Page 3 of Cruel Master

He doesn't answer. His face doesn't even twitch. He doesn't look at me or make a sound.

Instead, he wordlessly scoops me up out of the back of the van and flings me over his shoulder like I'm nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

My world turns upside down, and my head spins with the sudden movement. When I can focus again, I'm staring at the back of his combat boots as he stalks over the pavement.

I can't see where we're going. Just the ground below me, but I see on the ground that’s dimly lit by solar lights that he's climbing stone steps.

I hear a door bang open heavily, and then the coolness of an air-conditioned space hits my warm skin. I almost sob at the loss of the outside humidity. I'm still freezing from the cold back of the van, so much so that the sticky mugginess of the outdoors felt good against my cold skin.

I struggle in the man's hold, but he has a firm grasp on me where his arm is banded around the backs of my thighs.

I don't pound against his chest for fear that would only anger him. Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t hurt him at all. It would only annoy him, much like a gnat buzzing around a horse's back.

Finally, we stop moving and I brace myself for the impact of him throwing me down. Isn't that what they always do on those murder movies?

Instead, I'm deposited on a plush couch—not exactly gently, but I'm not tossed haphazardly on it either. It's more like the way you set down something you don't want to break, yet it's not necessarily something that you hold any fondness for either.

My head is still spinning as I lift it and try to focus on my surroundings. “Please.” My voice comes out as a croak. “If you just let me go, I promise I'll never tell anyone. I'll never breathe a word of this.”

I start to tell him that I have a little sister, but then I think better of it and snap my mouth shut. I don't want to divulge any weaknesses or anything he can hold over my head. Isn't that what killers do? They find your weakness and then they use it to torture you or force you into compliance with their nefarious plans.

I certainly don't want to chance putting Gia in danger.

Oh god, Gia…

What is she doing right now? Is she still fast asleep in bed, completely unaware that I haven't come home yet? I hope she’s peacefully oblivious to my plight. My heart wrenches at the thought that when she wakes up in the morning, her entire world will be changed.

Just like mine.

Everything finally stops spinning, and I manage to focus. I don’t know what this asshole injected me with, but it did a number on my concentration.

The first thing I see is a vase of blue roses sitting on a mahogany fireplace. They’re the most unusual color. I’ve never seen blue roses in person before, and I can’t stop staring at them.

When I finally tear my eyes away from their unusual hue, I take in the room.

It’s massive and looks like some rich dude’s expensive study with all its dark wood. Not like I even know what a study looks like. I've never been in one. But I know what they're described like from the books I read growing up.

All I know is wherever the hell I am, it's expensive, and that confuses me even more because all of the stereotypes I have in my head about serial killers are dark basements and grimy surroundings—not somewhere that looks like something out of a high-class magazine.

I'm pretty sure my mouth falls open in shock as my eyes find the bookshelves that go all the way up to the ceiling.

The hardwood floor is overlaid with what I can only assume are fancy Persian rugs in intricate designs.

A movement to the right catches my eye, and I snap my head toward it, expecting to see the faux photographer who lured me here.

A startled gasp climbs out of my throat when I see someone else instead.

The man is tall and cuts an imposing figure in a black suit. Power radiates off him as he pulls a hand from his pocket and studies me with blue eyes that pierce me with their intensity.

His hair is dark as a raven’s wing. It’s stylishly disheveled the way a cover model’s on a GQ magazine would be.

His jawline is strong and hard, his lips full and sensuous. A light shadow of stubble lines his jaw, giving him a primal edge.

He’s darkly handsome—like Satan himself must have been.

My entire body starts trembling under his gaze.

Everything about the man screams danger.

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