Every man who has ever seen my scars has asked questions. It’s only natural to be curious when someone has a word sliced into their skin to wonder how it came to be. After a while, I got good at covering them or would insist the lights stay off, but it got to the point I couldn’t rely on that to work. So I stopped having anything to do with men…actually, I stopped having anything to do with most people.
Trying to justify to my freshman year roommate why I had the word “THIEF” carved into my stomach was an uphill battle, and Betty never looked at me the same way again. She started hiding her belongings, labeling her milk, and when the option came up, she transferred rooms without looking back.
But that was a long time ago, and I made peace with the idea of being alone. And yet somehow, I find myself pressed between a hard brick wall and a ruthless serial killer. God, it even sounds insane to me.
His deep-blue eyes have somehow turned three shades darker. The heat from a few seconds ago is all but gone, and in its place is something else. A cocktail of anger and disgust.
My hands are still bound behind my back and scratch painfully against the wall, but I struggle regardless, desperately trying to break free of the binds so I can cover the scars I begged him not to look at.
“Clara,” he growls so deep it barely sounds like the man I’ve grown a little too comfortable with having around. He was stalking me, for God’s sake. He followed me. Put cameras in my apartment. And all the while, I was oblivious. I had no idea there was an invisible shadow in my life.
“Please, just let me go,” I plead, even if that’s the last thing I want right now. Because the reality is, he’s the only thing keeping me upright. His powerful body holds me in place as my knees tremble violently beneath me.
“Never.” The word rolls off his tongue with not a whisper of hesitation, and for the first time, I realize how fucked I am. A man like Tommy isn’t going to let me go. He’s made his mind up, and it doesn’t matter how hard I fight or how much I beg; this is happening whether I want it or not.
Uncontrollable tears roll down my cheeks as the reality of my situation crashes down on me until I can’t drag in a breath through the panic.
In the last twenty-four hours, my apartment has been broken into, my father has found me, I’ve shot a serial killer, and now I’m at his mercy. The quiet life I coveted for myself is gone, and despite my best efforts, my life is descending into chaos once again.
“Fawn,” Tommy’s voice penetrates the panic, but it does nothing to calm it. Or maybe it does, and the idea of that just makes me more anxious than I was before. “I need you to breathe for me, Clara.”
Concern etches into his dark features where the anger was a few moments ago. It looks out of place, but it does nothing to calm me because it doesn’t belong there. Worry doesn’t belong on the face of a killer, and certainly not worry for me.
“Clara,” he snaps.
Something about the command in his tone pulls my attention from the panic for just long enough for me to drag in a full breath. And then it’s his warm skin against mine, the way his hands hold me steady, how his eyes are locked with mine even though we’re both naked as the day we were born. Except neither of us has the same skin we did then. We’re both scarred in more ways than physically.
Tommy’s body is covered in scars and tattoos, a painting of a life as dark as the man’s soul, and even through the panic, I can’t ignore the hard lines of his body, the way his muscles ripple with barely controlled anger.
The bleeding isn’t slowing down, and I’m really starting to worry he might be losing too much blood, but there’s not an ounce of pain in his features. As if a gunshot wound is an everyday occurrence for him.
“Good girl,” he praises, moving one hand to my hip to hold me steady while the other moves toward the piece of skin I try not to look at. I can’t see it when I look down because my breasts are in the way, so the only time I’m forced to acknowledge its existence is when I look in the mirror.
His fingers are gentle, barely brushing across my stomach until they whisper over the letters that were so brutally carved into my flesh. He traces each letter with a fascination I wouldn’t expect from a man like him. But then again, the man in question has likely sliced up his fair share of victims. He’s just never seen those wounds scar over because he kills them long before any healing can occur.
“The final job you did for your father…” he trails off as if he doesn’t need the answer, but I give him one anyway.
“Yes,” I choke.
His eyes press closed and a feral sound crackles in the back of his throat. Is he mad at me? Is he angry that he missed this despite seemingly knowing everything there is to know about me?
“Who were they?” he growls. “I want names.”
I stare at him for long seconds as shock seeps through my veins, replacing the terror I’ve felt since I watched Tommy pack my belongings on the hidden cameras he has in my apartment. “Does it matter? It was a long time ago.”
“Yes, it matters,” he snaps. “No one hurts what belongs to me and lives.”
My mouth drops open, but nothing comes out because what the hell do you say to that? What do you say when a ruthless murderer claims you? When he wants to make the men who have haunted your nightmares pay.
“I need names, Clara.”
“I don’t know them,” I force out. “They worked for the Lombardi family in Florida. That’s all I know.”
His eyes snap up to mine and surprise flares to life. “Your father was trying to steal from the Lombardi family? He sent his daughter in to steal from one of the most savage men in the country?”
I nod slowly. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time. I didn’t ask questions. I was too focused on getting my last job done and then getting the hell out of dodge. It was stupid of me, just like so many other things I didn’t think through all those years ago. And apparently I learned nothing because somehow my father has found me, which means one of two things. Either he’s come to kill me, or he needs me to pull a job for him.
It’s just a question of where my loyalties lie.
