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I’m an alibi for a killer, but he demands so much more than my testimony.

I stumbled across something I wasn’t supposed to discover. I saw something I wasn’t meant to see, and now I’m an alibi for a killer.

He’s the most feared and powerful man in the New York underworld. I don’t have a choice but to do as he says.

But he commands so much more than just my testimony.

Grabbing her upper arm, I break her run.

The momentum flings her sideways, slamming her back against the wall.

A soft puff escapes her lips as the air is knocked from her lungs.

The strap of the bag is caught between my palm and her bicep, the buckle pressing into my flesh.

I’m on her in a blink, pinning her frame against the bricks while swinging the strap of her bag over my shoulder to free my hand.

My weight alone is enough to keep her in place, but the fingers I wrap around her throat and the tip of the knife I push against her belly are automatic reflexes that come from years of street fighting.

Like earlier, she freezes, her chin tipped up and the back of her head resting against the wall as she stares at me with wide, whisky-colored eyes.

The streetlight washes over her, illuminating her features.

From up close, I can make out the freckles on her nose and cheeks.

That waterfall of fiery curls frames a small oval face.

She’s a delicate, exotic creature, more beautiful than a fragile little winged fairy.

I catalog the visual clues with a quick, practiced glance.

Her shift dress and cardigan are humble.

The thread is cheap. The matching set reminds me of supermarket clothing, yet on her, it’s pretty.

Paired with ballerina style flats, she pulls off a cute look.

The soft soles of her shoes explain why I didn’t hear her coming. My senses are always sharp.

I home those senses in on her now, taking in every little detail.

She smells fresh, like someone who just stepped out of the shower.

Standing flush against her, the difference in our height is even more apparent.

Her chin barely reaches my collarbone. Her body is small and her bones are fragile.

Her life is vulnerable. I hold it in my hands.

The knowledge flows between us in a quiet stare, a myriad of emotions transmitted in the flash of a second without a single word spoken.

The pulse in her throat flutters under my palm.

The wild gallop of her heart penetrates my breastbone and echoes in my chest. In this moment, as I become the master of her fate, her heart beats only for me.

For the first time in my life, I know what it feels like to own a life.

It’s different than killing. Giving isn’t the same as taking.

The knowledge is intoxicating. It stalls me.

The rush goes straight to my head, and as I lean closer, trapping the blade between us, all the blood that pumps with something other than adrenaline through my veins goes straight to my cock.

I grow hard against her soft belly. She feels it. Her big, stunning eyes grow even rounder with the knowledge.

Fuck me.

Who would’ve guessed I’d be into this? I never realized I was such a twisted, kinky son of a bitch.

Then again, it’s the first time I hold a woman at knife point.

Although, it’s not the knife kink. It’s not the blade.

And it’s not her fear. Well, not only. It’s the control.

It’s knowing that in this well-lit corner of a dark street I am her god.

Whether she breathes or utters her last sound for me and for my ears alone is entirely at my whim.

She’s a clever girl. She reads me well. The realization dawns in her eyes as she watches me with terrified uncertainty.

I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy just for a moment, imagining how I’d make her kneel and worship her god.

I won’t have to wine and dine her. I won’t have to indulge in fruitless conversations.

I won’t have to meet her family and make promises I never intend to keep.

The best part is that I don’t have to trust her, because for as long as I live, I’ll never trust a woman again. All I have to do is command her.

That’s when I know.

I’m not going to kill her.