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He hears the door click behind him and spins around. His eyes widen, and he ends the call. “Skylar,” he breathes, “What are you doing here?”

“Aw, Franko, I didn’t realize you cared,” I purr. “I’ve been calling you ever since that night at the Gilded Cage.” The syringe in my suit jacket weighs heavily, a reminder that I can end this in a heartbeat.

“I thought your number was compromised,” he replies, eyes bouncing around for an escape. “So can you tell me why the contract killer aiming for me took you instead that night?” he asks.

I freeze. I didn’t realize he knew that part.

His hand instantly dives toward the desk, reaching for his gun.

Lunging forward with lethal speed, I beat him to it. Only I underestimated his desperation. Franko doesn’t grab a gun. He slams a heavy crystal vase directly onto the glass tabletop. Glass shatters, triggering a loud, panicked emergency alarm hidden beneath. The room floods with jarring, red strobe lights.

“Jericho! He triggered the alarm!” I shout, desperate not to let this man get away.

Before I can reach him, the door behind Franko bursts open. Three of his goons storm into the room, guns already raised and blocking my way. Franko moves, never looking back as he dives through the heavy steel door the guards just came through. The door immediately shuts behind him. I scream.

Fuck! He’s gone. Again.

“Target Escaped! There was a hidden door in the room!” I yell into the comms, ducking as the three goons attack.

The lead goon advances, his weapon shoving directly into my chest. I have no cover, no time to prep my poison. I close my eyes, bracing for the pain, when a loud bullet pierces the air.

A violent spray of crimson, and goon number one crumples to the floor.

Like a fucking juggernaut, Jericho bursts into the room through the ruined doorway. His tuxedo jacket is gone, his white shirt already smeared with blood. His face is a mask of cold, terrifying fury. He fires two accurate shots from his sidearm, neutralizing goon number two before the man can lift his weapon.

The third goon, bleeding from a shoulder wound, panics. In a wild, desperate arc, he swings the butt of his heavy rifle.

I attempt to dodge the strike, but my foot slips on the wet, bloody carpet.

The solid steel of the weapon strikes me right on the temple.

A searing, white-hot pain flashes through my head. My knees give out instantly. The room is spinning wildly, and I’m collapsing to the floor, my cheek against the cold polished wood. The distant, frantic sounds of gunfire reach me, but they seem to be muffled as if I’m underwater.

“Skylar!” Jericho shouts.

Jericho’s voice has never been louder or more desperate. His tone, filled with pure, unmixed panic, pierces the ringing in my ears.

Massive, calloused hands grab my shoulders. With a trembling grasp, he pulls me against his broad chest. A low, ragged sound of pure terror leaves Jericho’s throat as his fingers press frantically against my neck, checking my pulse. His breath hitches as he wipes the blood away from my hairline with his bare hand.

“Look at me, Sky,” Jericho commands, his voice cracking even as he cups my jaw in a desperate grip. “Skylar, talk to me. Stay with me, damn it.”

I force my eyelids open, wondering when I’d closed them. The alarm’s flashing red lights made me feel sick. Jericho’s face is inches from mine, his blue eyes blown wide and completely unhinged by the sight of my blood. His panic seeps into my soul as I realize there is only one person I fear losing.

With trembling, weak fingers, I grab the collar of his ruined shirt and pull him just a tiny bit closer.

“Don’t worry, brute.” A faint, bloody smile forms on my lips as I whisper through the searing pain in my head. “I’m here,” I say before my whole world goes black.

“Why do you follow all my social media accounts?” I ask a few weeks later. We’re in bed together after a hot round of sex. He’s tracing my beauty marks and the flower tattoo on my ribcage. I’ve noticed it’s something he likes to do after sex. Something sweet and calming.

Something has shifted between us since the night of the auction. It’s almost as if we have a silent bond. Something unbreakable. I’d ended up with a minor concussion that night, which hurt like a bitch, but healed quickly.

The persistent pain behind my eyes had lessened to a dull ache in less than two days. The training my body underwent to counteract poisons is probably what helped my rapid recovery. After stumbling from the blinding white flash, making contact with the butt of the gun, I now have a colorful bruise near my temple. Seriously, it’s a small price to pay for slipping on a blood-slicked rug. By the third morning, the room stopped tilting, and the nausea was replaced by a sharp hunger to finish what we’d started in that ballroom.

I’m already back to tracking Franko’s whereabouts. I healed fast, but the memory of the pure terror in Jericho’s voice when he found me on that floor is what still haunts me. It’s something that makes me feel a whirlwind of contradicting emotions all at once, but it all narrows down to one important thought: Jericho cares about me.

I blink up at my handsome brute, and my stomach flips when he gives me a soft, yet possessive look that lights me on fire. Holy shit. I have genuine feelings for this man, and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way.

Jericho tucks me into his side, in a protective, possessive hold that makes my heart rate pick up. “Is this a trick question?” he laughs softly.