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“Should we do her unconscious? She seems like she might be a delicate precious one, lots of screaming.”

The tears are streaming down my face, and my brain is completely frozen.

All the words I’ve learned my entire life are lost to me, unable to make the trip to my mouth.

Not that I think these guys can be persuaded.

I don’t even have the lure of money anymore.

There is no “My father can pay you anything you want” to fall back on.

I think I have a coupon in my bag for a free game of Skee-Ball at a closed arcade. Probably that won’t save me.

Then as if life hadn’t gotten bad enough for me, a third guy shows up in the mouth of the alley.

“Save some of that tender meat for me,” he says. His voice is a warm dark gravel. It’s so alluring that his prey probably just walk right up to him—a lamb desperate for the wolf to feast.

I look up to see… well given my current circumstances, I don’t want to say hot .

Is he their leader? I don’t know. The guy is tall—over six feet.

And broad. The small burst of light from the only street lamp in the area reveals a black snake tattoo.

It looks like it’s slithering up the side of his neck.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and what look like work boots.

Tattoos cover his arms and hands as well, and there’s a wicked looking scar on the side of his face.

I know I’m in real danger here, and he looks like every woman-in-peril movie nightmare come to life, but he is still so unbelievably good looking somehow that I think my brain short circuits.

He has a strong jaw, olive skin, dark hair.

His eyes are dark swirling pits I could probably get lost and die in. He looks Italian.

I look back to the skeevy too-skinny guys pinning me against the wall. I have a moment of absolute hysteria where my mind hopes this new guy is the leader and that he lays claim to me .

Okay, that’s it. No more of the books I’ve been reading for me. Do I really think getting raped and possibly murdered by a ‘hotter guy’ is going to make any of this better?

“Get lost, motherfucker, we found her. She’s ours.”

I feel like a half-eaten cheeseburger a homeless man found in a dumpster right now.

“That’s not how any of this works,” the tattooed guy says. He pulls out a switchblade and I hear the snick as it flips open, the blade glinting in the same light that revealed his snake tattoo.

What happens next happens so fast I can barely keep up.

The guy that had me pinned to the wall moves as though he’s going to taze the tattooed guy, but tattoo guy does this spin kick and knocks it out of his hand like he spent the last nine years training in martial arts on a secret island somewhere.

He grabs the guy by the hair and pulls him back.

He’s just about to strike with the knife, to slit this guy’s throat, to murder him right in front of me.

Then his eyes meet mine as though just remembering I’m here.

He decides instead to knock the guy unconscious.

He starts to go after the second guy, but the second guy runs. He lets him go.

And now it’s just me and tattoo guy, and suddenly my insane thoughts about wanting him to lay some claim to protect me from the other two has flown out the window because now he’s the new threat.

His first words when he showed up did seem to indicate he was here for the same reason they were, so I shouldn’t get too excited that I have a savior .

No, I most likely only have a less visually repulsive attacker, and given his casual way with violence, he probably won’t let me live long enough to be traumatized by any of this when he’s done with me.

He steps over the unconscious guy. He’s still holding the knife, and I wonder if it was always intended for me.

“Please…” I say, my words finally working again.

I feel completely consumed by his dark eyes as he drinks me in, deciding my fate, because he is deciding, and I know that there are no words that will alter whatever his decision is.

He’s too close to me. I can smell his cologne.

It smells woody and musky and somehow green, like rolling landscapes in some fairytale land…

and it smells expensive. Who is this guy?

He takes another step toward me. I stop breathing when he touches my cheek with the back of his free hand.

He is so warm and solid, and I’m torn between the terror of what he might do to me, and the overwhelming urge to just sag against his warm body and cry until there are no tears left.

I feel one of these tears start to slide down my cheek, but his hand stops it.

“Shhhh,” he says.

Finally, after what feels like the same length of time I’ve already been alive in this world, he closes the knife and puts it back in his pocket. A long slow breath spirals out of me now that at least that one threat has been removed.

Then he takes a step back and gestures toward the mouth of the alley. It’s an unspoken ‘You’re free to go.’ But I feel like he’s still too close, like I can barely squeeze past him to freedom, or like it’s some kind of trap.

There is this psychotic part of me that feels rejected right now. If I get out of this alive I’m burning every wildly inappropriate romance novel I own. Clearly my relationship with reality is on shaky ground. And bad boys never turn into good men.

I’ve just reached the mouth of the alley when I feel a strong hand clamp on my arm. I let out a cry. Did he change his mind? Was he trying to be the hero, and then found that he just couldn’t do it?

I turn back to look at him, pleading with my eyes. Just please let me go. Just let me live until tomorrow.

“How are you getting home?”

I just slow blink at him because that can’t be what he just said. But he waits expectantly for my answer.

“Um,” I clear my suddenly croaky throat. “I was going to call somebody.” If I still have enough cell phone battery to make the call.

He shakes his head. “No. I’ll drive you.” He pulls out a key fob and there is a double beep as lights flash on a black luxury SUV not far from us.

I slowly start to back away as if I’m trying not to spook him.

“That’s, okay. You’ve done enough. Uh, thank you,” I say.

It feels awkward thanking this guy for saving my life when I know for a fact he was contemplating whether he should commit a felony once he had me all to himself.

The better angels of his nature seem to have won, but I’m not sure how close that fight was, or if his demons are asking for a rematch right now.

Either way, for all my painfully stupid choices tonight, everybody knows that you never let them take you to a second location.

“I’ll drive you home,” he repeats. It’s not a question or a suggestion. It’s a command.

I shake my head. “Please… just go.” I feel my lip starting to tremble again. Am I a mouse he’s playing with? Did he just bat me away to make me think I had some hope here?

“Get in the car.”

Another command.

I shake my head, turn, and run. But he’s too fast. He catches me before I’ve gone even a block. His arms come around my body and lift me up into the air as I wildly kick out.

“Please, no. Please… please let me go! Don’t do this… please…” My voice gets more panicked and hysterical with every second that passes.

He clamps a hand over my mouth to shut me up and carries me to the passenger side of the SUV. He carries me like I weigh nothing, and despite the awkward way he’s holding me, his grip never falters.

I think about biting down on his hand, but I’m too afraid of what he’d do to me in retaliation. He opens the door and shoves me inside then locks me in. I jiggle the handle, but he’s put the child locks on. That key fob is the only way the door unlocks at this point.

He gets into the driver’s side and starts the car.

“Please… my dad can give you money,” I say, even though I know it’s a lie.

He snorts, like he knows it’s a lie, too.

Right on cue, a sudden downpour of rain starts. He turns on the windshield wipers.

“You cold?” he asks as he pulls out onto the road.

I realize suddenly that I’m shivering. I’m not sure if it’s because March is still pretty cold in the city or if it’s the fear of where he’s taking me, but I nod.

I shrink back when his hand moves toward me, but he’s just turning on the heat. I’m captivated by the black tattoos on his fingers. They look like astrological symbols, but I can’t be sure.

I’ve never understood people who get finger tattoos, or neck tattoos…

or face tattoos. It just seems like really poor decision-making to me.

They’re tattoos that aren’t easily covered that mark you as lower class in society.

Sometimes wealthier people do have tattoos, sure, but you still don’t move within the same class circles if you have them visible right out there in the open.

It seems this guy’s good decision making abilities came back online just before marring his beautiful face with ink.

That snake was edging pretty close though, the hissing tongue flicking out to lick the flesh just under his ear.

And sure, the scar on his face should take away from his visceral beauty, but somehow it doesn’t.

“Where do you live?”

I just stare at him like he’s an alien. What does he mean where do I live? Isn’t he taking me to some heavily-wooded area to murder me right now?

I give him the address, and he puts it into the GPS.

This is the most uncomfortable car ride I have ever experienced.

If I thought he was too close in the alley, it’s a thousand times worse now.

His scent fills my nostrils… the scent of money…

wealth. The SUV is a Mercedes-Benz GLS-Class, not some average Soccer-Mom-Mobile.

And while he’s dressed casually, on closer inspection it’s clear he’s wearing one of those super-soft high end T-shirts that were about a hundred bucks each back when I could afford them.

I would think he was somebody’s driver if it weren’t for that cologne and the T-shirt a sick part of me wants to snuggle into right now.

What was he doing on this end of town? And why does a man with so much privilege and comfort have so many tattoos?

We stop at a red light, and it feels like every other car in the world has ceased existing, or like everyone else’s car has somehow melted away in the rain. There is no one for me to signal to for help. But maybe he really is just taking me home.

Except that I told him where I live .

I try not to have a hysterical meltdown about this fact. Why wasn’t I smart enough to give him some other address? Then once he’d left me at some random house, I could have used the last bit of my cell phone battery and called for a ride. Why is my brain not working at all tonight?

The light holds forever, and the only sound is my breathing, my heartbeat, and the windshield wipers. He turns in his seat toward me, and I let out a shuddering breath as his hand slips underneath my hair, stroking the side of my throat.

I want to lean into his touch with the same intensity that I want to pull away. Really I just want to run screaming from this car into the rain like a crazy woman. I obviously am a crazy woman.

The light changes and he reluctantly pulls away. He doesn’t say a word to me the entire rest of the drive to my house. Finally, he pulls up in the driveway.

“Um, thank you,” I say, again. It takes everything in me not to finish that thought with “for not raping and murdering me.” Because that would seal the deal on my lost sanity.

Objectively this man didn’t hurt me—yet—but he’s just so terrifying—especially in a closed space.

And I know somehow that he’s a killer. Even if he didn’t kill in front of me tonight, I can’t shake the thought that he has killed.

He releases the child lock, and my hand goes for the door.

“Wait,” he says.

I knew my escape was too good to be true.

I sit and wait for whatever is coming next.

He retrieves a black umbrella from the back seat and opens his door to walk around to my side.

While he’s out there, I look in the back seat, but there’s only a black suit back there.

His? Suddenly I’m very inappropriately curious about what this guy looks like formal.

Does he cover the tattoos with makeup or leave them alone?

My door clicks open and he offers me his hand like a gentleman. Why is this dangerous man more well-mannered than Mike?

I feel the electric sizzle between us as I put my hand in his. Why is he so warm in this cold rain? When I’m out and under the umbrella, he drops my hand, and then he’s touching my lower back guiding me up the drive and up the steps to the front porch.

“W-what’s your name?” I ask when he turns to leave me under the safety of the porch.

I don’t know why I need to know this. I’m afraid because this violent stranger knows where I live now, and I’m afraid of what that could mean for the future.

What if he comes back for me later? I just need something to humanize him. A name. Anything.

He just chuckles, takes a long slow appraisal of me, and says, “I’ll see you around, cutie.”