Page 8 of Scarlet Mark
My heart threatened to beat out of my chest.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
What now?
Pull yourself together.
How?
You’ll get out of this. You always do. You’re a survivor.
But something about this man said very few survived him.
As if sensing my thoughts, he grinned. “Scared, Amara?” He nuzzled my cheek, causing me to flinch into the blade at my side. “You should be. You pissed off a very important person.” He pulled back slightly, tilting his head to the side. “Do you feel bad about it?”
His words ran hot through my thoughts, searing my insides.
He works for Malcom.
He found me.
I need to run.
I can’t—
“Silence?” The man beneath me tsked, his gaze holding a touch of disappointment. “And here I thought you were enjoying my brand of foreplay.” The sharp edge along my side sliced through the silk of my teddy, meeting my skin and sending a shiver of dread through me.
Fight!
Not yet.
I had an escape route.
Ialwaysdid.
But it required me to be lower, near the bottom of the couch where the safety buttons were located. This was my assigned room. I’d memorized every inch of it after my club mentor had given me the keys, saying no one else would ever use it apart from me and whomever I allowed inside. Two seconds was all I needed—
“You’ll never make it,” he said softly, the blade digging into my skin. “One wrong move and I’ll send this dagger directly into your heart. They’ll never save you in time. And I’ll be so disappointed, too, because you’re worth a lot more to me alive. But I’ll get paid either way.”
I swallowed, my heart beating a chaotic rhythm. I had not come this far only to be caught by this… this… “Who are you?” I asked, my raspy voice a harsh sound that I barely recognized. “You don’t work for Malcom.” I didn’t recognize him as one of my former fiancé’s henchmen.
“No, I don’t.” His dark brown irises—nearly black in the low lighting—glimmered with sinister intent. I’d been fooled by his profile and expensive suit, the elegant way he held himself. But a lethal essence lurked beneath his black clothing, his eyes holding the windows to his evil soul.
Why were these men always the ones I found most attractive?
A consequence of my upbringing—I didn’t know any better. My parents groomed me for this life, forced me into the arrangement with Malcom, and left me there to face a fate worse than death.
And now I sat astride a different sort of predator, one who told me with a glance that he was accustomed to hurting others. His threat was underlined in experience. If I moved in a way he didn’t like, he’d kill me. Of that I had no doubt.
How did I miss that when I entered the room?I read people for a living; it was the skill Malcom most adored about me—ifadoredwas even the right term. Maybefound most usefulwas a better description.
Regardless, I’d somehow missed this man’s deadly intent. All I’d seen was interest in his features, an interest I had wholeheartedly returned. Most of the clients in this club were all-right-looking, older, and into kinky shit that surpassed my comfort zone.
Mr. Bedivere had been a welcome surprise. I recognized the name immediately, aware of his family legacy. But the elusive billionaire heir rarely allowed himself to be photographed in public.
And now I wondered if this man even was a Bedivere or if he’d stolen the identity in an elaborate ruse to catch me.
“Who are you?” I tried again, my voice slightly steadier despite my racing pulse.
