single nerve ending tuned into him.