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Hostage

The knife felt like an extension of my hand as I traced it across his unconscious chest, not yet breaking skin. Just a promise of what was to come.

My foolish mistake lay before me, wrists and ankles secured to the wrought iron frame of the bed with zip ties. The cabin’s dim light cast shadows across the striking planes of his face, making him look almost peaceful. Almost innocent.

What a fucking lie.

He was so damn beautiful, but the prettiest things were often fatal. That’s what Honey had been — beautiful and loyal and dead because of it. Because of him… and me.

I’d kept him sedated for the twelve-hour drive into the Ozarks, administering precise doses every four hours. Not enough to risk permanent damage, just enough to keep my betrayer contained while I transported him to this place I’d prepared months ago. Long before I ever set foot back in that clubhouse. Long before I confronted the demons of my past.

I’d planned for this possibility, in case I didn’t get gunned down by outlaw bikers—or if my bullet didn’t successfully penetrate their president’s skull. Failed revenge, now redirected.

His eyelids fluttered, muscles tensing beneath tanned skin. The last dose was wearing off.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” I whispered, pressing the flat of the blade against his scar—the one I gave him fifteen years ago—the jagged path cutting through his stubble like a lightning strike. “Time to play.”

He came to consciousness the way predators do—all at once, with no disorientation, eyes immediately focused and calculating. Those honey-colored eyes, so like his sister’s, swept the room, taking in details, assessing threats, looking for weaknesses. Finding none, they fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“Kitten.” His voice was hoarse from disuse but still sent electricity down my spine, unwanted and undeniable. “You’ve been busy.”

I leaned closer, pressing just hard enough with the knife to dent his skin without breaking it. The control felt intoxicating after so many years of having none. “You have no idea.”

“The drugs were a nice touch.” He tested the restraints with a subtle flex of his wrists, the plastic cutting into his skin. His face betrayed nothing when they didn’t budge. “I wondered why you went straight for the neck instead of something more… intimate.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and I wanted to carve the smirk off his face. “I learned from the best,” I replied, trailing the knife down to his throat, resting it against his throbbing pulse point. I could feel his heart beating against the steel. Steady. Unafraid. “Men who know just where to stick things to get the reaction they want.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed under the blade. “You planning to kill me, Naomi?”

“Eventually.” I watched his face for fear, felt a stab of disappointment when I saw none. “But not before we have our fun.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked—the only sign that he wasn’t completely in control. “And what kind of fun did you have in mind?”

The red kind.

I moved to the side table where I’d laid out my tools: antiseptic, gauze, a camera, a lighter, a rusty sewing needle and dental floss in case I got too overzealous, a tourniquet, and a syringe filled with the Hollow Kiss—the kind that would leave him helpless, unable to move, but feeling everything. Set out with care, the way a surgeon—or an executioner—would prepare. My hand trembled slightly as I arranged them. Not from fear, but anticipation. I’d dreamed of this moment for so long it hardly felt real.

“I was thinking about making some alterations,” I said, lifting his t-shirt to expose his perfectly sculpted, inked torso. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips, another reminder that even monsters could feel so human. “Something to remember me by.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, then a slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face. “You already gave me one souvenir, kitten.” He tilted his head to showcase the scar on his cheek. “Want to give me another?”

“No,” I said, the knife returning to hover over his chest. “I want to give you fifteen.”

Understanding dawned in those eyes, followed by something darker, hungrier. “One for each year.”

“One for each special scar they gave me while you were getting clean and building your empire.” I pressed the tip of the blade into his skin, just enough to draw a single drop of blood. “One for each time I begged for death while you collected your precious patches and sat on your throne.”

The blood welled, then rolled down his ribs like a teardrop, staining the sheets beneath him. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“They took me apart piece by piece, Jace.” My voice remained steady even as the memories clawed at my throat—hands holding me down, the stench of liquor and sweat, the click of a camera shutter. “They broke everything inside me and put it back together wrong.”

I leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “And now I’m going to do the same to you.”

He watched me with those predator eyes, unblinking, unafraid. “You think this is my first time being cut, kitten? You think pain scares me?”

“No,” I admitted, tracing the blade along one of his tattoos—a demon with Honey’s eyes that covered his right pectoral. The ink was beautiful, a tribute and a confession all at once. “I think indifference is what scares you. The thought that I could hurt you and feel nothing at all.”

A flash of something—not quite fear, but close—crossed his features before he masked it. His chest rose and fell more rapidly now, though his voice remained even. “You feel something for me. Otherwise, I’d be dead already.”

The truth in his words burned like acid in my veins. I did feel something. Hatred, yes, but also a sickening longing that fifteen years of torture hadn’t managed to extinguish. It was why I’d taken him rather than killing him. Why I’d brought him here rather than slitting his throat then leaving him bleeding out on that warehouse floor beside the bodies of the men who’d broken me.

“I feel something,” I agreed, the knife dipping to trace along his ribs where bone met muscle. “Let’s find out exactly what that is.”

I pressed down, slicing a clean three-inch line that mirrored the first scar they’d given me—a “greeting gift” from Spider, a welcome to hell. Every year after that first one he gave me what he called a special gift on the same day. Jace’s body tensed, muscles cording under my blade, veins standing out on his arms as he pulled against his restraints. But he made no sound.

Blood welled, bright and vital against his tanned skin, filling the groove I’d created before spilling over. “This one,” I said conversationally, watching the crimson trail, “was my introduction to pain. Did you know there are different kinds? Sharp pain, dull pain, burning pain.” I dabbed at the blood with gauze, the white turning red beneath my fingers. “They taught me to catalog it, to appreciate the nuances. A connoisseur of suffering.”

Jace’s eyes never left mine, not even when I reached for the antiseptic and poured it directly onto the wound. His only reaction was a slight flaring of his nostrils, the tendons in his neck standing out.

“They were very careful not to let us get infections,” I continued, setting the bottle down. The smell of it filled the cabin, clinical and sharp. “Dead girls don’t make money. And I made them a lot of money, Jace.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I was very… popular. Mostly because I refused to die. They said my screams were the prettiest… the flatterers.”

Something darkened in his expression then—a flash of genuine rage that transformed his face into something barely human. His wrists strained against the zip ties until I heard the plastic creak, until blood began to seep from where they cut into his skin.

“I should have slaughtered them slower,” he growled, the words scraping out of him like they’d been dragged over broken glass.

A laugh escaped me, hollow and harsh. “You killed four men. There were so damn many, Jace.” My voice cracked, the knife wavering in my hand. “Dozens and dozens who put their hands on me, who cut me, who—” I stopped, the words sticking in my throat like shards of glass.

His eyes softened fractionally, and somehow that was worse than his rage. “I know, kitten. I counted every one of them I found.”

The knife stilled against his skin. “Found?”

A dangerous smile spread across his face, showing teeth. Not the practiced charm he used on his club whores, but something feral. “You think I spent fifteen years just running my club? Selling guns and pushing product?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “No, kitten. I spent fifteen years hunting them. Every single one I could track down.”

The cabin seemed to tilt around me, the walls contracting. The knife faltered in my hand. “You’re lying.”

“Twelve.” He held my gaze, unblinking, voice pitched low and intimate. “That’s how many I found. Twelve men who admitted to touching you, hurting you.”

My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I thought it might break through. The room felt too hot, too small. “And what did you do to them?”

“The same thing they did to you,” he said simply, each word like a stone dropping into still water. “But I made sure they didn’t survive it.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t process what he was telling me. Twelve men. Twelve of my tormentors, dead by his hand. Their blood spilled for mine.

It changed nothing. And everything.

My fingers went numb. The knife clattered to the floor. I scrambled to retrieve it, my movements suddenly clumsy, uncoordinated. “Nice story,” I finally said, steadying the knife, forcing steel back into my voice. “But avenging the girl you damned doesn’t make you a hero, Jace.”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes following the blade as I positioned it for the next cut. “It makes me a monster, kitten. Just like you.”

The knife sliced again, this time along his collarbone, mirroring the second scar I’d received. This one had been deeper, more deliberate. A lesson in compliance. The lesson that taught me to smile when I wanted to scream.

Jace’s breath hitched, the only indication that he felt anything at all. But his eyes… his eyes blazed with something I couldn’t name. Something that made me want to run. Or lean closer.

Blood bloomed, bright and accusatory. I watched it run down his chest, mesmerized by the way it followed the contours of his muscles. So alive. So vital. So much like his sister’s had been that night in the bayou.

I forced the memory away, focusing instead on cleaning this new wound, my hands moving automatically through motions I’d performed on myself so many times.

“Feel better?” he asked, his voice rough but controlled.

“I’ll feel better after the next thirteen,” I replied, but my hand trembled slightly as I reached for the antiseptic again.

That’s when I noticed it—the unmistakable bulge beneath his jeans. My eyes snapped to his face in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Jace’s smile was slow, predatory, unapologetic. “Pain and pleasure were always close cousins for us, weren’t they, kitten? Or don’t you remember?”

Memories flooded back—his hand around my throat, teeth on my shoulder, the sweet sting of being taken hard enough to forget my own name. The way he’d make me beg for more, always more. The only time I ever felt alive.

“You’re a sick, twisted fuck,” I hissed, but heat bloomed traitorously between my thighs, a warmth I hadn’t felt since before they broke me.

“We both are,” he countered, his gaze dropping to my hardened nipples visible through my thin tank top. “That’s why we fit.”

I slapped him hard, the crack echoing through the cabin. His head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming on his cheek. For one breathless moment, I thought I’d gone too far.

But when he looked back at me, his pupils were blown wide with something that wasn’t anger. It was hunger.

“There she is,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “There’s my girl.”

I grabbed his jaw, fingers digging into the stubbled skin hard enough to bruise. “I’m not your anything.”

“Then why am I still breathing?” he challenged, voice low and dangerous. “Why bring me here if not to reclaim what was yours?”

“To make you suffer,” I spat, my face inches from his. “To make you feel what I felt.”

His smile was knowing, infuriating. “Keep telling yourself that, kitten.”

I flinched back, knife still in hand, suddenly uncertain. This wasn’t going according to plan. He was supposed to be afraid, or at least angry. Not… aroused. Not looking at me like he could devour me whole, zip ties be damned.

The control I’d felt moments before slipped through my fingers like smoke.

“You don’t control this,” I said, as much to myself as to him. “I do.”

“For now,” he agreed, too easily, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath his restraints. “So why don’t you continue my education? Show me what they did to you. All of it.”

I hesitated, the knife hovering inches from his skin. The third scar was lower, dangerously close to the waistband of his jeans. If I followed the pattern exactly…

“What’s wrong, kitten?” he taunted softly. “Losing your nerve?”

My eyes snapped to his. “I lost my nerve the day Spider put a shotgun to Honey’s face and pulled the trigger.” The words were acid on my tongue.

Something raw and agonized flashed across his features then, cracking the facade. For a moment—just a moment—I saw past the predator to the broken boy beneath. The one who’d lost his sister, too. “Then what are you waiting for?” he asked, voice ragged. “Make me pay for it.”

I placed the knife against his skin again, just above his hip bone where muscle met the V that disappeared beneath denim. The third cut would cross into dangerous territory—not immediately fatal, but with the potential for serious damage if I went too deep.

“They told me you arranged it,” I said quietly, watching his face for the lie I was certain would come. “That you sent them to scare her, to shut her up about the robbery.”

For the first time, genuine shock registered in his eyes. “What?”

“Spider. During one of our… sessions.” My mouth went dry at the memory—hands pinning me down, the wet sound of his breath in my ear. “He said you paid them to rough her up, to teach her a lesson. I guess I was his tip for a job well done.”

The knife dug in a little deeper, mirroring the searing pain that confession during my suffering had caused me. The betrayal that had burned hotter than any blade they’d used.

Jace strained against the zip ties, fury contorting his features. “He fucking lied.” The words exploded from him. “I would never— She was my sister, Naomi.” His chest heaved, blood from the earlier cuts smearing across his skin. “My sister. That motherfucker.”

The raw pain in his voice gave me pause. It sounded like truth. Felt like truth. But I’d been wrong before. Had put my faith in the wrong man once already.

“Then who?” I demanded, pressing the knife harder, drawing blood. “Who knew where we’d be that night? Who else could have told them?” In a bayou town full of Mayhem, there was no way Jackals just accidentally found us and murdered and took what they wanted. The only way that could happen, the only damn way was the man bleeding beneath my knife. Right?

His breathing was ragged now, whether from pain or emotion, I couldn’t tell. “I don’t know,” he said, the words torn from him. “I’ve spent fifteen years trying to figure that out.” His eyes locked with mine, raw and desperate. “Fifteen years wondering why they took you and not me.”

“Liar,” I hissed, the blade slicing deeper than I’d intended, my hand unsteady with doubt.

Jace’s back arched off the bed, a hiss escaping between clenched teeth. Blood flowed freely from the wound, more than from the previous cuts. I dropped the knife, pressing gauze against the gash.

“Shit,” I muttered, applying pressure. My hands were slick with his blood, warm and vital. “Shit, shit, shit.”

His laugh was strained, breathless. “Careful, kitten. You almost sound like you care.”

I glared at him, increasing the pressure deliberately. “I’m not done with you yet. Can’t have you bleeding out before I finish my masterpiece.”

“Of course not,” he agreed, his eyes fever-bright, voice tight with pain but somehow still amused. “We’re just getting started.”

Despite the blood, despite the pain, his arousal remained evident. The sick realization dawned that I’d given him exactly what he wanted—intimacy, albeit twisted and violent. I’d come here seeking vengeance and instead had given him connection. Touch. Precisely the things I’d been denying myself for the past year of sobriety and planning.

I stepped back, hands sticky with his blood, suddenly uncertain of everything. The walls of the cabin seemed to press in around me, suffocating.

“Rest,” I said coldly, tossing a clean towel onto his still-bleeding wound. “We’ll continue this later.”

As I turned to leave, his voice followed me, soft and knowing: “I’ll be right here, kitten. I’m not going anywhere.”

The threat in his promise was clear—not that he would escape, but that he wouldn’t. That he would stay, would take whatever I gave him, would twist it into something else entirely.

Would make me face the truth neither of us was ready to admit.

That for all our scars, all our rage, all our righteous vengeance, we were still bound by something darker than hatred. Something that had survived fifteen years of separation, of torture, of us both becoming something so wrong.

Something that neither of us knew how to kill.

I closed the door behind me, his blood still warm on my hands, and leaned against it, sliding down until I hit the floor. Through the solid wood, I could almost feel him waiting, patient as a stone.

Beautiful, terrible, and mine. No. Hell no, don’t think that.

Tomorrow, I would carve the fourth scar, and the fifth, until his body told the story of my suffering, until he carried the map of my pain on his skin the way I carried his darkness in my soul.

Until one of us broke.

Or until both of us did.