Nowhe stands in the center of the rotting room.
Scanningthe space in a fluid motion, his dark eyes assess the mess.Hisgaze lands on the monitors before locking onto me.
Insteadof yelling or drawing a weapon, the tracker shuts the ruined door.Theaction plunges the room back into the semi-darkness of the screen glow.
"Putit down," he orders.Hisvoice rumbles like gravel shifting underground.
"Takeone more step andI’llburn your eye out,"Ithreaten.Myhand shakes.Myvoice holds steady.I’vedealt with digital monsters my whole life and can handle a flesh-and-blood one.
Hetilts his head.Hisjaw shifts, the muscles ticking under his skin. "You'rethe 'Ghostin theMachine.'Thehacker piggybacking on our encrypted comms."
"I'mthe one keeping your family from getting blown to bits by theCostacartel."Itighten my grip on the iron. "You'rewelcome, by the way."
Hetakes a step.
Ilunge.
Myfive-foot-four frame runs on caffeine.Hismassive build runs on violence.Lettinghim take me means theCostaswill killKevinjust to prove a point.
Iaim the glowing tip of the iron at his neck.
Thegiant moves faster than a man his size has any right to move.Steppinginside my guard, his leather-gloved hand snaps out and catches my wrist.Hisgrip acts as a concrete wall, halting my momentum.
"Badidea," he murmurs.
Itwist, trying to kick his knee, but he steps into me, using his weight to drive me backward.Myback hits the edge of my desk.Monitorswobble.Ahalf-empty can ofRedBulltips over, spilling sticky liquid onto the floor.
Heslams his hips into mine, the heavy weight of his tactical belt bruising my skin.Theimpact drives me back into the jaggededge of the desk, making me gasp as the wood bites into my lower back.Ican’t breathe.
Thesolid, lethal weight of him is suffocating.Coldpine and gun oil clinging to his leather cut hit my senses like a physical blow.Itisn’t just a smell; it’s a taste.Athick, primitive scent that feeds right into the base of my brain, overriding every survival instinctIhave left.
Ilook up.Hisface fills my entire visual field, a jagged landscape of violence and control.Darkstubble and a rugged beard frame a mouth that looks hard enough to shatter mine.Athin scar marks his left brow, while a deeper, jagged line tracks down past his right eye.Hiseyes are dark as obsidian, pulling me into a void where logic doesn't exist.
Heshifts his weight, the brutal pressure forcing my thighs to part.
Hedoesn't twist my wrist gently; he snaps it down with a strength that leaves no room for struggle.Myfingers splay, dropping the soldering iron.Itclatters to the wood, sizzling as it burns, but the sound is drowned out by the thunder of my own pulse.
Amassive, thick thigh so hard it feels made of iron rams between mine, forcing me wider.Hedoesn't just hold me; he claims the space between my legs, filling it completely.I’mutterly trapped, and my body, this disloyal, exhausted machine, betrays me with a sudden, pulsing heat at the center of my denim.
Hisweight is a promise of total annihilation.Hegrinds his hips once, a slow, deliberate marking of his territory that has me arching into him beforeIcan stop myself.
"Youhave fight in you," he rasps, his breath hot and smelling of coffee and adrenaline. "Good.You’regoing to need it."
"Getoff me,"Ibreathe, but my voice is a thin, shaky surrender.
Hisgaze drops to my mouth, and he grinds his heavy ridge against me again, slow and agonizingly firm.
"Makeme."Thetwo words rumble deep in his chest, a challenge and a promise that vibrates through my entire frame.
Hisintense stare lacks the cold detachment of a captor.Theman looks like he just found a prize he plans to keep.
"Iknow who you are.DanielGunnar, theTracker.Youclean up the messes for theGunnars."
Hiseyes narrow, the irises darkening to pitch black. "Youknow a lot for a tourist."
"I’ma necessity."Strugglingagainst his hold proves useless. "TheCostasare moving on theEasternCliffswith a shipment coming in tonight.Draggingme out of here meansIlose the trace."
Hefreezes. "TheEasternCliffs?"