Page 1 of Hunted Temptation (Alpha Nights: Unlikely Heroes #4)

VAUGHN

THREE MONTHS AGO

I have a list that’s at least half a page long sitting in front of me. One name after another of men who clearly need to die. Slowly. Every single one of them. I know that Theron and the others want to drain their accounts. They want to do all this sneaky-ass shit, but I want to kill them.

I want to watch the life slowly leave their eyes.

It’s my therapy.

It’s the only way I can attempt to stay sane in this world, inside my own head. Watching people who deserve to die… die . Knowing that I couldn’t do shit to them back in the day, but I can now. I’m the one in charge. I’m the one in control—me.

Only me.

Not them.

Never them.

Never again.

I don’t even need to hear them beg for their lives or listen to their screams. I just want to watch them die. The visual is what I crave. Death is the only peace I can find when it comes to the dregs of the underworld.

Hell, most would probably consider me one of them, too, but I’m not. Sure, I’m a hired gun. I kill really fucking bad people, so I don’t hurt anyone else. I know that if I don’t, if I let everything bottle up inside me, I’m going to explode one day. This way, my eruptions are targeted.

I’m not from the underworld, though, not like that. My soul may be darkened, but it’s not black, and my heart is not full of evil. I don’t want to hurt any innocent people, just the ones who deserve it.

I’m full of anger.

Justifiable anger.

The desire to have complete control through pain is there. I know it is. I am not a monster, though. Taking my anger out on the bad guys seems like the best thing I can do to keep sane. To keep from losing myself to the anguish of my past.

I only take the jobs where I know the person deserves to die. Which sounds hypocritical, but I don’t give a shit. I’m a hypocrite, then. I’ve been through some of the worst things a person can go through, all the men of Securus have, and this is how I deal with it, how I deal with my internal shit.

This is how I cope. By killing the men who need to die and getting paid handsomely for it. An insurance policy that I quite enjoy watching grow. A once unknown little secret that is now beyond well-known.

Except this list.

This list is personal. I’m doing all of this as a favor, as therapy.

I won’t be making a dime off any kill I make for the time being.

Then again, I’ve made so much money doing this that I never have to work another day in my life.

I could give away my share of Securus and not even blink at the loss of net worth.

The first thing I do with this list is open the file that Lucille started on the Target. I’ve taken care of a few already, one in Miami and one in Rhode Island, but this one is a haul.

He’s in California.

I’m ready to go and take care of him there.

This is a bit different than the others.

He’s not a politician, doesn’t own a business or engage in any trade, domestic or otherwise, which has been the case for most of the men.

What he actually is—is terrifying. He’s the chief of police of a midsize town.

He’s corrupt.

He’s been trafficking girls on the side. Girls who, no doubt, are being manipulated into being trafficked and are scared shitless. He was on the thumb drive Nadine gave us—associated with her estranged husband and her.

Disgusting human .

Nadine is an angel of a woman, and to be used like that, to be treated that way…

He should die.

They all should die.

And they will—eventually. I’ll see to that. Happily. Gleefully even.

The chief of police’s offshore bank accounts have already been drained, along with his domestic ones. He may not even realize it yet, but he will. Yet it’s not enough. Taking his money isn’t enough. Leaving him destitute is not enough. Even getting him fired… it wouldn’t be enough.

I’m going to need to watch him bleed, and I’m going to need to be the person who ends his life. I am going to have to watch the life drain from his eyes and know that he’s gone and will never come back.

It must be me who does it, too. Nobody else can because nothing else matters to me more than watching him die, watching his life end. It’s going to give me the satisfaction I need in order to stay in control.

As I begin to read his file, I realize that I don’t just want it, I crave it. It is a need I can never simply let go of. I have to see it play out in front of me. I need to know that he is gone and will never hurt anyone else again.

Continuing to click through the file, I pause on the image of his daughter. Most of the people I take care of either have little kids, no kids, or grown kids. Seeing someone who does this shit with kids turns my stomach.

Would they want someone to do these things to their own children? Their own sons and daughters? I don’t understand how they can take themselves, their lives, out of the equation and not even think about it. That would be all I could think about if I had a child.

What if someone did this to them?

My eyes scan the image, and when my focus sharpens, it stops on the girl in the picture. Girl, woman, I don’t know. I hope she’s a woman because she’s stunning. Her eyes peer into my goddamn soul.

Gray and intense.

She’s tall and lithe, almost too thin. She’s got no tits, no hips. She’s almost too lean, as if she’s not getting enough food, but maybe it’s just because she’s so young.

Too fucking young.

Her legs are long and lean, her hair long and straight, almost to her waist. I want to learn more about her. I want to wrap her hair around my fist three or four times and hold her still while I fuck her.

I want to keep her.

Fuck .

Maybe I am one of them, because I know she’s young, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to be inside her.

I have never felt this way before, especially not from a picture.

I need to ignore her, rip that shit up, forget she exists.

And as I tell myself that, I slip the picture into the breast pocket of my shirt. Because I’m a sick fuck.

ELODIE

Closing my eyes, I let the sun soak into my skin, hopefully tanning me so I’m a shade closer to the perfect golden sheen that I want to achieve. I’ve never been someone who tans, but I’m preparing to go off to college, and I want to look my best.

Plus, being out here under the sun’s hot glare keeps me away from my father.

And I’ll do anything to stay away from that man.

That monster.

I stopped telling people when I was about ten years old that my father was a bad man. It doesn’t mean that it’s not true, because it is. I just stopped saying the words aloud because nobody ever believed me.

It didn’t matter who I told or what I said. Nobody believed a single word I said. So, I just gave up. I’m positive that he’s awful in probably more ways than I could ever imagine. And no matter how I tried to explain his horridness, I was ignored, because everyone loves him.

Everyone .

I’m the odd person out, and there’s no reason to try and show people something they refuse to see, refuse to accept.

At the time, he was a beloved lieutenant, and now he’s an even more beloved chief of police for our midsized California town. He is one of the most powerful men in town and makes sure to remind me of that often .

So I stay quiet because it’s pointless. It’s my goal to be gone soon, and I’m never looking back. Not for a second. Because nobody could ever imagine that he, the Chief Scoggins, could be anything but amazing.

He shows up to every community event, not to mention every single school event that I was or wasn’t part of. He has put his stamp on the community, and he loves every second of the admiration. He’s obsessed with the way people love him and the way he has them all fooled. He gets off on it.

I’ve hated every second of the farce.

Closing my eyes, I let the sun soak into my skin, hoping for that bronzy vibe to happen. Although I’m not sure why it would, since it’s never happened before. My peace and contentment don’t last long.

My father’s voice roars somewhere in the house. I can’t make out his words, but I can feel his rage from just a few feet away. No amount of walls or barriers could keep that from filling the atmosphere.

The back door slides open before I hear it slam shut.

The glass in the door rattles, and I wait for it to break into a million little shards, but it doesn’t.

He’s coming for me. Pushing myself up to sitting, I look over at him.

Watching him storm my way. I don’t bother trying to run.

Instead, I brace myself. He walks around the pool, then stops in front of me.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

I don’t bother acting like a smart-ass, even though it would be really easy, because it’s more than obvious what I’m doing. Instead, my eyes lower, and I focus on his shoes.

“I thought I would try and tan a little,” I murmur.

Speaking softly is the only way whatsoever that my father allows me to talk. Women shouldn’t say a word unless spoken to, and when they respond, it should always be gentle. Feminine and soft—always.

Sometimes, I just want to scream.

I never do.

“You look like a whore.”

I’m not surprised he said this. He likes to tell me that I look like a whore, that I act like a slut, that I’m the daughter of a dirty fucking whore.

He can and has called me every insult possible.

I’ve been a whore, a slut, a cunt, a piece of shit.

I’ve been lazy and no good, useless, just to name a few.

The ironic part is that people pay him to use me. So, I am all those things. The whore and slut ones, at least, but all by his doing. He’s made me this, molded and curated. But right now, he’s acting as if it’s something I’m doing. And I know I’m not in the wrong.

What has never been said to me is I love you . You’re beautiful , or you look pretty . And physical affection, that doesn’t exist, at least not in the way that is natural for a daughter and father.

My swimsuit isn’t overly sexy. It’s not a string bikini or anything.

The top is a strapless bandeau bikini top, but I wouldn’t ever wear it anywhere other than my backyard.

The bottoms ride a little low on my hips, but are full coverage for the back.

It doesn’t matter what I say or how I explain myself.

I will be wrong, and he will be right, so I don’t even bother trying.

“Get your ass up. You have work to do.”

I don’t want to do his work . I don’t want anything to do with him. In two months, I’m gone. I’m going to pack a bag and never look back. College waits for me. Deciding that a moment of defiance is worth his wrath, I dare to tell him no.

“Take a shower and put on the dress I’ve laid out. It’s going to be a busy night for you.”

“I don’t want to. I’m leaving for college in a few weeks, and I would like to have some peace before I go.”

It’s absolutely the wrong thing to say, and I know it the moment the words leave my mouth. I don’t apologize, though. If I do now, it’ll piss him off. He will want to make me apologize, and he will delight in it.

I try very hard to never mouth off, but I just wanted one afternoon of peace. I wanted to try to tan and relax, but I can’t even get that.

“Stand,” he demands, his voice low and grave.

I do as he orders, knowing that if I don’t, I’m going to have an even bigger punishment coming my way. I’ve already earned myself one. I don’t need it to get into any deeper shit than I’m already wading through.

“Go to your room. Wait for me.”

Dipping my chin, I look down at my feet. I know what he wants, and I know how my punishment is going to go. He’s in a mood, and I shouldn’t have said a word. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, but I don’t allow them to fall. I’ll never allow them to fall, at least not in front of him.

Slowly, I stand, then move toward the house. My legs feel like I’m walking through molasses. I’m not sure how long it takes me to reach my bedroom, but climbing the two sets of stairs feels like an eternity.

Once I’m inside, I wince at the sight of the dress on my bed. I guess I should be glad that he’s no longer picking out little girl baby doll dresses for me, at least at the moment... tomorrow might be another story.

But if he thought I looked like a whore in this bikini, I can’t imagine what he thinks I’m going to look like in a sheer tube dress, with only a pair of thong panties.

Wrinkling my nose, I wish I could burn the damn thing.

I wish I could box all the dresses up, from the first one to the last, and have a bonfire, but I already know that after tonight, I won’t ever see it again.

I don’t know what he does with them. I’ve never asked. But I can’t imagine it’s anything good.

I try to push that thought out of my head. In fact, I try to push all thoughts out of my head. When my bedroom door opens, I pinch my eyes closed and let out a long exhale as I feel my father approach me from behind.

“You like it when you piss me off, don’t you?” he asks, his voice full of faux saccharine.

“No, sir,” I whisper as I feel his hand press against the small of my back.

Keeping the tears from falling, I let myself disappear into the recesses of my mind. Hopefully, I can escape and won’t be brought back to this reality until after it’s finished, until he’s finished.

“Yes, you do. You’re a whore just like your mother. You love it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t try so fucking hard to piss me off so much.”

My mind goes blank. Darkness surrounds my vision. If he’s hurting my body, I wouldn’t even know. There is a void of nothingness. I’m in the void, surrounded by darkness. Standing in the middle of the void and looking around.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Help maybe? Serenity? Whatever it is, I won’t find it here. I’ll never find it here. This is about survival. And soon, so soon, I’ll be able to leave it all behind me.

Far, far behind.

I’m not sure how long I am in the void when I feel his mouth against the shell of my ear before he whispers, sending chills down my spine.

“You’re not going anywhere, Elodie.”