Page 4

M y eyes fly open at the sound of footsteps in my bedroom. Paralysis kicks in, and I’m frozen beneath the flat sheet.

I wait for another sound.

Nothing.

Slowly, I start breathing again, my muscles loosen, and I roll over to my back.

The fan on my dresser blows the sheet against my skin as I lie still, listening for any other noises.

Letting out a long breath, I convince myself it was nothing. Maybe the neighbors upstairs dropped something. A noise from the street outside. It could be anything.

Not every bump in the night means the DeAngelos’ enforcer is crawling through my window with his Glock and silencer aimed at my head. It could just as easily be a cat.

Relaxing back into my pillows, I try to force myself back to sleep. This whole thing is going to be over in a few days.

Once I hand over that drive, this whole nightmare will be over. Instead of fear and paranoia, I’ll be able to go back to eating ramen noodles and Rice-A-Roni for dinner.

Mira can come home.

It’s going to be fine.

Footsteps sound.

They’re definitely footsteps.

In the living room?

No, not in the apartment.

Please, not in the apartment.

Before I freeze up again, I slide out from beneath the sheet. I grab the knife I keep in the top drawer of my nightstand, right next to my vibrator, and pad across the room.

The door’s halfway open, so I can get a good view down the hall to the living room.

Absolute darkness.

Hyping myself up with deep breaths, I gear up for going out there.

Another footstep.

Or did a window close?

Using my bare foot, I nudge the door open enough for me to slide through. Mira’s bedroom door is still shut and across the hall, the bathroom door is closed. But did I shut it before I went to bed?

All this fear is muddling up my memory.

Slowly, I tiptoe down the hall. Each step makes my palm holding the knife sweat.

“Is someone there?” I call out, wincing at my own stupidity. If there is someone there, they’re not going to just announce themselves.

Yet I still wait a moment.

“Mira?” My voice wavers.

Nothing.

I haven’t heard from her in over a month; the possibility that she’s shown up in the middle of the night is pretty damn slim.

Once at the end of the hall, I lean toward the living room, trying to take a peek around the space. It’s quiet. The oscillating fan in the corner of the room blows the papers on the coffee table, rustling them. Could that be what I was hearing?

I step into the room.

Empty.

The kitchen is just off the living room. It only takes a few steps into the room to be able to see it’s empty as well.

I drop my hand to my side with a sigh. The stress is going to send me to an early grave if this keeps up.

Checking the front door once more to make sure it’s locked, I head back to my bed. There’s still time. Marco wouldn’t send anyone yet. He gave me another week.

If I don’t make this trade, though, then I’ll be having more than nightmares about what will happen to me.

Shoving my bedroom door open, a dark figure comes into view.

“Megan.” His voice rattles me. He’s standing in front of the window, shrouding his face in shadow.

I’m frozen again.

The knife!

With jerky movements, I raise my right hand with the knife, like I’m in a slasher movie and I’m going to end the monster terrifying the village.

“You’re going to hurt yourself with that.” He leans down and flicks on the little lamp on my nightstand.

Yellow lighting hits Alexander’s face as he stands to his full height.

“Put it down.” He nudges his chin toward the dresser next to me.

I look behind me, then at the bathroom door; it’s still closed.

“Where did you come from?” The living room had been empty. He would have had to pass me if he came from that direction to get into my bedroom.

“The knife, Megan.” He points a leather-covered finger at me. He’s covered in black from shoulder to toe.

No fingerprints left behind.

My throat swells.

“How did you get in here?” I ask, waving the knife again.

He sighs.

“I got lucky and came across your door.” The snark and the annoyance mingle together perfectly in his tone as he throws my own bullshit back at me.

He gives a pointed look at my hand. “Put it down or I’ll take it. And if I have to do that, it gets added to the list.”

“What list? Why are you here?” I ask, instead of doing what he says. He’s in my house uninvited, and I’m the one holding the knife. I don’t think he understands who has the upper hand here.

“Stubborn girl.” He’s at me in two long strides and before I can even blink, my wrist twists, pain shoots up my forearm, and the knife is gone.

“Ow!” I grab hold of my wrist and cradle it against me.

He has my knife and is inspecting it while frowning.

“This thing is useless.” He bends the tip of it with his thumb, then lets go. It probably is. I’ve never actually tried to use it before, and I got it from the secondhand store because it looked scary.

“What do you want?” I ask, moving back a step.

“You took something that belongs to me.” He slides over with me, staying right in front of me, giving me no room to run. “I want it back.”

Of course, he’d want it back, but I can’t give it to him. No matter what he threatens, it has to stay with me. I can’t keep Mira safe if he takes it.

“I did not. You took the box back.” I swallow around my lie as I tilt my head back to look into his dark eyes. His brow wrinkles with more annoyance.

“More lies.” His voice dips.

“I… what do you think I took? If you describe it, maybe I can tell you if I saw it.” I reach back like I’m going to lean against the dresser.

There’s almost always something littering the top of my dresser, a plate from a late-night snack, an old coffee mug, anything that might give a little weight that I can hit him over the head with.

He leans into me, bracing himself on the edge of the dresser at the same time as covering my hands with his.

“I’m not playing games with you. I’ve wasted enough time on you tonight. Give me back what you took and maybe you’ll have a chance at sitting sometime next week.” The threat, which definitely sounds closer to a vow, washes over me.

Between the growly way he says it, the smell of his aftershave, and the sexy way his eyes wrinkle as they bore into me, my insides catch fire.

Not the response he was looking for, I’m sure.

“I… I can’t,” I manage to get out, while trying to worm my hands out from beneath his. “Really. I can’t.”

“Why is that?” He lowers his face closer to mine. “Why can’t you give me what you stole? You haven’t given it to anyone yet. You haven’t left your apartment since you arrived home. And no one has been here to see you, so what excuse do you have?”

My throat dries.

Telling him won’t matter. He doesn’t exactly give off the hero vibe. There’s little chance that he’d climb a white horse and go off into battle with Marco DeAngelo to get me out of my mess.

“Please.”

His eyebrow arches.

“You really want to do this the hard way again, Megan?”

“No.” I shake my head, remembering how hard his hand was earlier. “I don’t want to do this any way.”

The left side of his mouth kicks up just a little, but it falls right back down again.

“I’m sure you don’t.” He stands up, letting my hands free. “But what you want isn’t my concern. You can either give it to me, or I’ll just have to find it myself.”

He looks around the room, where my unwashed laundry is piled up in front of the closet, and my washed, but unfolded laundry overflows my only laundry basket next to the mountain.

He yanks open the top dresser drawer, hitting my hip with the corner as he does so. I stare, dumbstruck, as he rifles through my panties and my socks.

“Hmm.” He lifts a pair of black lace panties I’d bought while dating Jerad, my ex-boyfriend, in hopes of getting his attention away from the video games he loved so much.

I snatch them from his fingers.

“I want you to leave.” There.

He huffs a laugh and shuts the dresser.

“I already told you what I thought about what you want.” He moves through my room, his booted feet making no sound against the ugly blue carpeting.

He yanks open the nightstand drawer where my knife came from.

Where my vibrator lives.

Mortification will kill me tonight, and I would deserve it.

“Just stop.”

He picks up the bullet and cocks an eyebrow as he brings it to his nose. Inhaling, his mouth spreads open into a knowing grin.

“I guess our meeting earlier left a bigger impression on you than I thought.” He drops the tattletale of a toy back into the drawer. I knew I should have gotten up right away to wash it instead of waiting until morning.

“I haven’t given you a second thought since I was dropped off,” I lie. He’s been all over my thoughts since I was driven away from Pulse.

“Another lie.” He shakes his head. “You know, it’s getting long.”

“What is?” I fold my arms over my chest. His eyes roam over me, lingering on my thighs. My positioning has raised my sleep shirt up, showing off the entire length of my legs.

“The list of reasons to punish you.” He rifles through the second drawer, ignoring the notepad and pens there, then goes to my closet.

“You’re wasting your time.” I stomp over to the closet and shove the door shut before he can get his hands on any of the hangers. It’s not even in there, but I’m not letting him go through my clothes so he can judge me.

“You really want to play that game?” His eyes narrow. “Because if we play it, you’re going to lose, and when you lose, I’m really going to enjoy the prize.”

My skin electrifies beneath his words. It’s like he’s threatening me and promising me all at the same time and it has completely confused my body.

“I’m not playing games. You need to leave.” I jerk my hand at the door.

His gaze skims over me, then follows my arm to the open bedroom door. A devious smile tugs on his lips.

“All right, Megan Reed. We’ll play your little game.” He steps closer to me, the toes of his boots resting just beside my bare toes on the carpet. “I will take five minutes. And if I find what I’m looking for, you lose. And if I can’t find it, I’ll leave.”

“Five minutes?” He’ll never find it, I’m sure of it. “And then you’ll leave?”

“You don’t want to know what my prize is if I win?” He tilts his head a little to the right.

“You’re not going to win, but sure, what’s your prize?”

“I get to see you on your hands and knees, naked, begging for a mercy I won’t grant. Because.” He runs the back of his leather-covered fingers along my jaw. “My prize is your tears.”

He’s a madman.

A rich, insanely handsome madman, but still, he’s completely off his rocker.

“Five minutes.” I barely get my voice to work. “Starting now.” I glance at the clock on my nightstand. Two fifteen.

He steps around me, walks out of the bedroom, and down the hall. I follow him, my heart racing right along with me.

Through the living room, then to the kitchen.

I stop in front of my couch.

He can’t possibly know.

How can he?

He’d been searching my bedroom, and then he just all of a sudden goes to the kitchen?

He’s playing with me.

He is fucking with me.

He opens the freezer, takes out the open bag of peas, reaches inside, and pulls out the little flash drive.

The flash drive I stole from the Volkov family.

The flash drive I need to exchange to save Mira’s life so she can stop hiding and come home.

“Look here, Megan.” He smiles. “I win.”