Page 7 of Dark Angel

A stifled chuckle tries to escape me. We're still holding hands. It's as if letting go would mean more than just physical separation. I release her hand as if it were a burning ember.

"Well, not this one," I retort. "Your name?"

"I'm Des?—"

I don't say a word, but my eyes convey the unspoken command.

With a sigh, she relents. "I'm Rayne Turner. I'm nobody, and apparently, now I'm your slave."

Her voice is so melodramatic that I can't hold back. For the first time in three years, I laugh—unrestrained, uninhibited. It's a sound I had almost forgotten, and it surprises even me. The absurdity of the situation washes over me like a cleansing tide. Yet, in that laughter, something shifts. A piece falls into place; one that I didn't know was missing. And I can't shake the feeling that my life—and hers—will never be the same.

4

RAYNE

He laughs, and something about it chips away at the weight I've been carrying on my shoulders. What's his deal, anyway? One minute I feel like prey, the next I’m feeling foolish for even trying to rattle him. But there's something about him—something that makes me want to know more. I threw myself at him and he didn’t bite, and that pisses me off. Who turns down a come-on like that? I bet if I was blond and blue-eyed he’d probably already be coming. But some part deep inside knows better, knows this man doesn’t give himself easily. His eyes dig into me, like he knows what I'm thinking, and it only makes me want to know what's locked up behind that tough exterior even more. It’s frustrating as hell. Is he gay or something? Nah, there's too much sexual tension in the air for that.

Look at him—T-shirt and jeans, work boots half-laced. He looks like he stepped out of a movie or something. Sure, he’s got that bad-boy vibe down to a science, but there’s more—like he's hurting but won't admit it. Cocky, but it feels like there’s a reason he's built these walls.

And God, those scars on his face—they make him real, not some poser. He's got that wolfish thing going on; the way he watches me makes me want to run and come closer at the same time. Those curls, man, they're just begging for my fingers. And don't get me started on the body—he's built, but not like a gym rat who’s overcompensating for something.

I know I should back off, keep my guard up, but something's pulling me in. My brain’s flashing warning signs, but there's this weird connection I can't ignore. It's messed up. I'm both drawn to him and want to push him away, and that's what scares the shit out of me.

A bulge in the front of his pants tells me he’s either huge or getting hard because of my stare. Humor sparkles in his eyes when our gazes meet again. The twisted thought of me across his lap sends a wild shiver through my body, igniting a fire deep in my belly. A warmth I’ve never felt before pulses between my legs. My ears flush as I imagine my bare bottom quivering beneath his punishing hand. How can I even consider something so perverted? Especially with a man who just kidnapped me. Is there something in me I refuse to accept?

Sex? It's always been a double-edged sword for me. It's not about intimacy or connection; it's a power play, a battlefield strewn with landmines from my past. Each one's left a mark, cut me deep. Yet I can’t let go of my certainty that it can be something good, something special with the right person. So, when this man—his smoldering stare inexplicably warming the cold recesses of my heart—looks at me, I’m thrown. A stupid flicker of hope ignites, daring me to dream that fairytales aren't just for little girls with untouched lives.

Yeah, this guy screams "creep"—no lie there. But some defiant part of me, maybe the one that's taken too many blows, tells me to stick around. His gaze is different; it's as if he's peeling back layers of me no one's dared to touch. My pulse races, not from fear but from some foreign kind of excitement. Is it the lingering effects of Viper's last punch? Because the heat rising in me is disturbingly new, and my gut’s telling me he's watching me from more corners than one.

When our eyes lock this time, it's like fucking fireworks. Bronze skies at twilight—that’s what I see. And there are those rare occasions when he lets down his guard, when he winks; he grins. And goddamn, my knees turn to Jell-O, and there's this electric warmth spreading like wildfire between my thighs.

He's onto me. I can see it in that arrogant half-smile of his.

He turns away, sauntering over to the window like he owns the horizon. My eyes narrow as I take in his sculpted back. Is he the game-changer, or am I just running on fumes of desperation? How can I know he won't be just another chapter in my ongoing tragedy? Should I feign weakness or not? That's always been my card, but this man, he's got a penetrating gaze, like he's seeing the real me and won’t accept anything less.

And damn, as much as I've grown numb to physical allure, I find myself soaking in the sight of him—every defined muscle and curve. A warmth I can't name kindles inside me. Usually, big guys set off every alarm, but this one, he makes me want something I can’t put my finger on.

Caught in my stare, he swivels, his eyebrows arching like he's just deciphered a complex equation. I avert my eyes, donning a mask of indifference. "Well?" He sounds as disoriented as I feel.

So he wants a trade-off—a quid pro quo of sorts, as if secrets are currency we can barter with. He thinks I'll crack first, spill my guts to appease him. Typical. But he hasn't fully read the room yet. I'm not as easy to break as he assumes.

He reclines on the couch, folding his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together. Dynamic energy and focus exude from every pore of his body. An artful stillness engulfs him as he holds my stare captive. “Your move.”

"What do you mean my move? You. Stole. Me. Presumably to be one of your nobody sluts you can fuck whenever you want." My fire mingles with a sliver of fragility, sharpening the edge of my voice.

The thread of humor vanishes and my brooding captor returns. “I didn’t steal you, I rescued you. Big difference. And all of my sluts, as you call them, are somebodies. I don’t do the nobody thing. Unlike your previous acquaintances, I don’t fuck anyone who isn’t willing. What about me makes you think I’m a predator?” His eyes bore into mine –– a predator assessing its prey.

My stomach churns at the thought of him with someone else. Panic claws at my throat when he demands an answer. I shake my head mutely, unable to even utter a word. He leans closer, and anger flashes in his eyes like flames dancing in the dark.

“Lots of people have sex slaves. It’s a huge business." The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. "And you rescued me for a reason. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

The scrutiny he gives me is unbearable as his gaze rakes over my body, making me squirm under his penetrating stare.

“Look, I’m not interested in you sexually, okay?” His fingers run through his golden-brown hair in frustration. “It’s my job to protect you and find out what you know about Viper’s operation.”

The pit in my stomach deepens, carved out by his words. He doesn't desire me. There's a flicker of relief, but it's quick to evaporate, leaving behind a sediment of shame.

"Alright, what do you want to know about Viper?" The sting to my pride flips my inner switch, or maybe it's the harsh slap of my current reality. Screw worrying about if he's into me; I should be figuring out how to use him to get out of this mess.

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