Page 36 of Inked Adonis

Nice suits and blacked-out cars and, like, champagne and caviar at galas! How fun!

Note to self: if I don’t get murdered and buried in a shallow grave, tell Hope that mafia guys aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

The sex was phenomenal.

The kidnapping? Not so much.

The SUV jerks to a stop. If it weren’t for my seatbelt, I’d be kissing the back of the front seat. Before I can catch my breath, Samuil’s out of the vehicle.

Then my door is torn open, and I’m staring directly into those suddenly soulless silver eyes.

“Get out.”

I move like I’m on autopilot. The idea to run doesn’t even occur to me. Where would I go that someone like Samuil wouldn’t find me? Inside a church, maybe, because I get the feeling he might get struck by lightning if he tried to follow me in there. Short of that, I have no options—and there aren’t any churches in sight.

So, with a gulp, I duck my head and follow him into the towering Gold Coast apartment building that I’ve only ever seen in photos of the skyline.

The lobby smells just like I thought it would: potpourri and tax evasion. Samuil punches in a code that he shields from me with one hand, summoning a private elevator. The interior is encasedin polished chrome, giving me a three-sixty view of myself, small and trembling, with walls of sunglassed muscle on either side.

The elevator rockets straight to the penthouse—surprise, surprise.

I have no more than a few seconds to look around the palatial apartment before I’m herded down a long hallway and into a room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the lake.

One step in, and the door clicks shut behind me. I don’t need to try the handle to know it’s locked.

I’m not sure why, but I feel vulnerable without Samuil next to me. It’s not as if he was on my side, but at least he was the devil I knew.

The man standing in front of me is a total stranger.

“You must be Nova Pierce.” He’s good-looking in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. Slightly shorter than Samuil, but his muscles have muscles. His biceps strain against his black t-shirt like they’re plotting an escape. These aren’t gym muscles—these are break-you-in-half muscles.

“Who are you?”

He smiles and gestures towards a suede couch. “Myles. Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’d rather not.”

“I just don’t want you to pass out,” he explains. “You look a little unsteady.”

“Being abducted in broad daylight can make a woman a little weak in the knees.”

He doesn’t deny my accusation. He doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest, actually. “Fair enough. You thirsty?”

Yes, actually.But I glare at him. “I don’t want a drink. What I want is to leave.”

“Sure, sure, we’ll get to that.” He ambles closer, looking casual as if that will disguise the way he’s cutting off my escape routes. “You just need to answer a few questions for me first.”

“I already answered all of Samuil’s questions. I have nothing more to add.” My knees wobble again, and I grudgingly lower myself onto the sofa. I’m hanging on by a thread here.

“Listen, I understand that this is overwhelming. I understand you want to leave.”

“Great. Glad we could see eye to eye. Easy solution: let me go.”

“Unfortunately,” he sighs, “it’s not that simple.”

“Abducting innocent women rarely is.”

He rakes a hand through his close-cropped crew cut. He’s not a bad-looking man, honestly—both in the “easy on the eyes” and “doesn’t seem like he’s actively interested in disemboweling me” versions of the phrase.

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