I pound the pavement, jogging the six blocks to the mid-morning boxing class due to start in less than five minutes.

I should’ve been up early to start my research on the names Dan gave me. Instead, I slept in, which is out of the ordinary. Being kept awake until three a.m. with a rabid case of insomnia is also an anomaly. And only one person carries the blame.

Hazel eyes haunted me all night. No, they didn’t haunt. They taunted. Teased. I hadn’t been able to get my pounding heartrate to lessen, which made relaxation impossible. I’d tossed and turned, each movement reminding me of the feel of a dominant man against my skin.

I don’t even know his name.

It could be Bob or Jim or something equally lustless. Whereas I currently imagine calling out Ryder or Heath or Drew in the height of passion.

I could scream the fuck out of Heath.

Jim? Not so much.

I push through the door to the boxing class and haul the pack off my back to scrounge inside, pulling out my black and white sparring gloves and matching defending pads.

“You’re late.” Adam, my instructor, raises his voice as I walk across the room and dump my backpack on the floor. “We’ve got even numbers today. So hurry up and pair with the new guy.”

“New guy?” I scrunch my face accordingly.

Fuck the new guy. I always work out with Adam. He’s the only one with enough respect and guts to challenge me.

“You’ll be fine.” He juts his chin to the left and I follow the direction, already glaring in the hopes my intimidating squint will earn me a place back beside my rightful partner.

“Oh, hell no.” The words whisper from my mouth as my attention fixes on yet another anomaly.

He’s here. My insomnia-inducing, weapon-wielding fantasy is throwing air jabs like the rest of the class, his remarkably cut muscles on display through his white sports tank and mid-thigh black shorts.

He meets my glare with soulless, excitement-starved eyes. Yet, every part of me notices every part of him. Not only the taunting lack of familiarity in his expression, but his tauntingly sexy body, too. Every damn inch of my sweaty, heated skin is well aware there isn’t an ounce of unsculpted flesh anywhere to be seen on this man. Not on his thighs. Not on his arms. And I’d bet my life, not on his ass, either.

There’s definitely no gun hidden on him today, but this time it doesn’t matter. The guy is a weapon in himself. A lethal assassin. At least where my pussy is concerned. This visual inspection is slaying my cooch. It’s brutal and unwarranted and entirely thrilling.

I stride toward him, masking the need to salivate as if my life depends on it. “You following me again?”

He keeps jabbing at the air as a subtle grin kicks at one side of his lips. “That’s a little paranoid, seeing as though I was here first, and this place isn’t even in your suburb.”

That’s the exact reason I’ve been coming here for the last three months. It isn’t somewhere anyone would expect me to be. I bypass two similar classes on the run here. I even jog additional miles, sometimes doubling back on myself, to ensure nobody follows.

So, yes, I do wave the paranoid flag with pride. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t tailing me.

“You’re serious?” His lips thin, and he stops jabbing the air to stand at his full domineering height.

I drop my gloves to the floor and cross my arms over my chest in response. Don’t loom over me, asshole.

He scoffs, the sound barely audible as he shakes his head. “No, princess, I’m not following you. But after seeing you in those curve hugging clothes, a guy might just change his plans.” His interest stalks my active-wear, flittering over my body like a physical caress. Ankles to chest.

I want to tell him to stop, to back the fuck off, but there’s something about the lazy way he appraises me that encourages stupid decisions.

“Thanks, buddy,” I reply with a luscious amount of sarcasm. “It’s actually funny you mention my outfit, because when I got dressed this morning I thought to myself, ‘Hey, if I’m lucky enough to run into that random guy I met in the bar, who just so happened to bring a gun into my apartment, what would be the best outfit I could wear to impress him?’ And these were the clothes I pulled out.”

“I’m sensing a little hostility.”

I raise a brow. “Really?”

He’s different today. Tired. I don’t like that I want to know why. I don’t like much at all about this guy turning up in my life, only his eyes…and his grin…and his confidence, his muscles, the way he kisses…

Shit. I like too damn much about this man.

“You brought a lethal weapon into my apartment. Of course there’s hostility.” I take my position beside him and fall into routine.

Jab, jab, jab.

Jab, jab, jab.

He does the same, those sculpted arms assailing my peripheral vision.

“I can’t believe you’re still hung up on me having a gun,” he mutters under his breath.

“For starters, it happened less than twenty-four hours ago. And second, no, I’m not hung up on you having a gun. I’m hung up on you bringing it into my apartment. Into my home.”

“Would it make you feel better if I apologized?”

I freeze, entirely surprised by the question, because, yeah, a sincere apology and explanation would help this situation. But I’m beginning to think a clean-up crew for this mess would be more dangerous than my annoyance.

I don’t want to like this guy. Nope. He is already too far under my skin. Continuing dialogue would be a mistake.

“Forget it,” I mutter. I train my gaze straight ahead, determined to focus on getting the workout I need, not the workout he could give me.

“Time to pair up,” Adam calls. “One throwing punches, one holding pads. I want to see jab, cross, hook. Jab, cross, hook.”

I reach for the gloves at my feet, not giving him the option of who will punch first. I need to swing the frustration from my body. To jab, cross, hook this shit out of my system.

“I guess I’ll hold the pads to start off,” he grumbles.

I glare. At him. At myself. At everything that seems out of place and abnormal. I don’t like this. I’m not comfortable with the human interaction or how much I’m beginning to enjoy it.

Every time our eyes meet, that zing hits me.

I loathe it.

“So…” He pulls the worn class pads onto his hands and holds them at chest height. “You don’t want an apology, but would it help if I told you I took your advice?”

“My advice?” I throw a hard jab, and he jolts.

He recovers quickly and gives me a game-on smirk. “Yeah. You told me to ditch the gun. Which I did.”

I ignore him and throw a cross, packing all my strength into the swing. This time, he doesn’t flinch. He barely moves.

“And I can assure you, the only thing hard in these pants is my dick.”

A mental image assails me, and I have no idea why my imagination has overcompensated in the package department. Huge man, huge dick. It seems proportionate, but I don’t want that visual.

Nope.

It’s difficult enough concentrating on throwing a powerful hook without my pussy contracting with his every word.

“Jab, cross,” I hiss as I complete the actions. “Hook.” I throw everything I have into those punches, driving him backward.

Jab, cross, hook.

Jab, cross, hook.

“Whoa,” Adam calls out, coming to my side. “Ease up, Emma. I don’t want you scaring away the new guy.”

Shit.

I ignore the narrowing hazel eyes staring back at me from my boxing partner and force myself to calm down.

Adam gives a disapproving shake of his head and moves on to the next pair.

Jab, cross, hook.

Jab, cross, hook.

Jab, cross, hook.

“Emma?” The stranger’s steely gaze questions me more than the deeply murmured word.

“Concentrate.” I cross higher, making him duck to avoid an impact to the face.

“I thought your name was Steph.” He crouches, bringing our eyes level.

I hide my apprehension behind a scowl. “Emma Stephens. Some people shorten my surname and use it as a nickname.”

Jab, cross, hook.

Jab, cross, hook.

The intensity in his expression increases, and I don’t appreciate the scrutiny. I can’t blame him for the disbelief. The explanation was poor, especially for my standards. Usually, I’m quick on my feet, mentally speaking.

Today? Not so much.

“Okay, everyone,” Adam yells. “Switch places.”

I throw my gloves to the floor and pull on a set of pads. Once I’m standing straight and ready, the asshole hits me with a jab worthy of knocking a lesser woman on her ass. I stumble, and he smirks at me.

“Sorry. I’ll go easier on you.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” I hold my hands in place, preparing for the cross. This one is equally hard, but at least I’m ready. The hook, on the other hand, makes me stumble sideways.

He watches me with each swing, staring into me, holding me captive. The physical exertion and mental games make my heart pound incredibly hard. I start to pant, my breaths short and sharp, almost to the point of hyperventilation.

He doesn’t question me anymore, not in words, but those eyes seek answers. They’re digging deep, seeing things I don’t want him to see.

“Stop it,” I growl.

He chuckles, soft and oh-so low. “Stop what? Do you need me to throw softer punches?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Jab, cross, hook.

Jab, cross, hook.

The more he moves, the more sweat beads his skin, making those muscles glisten.

“Get a drink, guys.”

I slump at Adam’s instruction, dropping the pads to the floor as I hunch, all my muscles squealing in agony.

“You did well.” My tormentor pats me on the back, his actions and words equally derisive.

Fuck him. Fuck him for starving my libido. Fuck him for the insomnia. And fuck him for playing mind games.

He’s messing with me, and he already knows enough to entice him to snoop. I straighten, my nostrils whistling like a damn bull with my labored breathing as Muscle Man stands at my side.

“What’s wrong?” His grated whisper brushes my ear. “You look livid…and let me tell you, it’s sexy as fuck.”

A shudder jolts through me, the vibration culminating in my nipples.

Something isn’t right. I don’t know what it is. I can’t see through his brain-numbing fog to understand it.

It’s intuition that tells me to get out of here. I lean over, scoop my gloves and pads off the floor, and walk for my backpack. I rip the bag open, the zipper grinding under the pressure. I shove my stuff inside and haul it over my shoulder before stalking to the door.

Nobody tries to stop me. I have no friends here. No one knows me.

I push outside, and cold air hits my cheeks, bringing clarity. As cute as it was to think I had a similar personality to this guy, we are nothing alike. We never will be.

I’m not normal. Not my past and not my future. I don’t fit in, and I don’t want to. I need to remain under the radar, and it feels like this guy has nailed a neon sign on my ass.

I start down the sidewalk and hear the door push open behind me.

“Wait.”

His demand has no effect on me.

Liar.

Of course it does. I want to plant my feet and confront the hell out of him. I want to ask him why he’s hassling me, why he’s paying attention when I’ve skated by unnoticed for so long. I want to know why the hell I’m torn with every action and every word where he’s concerned.

And I seriously want to know why I can’t stop picturing the size of his dick and how good it would feel down the back of my throat.

I keep walking, getting as far away from stupidity and craziness as I can. Even now, I’m hoping he follows, and I don’t know why.

Why? Fuck. Why?

I don’t understand. Nothing makes sense, and still, the feeling is a nagging force trying to break free from my chest.

I want him to continue, and I need him to stop.

“Wait.” This time the request is growled in the deepest command.

I start to jog, making my way along the street, past the fruit vendor and up to the second-hand store when strong fingers grab my elbow, pulling me to a stop.

“Why did you run out?” His frown bears down on me. “I thought we were having fun.”

“You were having fun. This isn’t enjoyable for me.” It’s messy and chaotic.

“We had chemistry last night.” He releases my arm. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“We also had a lot of alcohol.”

He scowls. “You weren’t drunk, and neither was I.”

He’s right, and I can’t bring myself to admit it. I’ve gone years without an emotional link to anyone apart from my friendly bartender. I’ve been alone and strong. Now I feel weak with my need for…something. I can’t even pinpoint my attraction to this man. It’s just there, hovering like a gas cloud.

“Let me buy you a drink tonight.” There’s still no enthusiasm ebbing from him. Not even the slightest glimpse.

Why is that entirely endearing?

I scoff. Maybe because he’s the polar opposite to the last guy I dated. My stomach hollows at the reminder, and I push out a heavy breath to wash it away.

“I’m not much of a drinker.” I tear my gaze from his and focus on the second-hand televisions playing in the window, my lack of interest raking over sitcom reruns and numerous news feeds. “Last night was a one-off.”

“Then dinner. We can go to that wok place at the end of your block.”

I’m about to decline the offer when a news flash crosses one of the television screens.

Senator’s Son Found Dead.

I blink through the hallucination, trying to make the words disappear.

My heart stutters, and my world narrows to those four words. Senator’s. Son. Found. Dead. Then Dan Roberts’ face takes center stage.

Numbness seeps into my limbs, and the sound of the busy sidewalk disappears—the street traffic, too. My pulse echoes in my ears. There’s only my thundering heartbeats and that news headline.

Pounding arrhythmia and panic.

Fear and hysteria.

I’ve killed a man?

I shake my head. No. I’ve never killed anyone, even though there have been numerous people who’ve tempted my restraint. I am the self-appointed person who gives criminals a dose of their own medicine when the legal system fails to provide punishment. I give victims revenge, and assholes a chance to change their ways.

I don’t do death.

That is for a higher power to decide.

“What’s wrong?” That voice sounds near my ear, and I squeeze my eyes shut to find focus. “Are you okay?”

I breathe through the delirium and finally blink to find him staring down at me, his forehead wrinkled, his lips tight.

“I’m good,” I whisper. Then louder, “Just light-headed from the exercise.”

“You need food.” He scrutinizes me, reading me, and my cheeks heat under his surveillance. Under my guilt.

I step back. “I need to get home.”

“No.” He follows, matching me step for step. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I glance back at the television, finding the breaking news replaced with some sort of telenovela. Maybe it was a figment of my imagination. Maybe I’m losing my ever-loving mind.

“Just leave me alone.” I run, sprint, ditching him somewhere along the way.

I don’t stop. I reach the end of the block, then the next, and the next. I don’t glance at the cars that blare their horns as I cross numerous streets. I don’t pause. Yet, I can’t outrun the nightmare clipping at my heels.

I don’t kill people. I couldn’t bring myself to do so. No matter how vile or disgusting a criminal’s actions are, I always make the punishment singular. I contain the pain to the guilty party. Because once that life is snuffed, an intricate web of people become affected.

The parents who live for their only son are devastated. Those nieces and nephews who dote on their uncle are heartbroken. The innocent sisters and brothers are filled with anger and confusion.

I can’t be the person who inflicts that pain.

Maybe it’s already too late.

Maybe I already am a murderer.

Fuck. I should’ve dug deeper into my research on Dan. There could’ve been a heart condition. An allergy to Rohypnol. Hell. He could’ve choked or had trouble breathing after I fled.

Oh, God, I’m going to throw up.

I push my legs even harder, reaching the corner of my building with shaky thighs, my chest heaving, and there he is, leaning against a black Chevrolet parked in the loading zone.

A sexy car for a sexy son-of-a-bitch.

“What the hell is going on?” He strides toward me, a thick black sweater now hugging his upper body.

“Stop following me.” I sniff, my nose leaking from the vigorous exercise. “Get out of here.”

“You took off after saying you were light-headed. I wanted to make sure you were all right. Clearly, you’re not.”

“Clearly?” I swipe at my stupid nose with my wrist.

He moves in front of me, his gaze softer, on the verge of kindness. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

I straighten and blink through his ignorance. “You’re an idiot.” I won’t cry over Dan. I refuse. My nose tingles due to exertion. My eyes burn because…damned if I know, but it isn’t from building tears.

I sidestep and hustle for the front doors, entering the pin code through blurry vision. He’s at my back before I’m inside, and I no longer have the strength to tell him to leave.

“At least let me call someone. A friend. Or family.”

A harsh laugh escapes my lips. There is nobody here for me. No friends. No family. Nobody and no one at all. Not a single soul.

I make it to the elevator and press the button. The doors open, and he follows me inside, always following, always there.

I slump into the corner, my arms hugging my chest.

“Give me your phone.” The stranger holds out a hand while he presses the button for my floor with the other. “I’ll call someone to come look after you.”

I ignore him, too focused on Dan’s face as it takes over my mind. The snide smile, the laugh, the voice. The feel of his ribs breaking beneath my fist. The crack of his jaw. The sound of his muffled shouts.

I press a hand to my mouth and the other to the elevator wall to hold myself upright. The floor jolts to a stop, and bile rushes up my throat, demanding to be free.

Please let me make it to the bathroom.

I lunge for the doors, pull them apart, and sprint for my apartment. I’m blinded by horrible images as I release deadbolts and enter the pin code. Dan’s hair, his eyes, his mouth. I can see it all.

What’s your name, bitch?

I shove inside my apartment, dump my backpack, and rush to the toilet. There’s barely enough time to collapse to my knees before the contents of my stomach leave me in a heaving purge.

Through the rise of bile and partly digested toast, the face of a murdered man stares back at me. Haunting me.

I want to know what to whisper in your ear when I’m raping you raw.

I grip the toilet, my stomach convulsing over and over and over again until there’s nothing left to give.

“Are you still going to tell me nothing’s wrong?”

That voice pulls me from the panic, stripping away the memories of one man and replacing them with another. I wipe a hand across my mouth and glance over my shoulder, finding him leaning against the doorway.

“Get out.” I push to shaky feet, flush my breakfast, and reach for the cabinet to pull out my toothbrush and paste.

“Did you know the guy?”

I rinse my mouth with water, load up my brush, and begin scrubbing. “Leave.” I scour the vomit from my mouth, cleaning my tongue and teeth and everywhere in between.

“The guy on the television,” he clarifies. “The senator’s son.”

No, I didn’t know him. He was a stranger, even after I killed him. I grasp the counter and focus on my reflection in the mirror. I’m pale, my eyes wild, with strands of hair stuck to the sweat on my cheeks.

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“Shut up.” My head throbs with each beat of my pulse. I can’t think. It hurts to breathe. I start for the door, needing space, needing room. I try to push by him, and he doesn’t budge. “Get out of my way.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he shoves from the frame, stands tall, and stares me down.

“I said, move.”

He squares his jaw, preparing for a fight I’m more than willing to give. I have to get this toxic sludge out of my system, and thrusting it out is the only way I know how.

I cock my fist and swing, already anticipating the painful contact that never comes. He ducks, weaves, and steps back in a flash of movement that makes my head spin. I swing again and again, each attack thwarted by his quick reflexes.

I keep advancing, keep punching, keep trying to distract myself from reality.

I pounce forward. Jab. Cross. Hook. My knuckles graze his chin. Almost impact.

His eyes narrow and that harsh face hardens. “Enough.”

I can’t stop. My arms have a mind of their own. I can’t control my thoughts. Not the blinding flashbacks of what I did to Dan, or the snapshots of what he’d done to other women.

I swing again, and this time the ferocious intruder grabs my wrist, wrenching it down and twisting. I’m spun in a circle until my back is plastered against his front, his other arm smothering my chest. He holds me in place, trapping me while I hyperventilate.

“I said, enough,” he growls in my ear.

I whimper and sag against him, my heavy breathing lessening in the long, silent moments he holds me.

“Was he your lover?”

“What?” I struggle to break free and fail. “No. He was a disgusting excuse for a man who deserved to die long ago.”

The truth shocks me. But it is the truth.

“Then why the breakdown?”

“It isn’t a breakdown.” Now I’m lying, because the reality is, I’m scared. I’m terrified of being sent to prison. Not because of what could happen to me once trapped inside. I’m petrified I’ll die behind bars while the person who destroyed my family runs free.

I can’t fail them.

I refuse.

“So, storming out of boxing class, running away from a conversation, and then violently vomiting is a common thing for you?” He scoffs against my neck, making me shiver. “I guess my first impression was wrong. Here I was thinking you had a massive set of balls.”

“I don’t need balls.” I buck against him, and the faintest hint of his erection has me sucking in a sharp breath. “But it’s nice to know you were thinking I had a set to match your own. Is that what turns you on? My massive balls?”

“No.” His laughter is low and sinister, barely audible as it flitters over my neck. “I’ll be honest and say everything about you turned me on last night.”

Those mind-numbing tingles sink deeper inside me. My arms, my legs, even my toes buzz from the potential distraction.

“Everything about you still turns me on,” he whispers.

I close my eyes, sinking under his confounding spell. He’s not begging me for sex. There’s no passion. No heat or urgency. His words are cold and emotionless, yet still coated with a devilishly seductive edge I can’t ignore.

I need to learn to ignore it.

He knows where I live, which wouldn’t be an issue due to my security measures if he’d become the one-night-stand I intended him to be. But now he also knows I’ve lied about my name. I’ve told him I have weapons stashed in my apartment. And he’s aware of two of my regular haunts—Atomic Buzz and the boxing class I now have to quit taking.

He’s chipping away at my privacy, and I need those pieces back.

I wiggle in an attempt to break free and ignore the heavy weight of disappointment when he lets me go. I face him, and the simplicity of what stares back at me turns my insides to mush.

He’s not smiling. No, those lips are a flat line. His arms fall limp at his sides. There’s no warmth or seduction. No cocky smirk. Just him. Just eyes that sink into me, whispering promises beyond my wildest fantasies.

Everything about you still turns me on.

His confession washes away the panic, and in its place, arousal blooms.

He stalks toward me, and I hold my ground, tilting my head to maintain contact with those predatory eyes. He brings us foot to foot, almost hip to hip. The looming wall of a man stands before me, expressionless, emotionless, apart from all the devastatingly calm superiority.

My mouth salivates.

His hand snaps up, aiming for my chin, but I smack it away. He grins, tries again, and fails after another one of my slaps.

My turn, big guy.

I launch my hand at his throat. He doesn’t defend himself. He stands there, letting me wrap my fingers around his neck as his eyes flash. I’m taunting a bear. Poking the giant. I wonder if he’ll crush me, mentally or physically.

“We can spar all you like.” His offer brings chills. “But I’m sure you’d prefer it without any clothes on.”

The temptation of his statement wraps around my chest. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. He’s right. So painfully, unbelievably right.

“No.” My grasp on this situation is slipping, sliding. My fingers grip the cliff’s edge, but the ground crumbles beneath my grasp. “Get out, before I make you leave.” The demand clogs my throat, coming out in a garbled mess.

“You don’t want that.”

“Don’t I?” Fuck him and his incredibly clear insight. “Will my knee in your junk prove otherwise? Or maybe you need my fist in your face.”

“Have at it, princess. I’m no stranger to pain.”