When I woke up the next morning, the shame hit me.

Hard.

What the fuck was I doing?

I’d always been attracted to Bones, but now I was starting to need him. I wanted all of him all the time. Once I got some of that intensity between us, I didn’t want to let go. A man had never made me feel the way he did. I felt so sexy and beautiful, whether I was dressed in lingerie with makeup or lying around in a baggy shirt with a clean face. No man had ever made me feel this kind of addiction, of wanting more and more.

I wasn’t sure if I could quit.

Now I had to wonder if I was doing this because I had to…or because I wanted to.

That’s when I started to cry.

I wasn’t the kind of person who cried. Crying was weak and annoying. My mother never did it, and I wasn’t going to start now. But I felt so trapped. I had no one to turn to for help, no one to talk to. I was stuck in this open prison, feeling things for the man who made me his captive.

I liked kissing him.

Touching him.

Fucking him.

And I knew he felt the same way. Bones felt the same disgusting need I did. He wanted to be between my legs every night and not with other women. He hated me for what I’d done to his family, but he didn’t kill me because he’d become too attached.

I’d become too attached too.

What would happen if I didn’t stop this?

Would I ever be free?

Or would I be the one who wound up dead? I couldn’t be the weak one. One of us had to kill the other.

And I wasn’t going to let him be the one to pull the trigger.

Only one of us could get out of this alive.

And it was going to be me.

Days went by, and I stayed at his place. He left me a key and the code to get in and out. I didn’t have access to the other floors, and I was curious to know what was there. He worked out, so he must have a gym somewhere. And he killed people, so he must have weapons too. But I didn’t find any.

I worked on my painting most of the time, taking advantage of the morning light to get the best colors for the picture. In the beginning, it was strange to paint myself in a sexy way, especially when I knew what happened after this photo was taken.

We fucked nonstop.

But after a few hours, I got over it.

I worked on all the specific details, treating the image as if it were a random person instead of myself. I spent a lot of time working on every single color to make sure it was as realistic as possible. I had to mix the paints and add different concentrations to get the right consistency. Even the smallest touches were a long process because they required so much time and detail.

The days passed, and I kept working, getting so involved in the painting that I became more invested in it than I was at the beginning. I did my best to capture the right tone, to change the colors a little to set the mood. I painted myself exactly the way he saw me, as a beautiful prisoner that he couldn’t torture—but couldn’t release either.

By the time I was done, I couldn’t stop staring at it.

It was beautiful.

It wasn’t stunning because of me. It was stunning because it captured that moment in time so perfectly. That was the beauty of a painting versus a regular photograph. So much more could be captured with the colors and the texture. It wasn’t identical to the picture, and that was because a picture couldn’t capture the mood.

But a painting could.

Anyone could look at this painting and feel exactly what I felt, understand exactly what I felt. There was so much passion and restrained lust. There was so much affection and infatuation. I could feel his eyes on me as I stared at it, remembering exactly how it felt when he stared at me with that brooding gaze.

I didn’t just capture my presence in the painting—but his.

I set my brushes down and continued to look at it, imagining it hanging in his office. It was hard to understand why he would want a painting when he already had me. Why spend time looking at it when he could just look at me in the flesh instead. He wasn’t an art lover or an artistic person.

So why did he want it?

And then it hit me.

He wanted it because I wouldn’t always be around to look at.

Because I would soon be a memory.

And he wanted to remember exactly how it felt to have me, to have me in his captivity, to feel this balance between passion and hate.

My fingers started to shake, but I forced them to steady. Bones had never misled me about his intentions with me. He enjoyed my body, but he would eventually stop my beating heart. He just had to decide when he was ready to do it, after he was finally tired of me.

Maybe that was sooner than I realized.

There was no time to waste.

The next time he was at my apartment, I would have to pull the trigger.

And kill this monster.

I hadn’t spoken to him in four days.

I returned to my place because I didn’t want to be near his stuff anymore. I didn’t want to paint in that beautiful room because it would only soften my heart. He claimed he only gave me that room so I could make his painting, but I suspected he also did it for me—so his plaything would have something to do.

I took the painting to my apartment because I never intended to give it to him. He would come over when he came back to town, but he wouldn’t leave this apartment after he walked in the door.

I’d kill him then call my father.

He’d know what to do with the body. Hopefully, he wouldn’t ask too many questions.

I couldn’t look my father in the eye and tell him I was sleeping with Bones.

That would be the most uncomfortable conversation of my life.

I wasn’t sure what I would do with the painting. It would be strange to keep it because it was an image of myself dressed in lingerie in a man’s bed. It would be weird to hang it proudly on the wall. I should probably just burn it.

But it seemed a waste to burn something so beautiful.

Something I put so much time into.

Just because it depicted something dark and twisted didn’t make it ugly. It was truthful and honest, transparent in its emotions. Bones had some artistic capability because he was the one who took the photo. I just added the emotion to it.

I placed the gun underneath my pillows where I slept, knowing he would give me no warning before he walked through the front door. He wouldn’t tell me he was back in town until he marched into my apartment and announced it.

I had to be ready.

I was sitting in my living room having dinner with the painting on the easel next to the window when I heard footsteps outside my front door. I stopped eating and listened, my heart beating hard in my chest. I knew it was him before I saw him, before I even heard him.

I could just feel him.

He must have picked the lock because it took him a few seconds before he opened the door and welcomed himself inside.

It annoyed me because he knew I was home. All he had to do was knock.

He stepped inside, dressed in all black. His heavy frame thudded against the floor as he moved, and his crystal-blue eyes landed on me once he was inside the living room. He stared at me with various emotions, different intensities. He seemed angry, but he also seemed desperate.

I wasn’t nervous because of the way he was staring at me. I was nervous because of what I was about to do.

I knew it was just my paranoia, but it seemed like he knew my plan.

He turned his gaze to the painting and stilled as he stared at it. Then he crossed the room to get a better look at it. His back was to me, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

I stared at his shoulders, watching them rise and fall as he breathed. I wondered what he was thinking, if he loved it or connected with it. Was it exactly what he wanted? Was it the perfect image to remember me by? He was unpredictable, so he could snap it in half at any moment.

Time passed, and he still didn’t move. Not a single word was spoken. He kept the same stance as he stared at it, his entire body still with the exception of his breathing. Minutes trickled by until half an hour came and went.

Then a full hour passed.

And he continued to stare.

I went to his side, staring at the same image he was staring at. I took a peek at his face, hoping to grasp his thoughts based on his appearance. But his blue eyes were unreadable, and his jawline was as hard as ever. He wore an expression of constant anger. The only time that ever changed was when he was being a smartass or he was thrusting inside me. Otherwise, he was always this concrete wall.

We still hadn’t spoken a word to each other since he walked through the door. He didn’t ask why I was there instead of his apartment, and he didn’t tell me how his hit in Russia went. He didn’t make a smartass comment about missing me. He didn’t kiss me either. We seemed to have a conversation without words.

Like being in the same room together was enough for us to communicate.

When other fifteen minutes passed and he kept staring at the painting, there was no doubt he loved it. He wouldn’t stare so long unless it made him feel something, stimulated his brain as well as his heart.

He finally turned his head my way, looking at me head-on.

But there still wasn’t a single word.

I hated feeling this way. I hated the way my knees got a little weak when he looked at me that way. I hated myself for feeling a little relief knowing he came back from his mission alive. I hated feeling the slight ache in my lips because he hadn’t kissed me yet. I hated the way I wanted to go to the bedroom, and not because I wanted to put a bullet in his brain.

How did I feel all this for a man I despised?

What he did to me was unforgivable. I couldn’t forget that. I never would.

But human emotion was complicated. My painting alone was proof of that.

He suddenly pulled his sweater over his head, taking the shirt with it. His muscled frame came into view, the cuts and lines of separation in his muscles obvious even when it was dark. With powerful shoulders that could carry the weight of the world and a chest that was harder than concrete, he was built like a tank. He took that bullet without flinching because he was immune to pain. He didn’t need a bulletproof vest because a gun couldn’t perforate his hard exterior.

He moved into me, his hands cupping my face gently as his mouth took my kiss. His lips pressed against mine as one hand snaked to the back of my head. He guided me into him, kissing me like it was the first time he ever had the opportunity.

My hands went to his chest, and I kissed him back without thinking twice about my actions. Everything was natural, thoughtless. When I was with this man, I never thought twice about what I was doing. I just felt everything he gave me, felt the way our mouths moved together perfectly. Why did the man I hated most have to be the man I wanted the most? Why couldn’t another man kiss me like this? Fuck me as good?

He pulled my shirt over my head and snapped my bra off as he guided me backward to the bedroom.

This was it—now or never.

My nails dug into him, not out of passion, but terror. If I didn’t get this right, I didn’t know what he would do to me. He still intended to kill me, so he might break my skull with his bare hands.

His palms went to my tits, and he squeezed them as he guided me to the bed. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, he pinched my nipples gently. My jeans were undone then his came loose.

He pushed me back on the bed before he tugged them off, getting them down to my ankles before he pulled my thong with it. Then he dropped his clothes, bringing out his big cock.

I missed that cock.

Killing him almost seemed like a waste, when he was so gifted in many areas. Men weren’t built like this. Men weren’t big like this. And men didn’t fuck like this. He had so much potential—but it was all wasted.

He moved on top of me, his knees separating mine. His weight sank me into the mattress, and he gave me that possessive expression, the kind that told me I was his the second he walked in that door.

My head lay back on the pillow, and that’s when I felt the gun underneath my head.

The shape was distinct through the soft pillows. I could distinguish the barrel from the butt.

This was the perfect time. When he thrust inside me, he was distracted. He was focused on his dick inside me, on the wetness between my legs. And when his lips were on mine, he wasn’t aware of anything else around us.

Just us.

He pointed his dick at my entrance and slid inside.

I gripped his arms and moaned, forgetting how good that felt over the last four days.

Damn…so good. I felt so full, so right.

Maybe I should do it tonight. I would never have better sex than this for the rest of my life, so I should just enjoy it while I could.

But no, there may not be another chance.

I shouldn’t spare his life just because he was good in bed.

I had to do this.

If I didn’t, I would never be free.

My family would never be free.

He thrust into me with even and deep strokes, his mouth moving with mine. He breathed into me as he pumped, giving me his dick at the perfect angle. He played with my mouth, kissing me and teasing me as we moved together. “I missed you, baby.”

The words came out of my lips automatically before I could even think enough to stop them. “I missed you too…”

His dick thickened a little more inside me, loving that response. He kept kissing me, moaning with me from time to time.

I touched his body in different places, never keeping my hands in the same spot. I opened my eyes to look into his and saw that they were closed. Despite the terror in my heart, I made my move. I slid my hand under the pillow without breaking my kiss and reached the butt of the gun. I carefully slid it out from underneath me, kissing him a little harder once my head sank a few more inches where the gun had been.

I pointed the gun to the ground and clicked off the safety.

Fuck, I had to do this.

Point it at his head and pull the trigger. Just like that.

And all of this would be over.

I would be free again.

I tried not to think and just raised the gun. I watched myself point the barrel at his temple, keeping it at point blank range without touching his skin.

He spoke into my mouth. “Do it.”

My heart nearly leaped up my throat and into my mouth.

He opened his eyes and looked at me, not breaking his stride as he continued to fuck me. He stopped kissing me and never looked at the gun. He must have seen it in his peripheral vision because he never turned toward it. “Come on, baby. Do it.” He grabbed my wrist and pressed the barrel right against his temple.

Jesus Christ.

He held his body on top of mine, his cock harder than ever before. It was pulsing inside me, throbbing with imminent explosion. He breathed harder and started to fuck me faster. “This is the only chance you’re going to get. So take it.”

My hand shook as I held the Glock. It was heavy, but it was even heavier with the weight of death. All I had to do was pull the trigger, and he would collapse on top of me. He wouldn’t survive a shot to the head, and if he did, he wouldn’t be strong enough to stop me from shooting him again.

“Baby.” He kissed me hard on the mouth, breathing into me. “You’re stronger than this. I’ve promised to kill you and your whole family. I’ve kept you as a prisoner and fucked you every chance I could get. You should kill me. I deserve it.”

Everything he said was true, but my finger wouldn’t squeeze the trigger. This was my opening, but I didn’t take it. I’d killed a man before, so this shouldn’t be any different. This was about survival. Just shoot and be done with it.

But my hand shook, and my finger didn’t move.

He pressed his forehead to mine and rocked with me, his cock so hard it seemed like he could barely fit inside me. His hand moved into my hair, and he kissed me like there wasn’t a gun pointed to his head. He fisted my hair and kept me in place, grinding against me just the way I liked. He gave me his tongue and his passion, gave me everything like he usually did. This man was fearless, not afraid of death or pain. He didn’t flinch when I shot him in the shoulder, and he kissed me just the way he did now.

Maybe he did want me to shoot him.

But I couldn’t do it.

I hated this man. Truly, I did.

But something steadied my hand.

I set the gun on my nightstand before returning my hand to his arm.

He stopped moving, ending his kiss and everything else. He stared down at me, his expression unreadable. He seemed angry but moved at the same time. His fingers moved in my hair, and his cock was still raging hard. “I couldn’t do it either, baby.”

With the gun on the nightstand and the large man still in my bed, I went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. I found his t-shirt on the way, so I pulled that over my head and let it touch my knees. Ten sizes too big, it wasn’t flattering to my curves at all, but it was the most comfortable piece of clothing I’d ever worn.

Probably because it smelled like him.

I watched the coffee pot work the grinds to produce the caffeinated liquid as I stood at the counter, thinking of last night.

Thinking of the way I put that gun to his head.

But didn’t shoot.

I didn’t fucking shoot.

He told me to but I didn’t. He reminded me of all the reasons why I should. He knew there was a good chance I would actually do it because I’d shot him before—with the intention to kill.

But I turned soft and set the gun down.

Maybe it was because he was in between my legs. Maybe it was because his mouth was mine. Maybe I was too attached to him to actually blow his brains out. I decided this was the only way out of my situation, the only way I could protect myself and my family.

But I didn’t do it.

Maybe if he never said anything, I would have pulled the trigger. Maybe if he’d kept kissing me and wasn’t aware of the barrel near his skull, I would have talked myself into doing it. But hearing him coach me to do it, feeling his cock get even harder with the threat of violence upon him, just confused me.

And now my chance was gone.

The coffee was done, but I continued to stand there, wearing his t-shirt with the sunlight coming through the window. He was asleep in the other room, the gun still sitting there. I could walk back in there and kill him now.

But I knew I wouldn’t.

Footsteps sounded behind me, his weight making the floor creak in certain places. The sound became louder once he entered the kitchen.

I could feel his stare the second he was in the room.

He stopped for a long time, just staring at me.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to face the shame of my weakness.

He came behind me and placed his large hands on the backs of my arms. He stood there, breathing down on me like a tiger that just cornered his prey.

I stayed absolutely still, my heart beating in my throat because I was both scared and nervous. After a night like that, I didn’t know what would happen between us. I didn’t know if he would punish me for the attempt or if he would be disappointed I didn’t do it.

He slowly turned me around, forcing me to meet his gaze head-on.

I didn’t want to look at his handsome face, to see the arrogance and the possession. I didn’t want to see the victory in his eyes. Not only did he keep me as his prisoner, but he had a prisoner that was too weak to kill him.

I never felt more pathetic in my life.

He lifted me onto the kitchen counter and stood between my legs, his strong arms scooping me and holding me against him. My countertops were high, so it brought me to eye level with his gaze.

Gently, he leaned in and kissed me on the mouth, giving me a good morning kiss that was softer than all the others he gave me. Then he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes looking down at my lips.

“I hate you.” My hands slid up his arms until they gripped his biceps. “I do…”

“I know, baby.”

“I wish that I killed you. I wish I could do it.”

“I know that too.” He kissed the corner of my mouth.

“I don’t know why I didn’t…” My eyes shifted down because I was too embarrassed to meet his gaze. I’d never been filled with such self-loathing. If my father knew what I did, he would be disappointed in me. “I was going to kill you and keep that painting. Getting rid of you is the only solution to my problem. I’m ashamed of myself.” I closed my eyes, unable to take that icy stare.

His fingers went to my chin, forcing my head up.

I opened my eyes and looked at him again.

“I couldn’t do it either, baby.”

“Why?” I whispered.

His fingers slid down my neck, right over my pulse. “Seemed like a waste to me. You’re so smart, strong, beautiful…so much potential. You have more strength than most men I come across. Every woman should be raised the way you’ve been raised. Maybe if my mother had more of your qualities, she would still be alive right now.”

Anytime he mentioned his mother, I felt a twinge of sadness. It was the one characteristic that humanized him. He loved his mother and never cared that she was a prostitute. Other people would turn their backs on their mother or daughter for resorting to that livelihood, but Bones never judged her for it. It made me respect him.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. “I…I don’t know.” The only way out of this mess was to kill him, and I passed on the opportunity. I should have a stronger reason for letting him live, but I wasn’t sure what that reason was. Maybe I thought it was a waste too, that Bones had the potential to be something more. “I think this…” My hands moved to his shoulders, and I squeezed him. “Stops me from thinking clearly. I fall into you, and I don’t think about anything else. It’s like there’s two different versions of us. I despise everything about you, but we have this…I don’t even know what it is.”

“Passion. Lust. Connection. Affection. Respect…”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He pressed his forehead to mine. “I understand that all too well.”

“I don’t know what to do…” I closed my eyes and held on to him, seeking comfort from my tormentor. He could take me to bed right this second, and I wouldn’t fight him. I’d spread my legs and pull him deeper into me. I’d want more than what he could give. “Please leave my family alone. Just drop it, okay?”

He stood in silence, his hands still on my waist.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Please.”

“You know I can’t do that…”

“I could have killed you, but I didn’t. You owe me.”

He stared at me with his blue eyes, his expression unreadable.

“Bones, hurting my family isn’t going to bring yours back. It’s not going to rewrite history. You’ll just make your life feel more hollow. And you’ll only hurt me… I know you don’t want to hurt me.”

“I do want to hurt you, Vanessa,” he whispered. “My intentions toward you have never changed. You still hate me, I still hate you.”

“But we both feel something else besides hate toward each other…”

He didn’t deny it. “Yes. But we’re still on opposite sides of the battlefield. Your family not only destroyed mine but ruined my inheritance. If my mother had what she needed, she wouldn’t have been a whore. And I’m sure being a prostitute was just as painful as her eventual death.”

“My family was just trying to protect themselves. Surely, you must see it as a retaliation, not a provocation. Your father killed my aunt and raped my mother. You think those crimes don’t deserve to be punished?”

He held my gaze, his expression unreadable. “I won’t say what he did was right. But your family’s actions ruined my life. My mother was innocent. I was innocent. You got to grow up in a family who adored you in a beautiful mansion. You had everything I never did. I will always hate you for that, for having the life that should have been mine.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I am. What if my family gave you money—”

“I don’t want their money. I want my money.” He pulled his hands from my hips, his anger starting to flood in his veins. “You don’t get it. I’m starting to think you’ll never get it.”

We were back to where we started, and it made me wonder if we’d grown at all. He held a knife to my throat but didn’t kill me. I held a gun to his head but didn’t pull the trigger. It seemed like so much had changed, but it never really did. “That painting…did you want me to make it so you could remember me? Because you’re going to kill me?”

He held my gaze, his expression as hard as ice. He said he would never lie to me, that he would always give me his honesty. So whatever answer he gave next was the truth. “Yes.”

I took a deep breath, feeling the regret circulate through my heart. “Why didn’t I kill you?” I should have pulled the trigger. I should have ended his life last night.

He suddenly walked away, leaving me sitting on the kitchen counter to deal with my feelings.

I didn’t shoot him because it felt wrong, but now I wished I had. My life was on the line. He intended to kill me, and even though I didn’t put a bullet in his brain, that didn’t mean he would be so kind toward me.

He walked back inside with the gun pointed to the ground. He handed it to me.

I didn’t take it, unsure what was happening.

He snapped out the barrel and showed me the magazine.

There were no bullets.

He closed it again and set it on the counter. “When you came home after Christmas, I found it and removed the bullets.”

I closed my eyes and felt the shame hit me hard. This entire time I thought I’d outsmarted him, but now I knew I never had a chance. He didn’t flinch when the barrel was pressed to his temple because he knew there was no ammunition. He was testing me, seeing if I had the courage to actually pull the trigger.

And now he knew I didn’t.

Tears formed under my eyelids and streaked down my cheeks. I didn’t care that I gave in to my weakness, even in front of him. I felt stupid thinking I outsmarted this man when he outsmarted me a long time ago. I was doomed, trapped in this cage without walls. That was how powerful this man was. He could keep me there without chains or locks.

He cupped my cheeks and wiped my tears away with the pads of his thumbs.

I opened my eyes and saw him stare at me, his eyes softer than they were before. He kissed the corner of my mouth then ran his fingers through my hair. “I don’t say this very often, but when I do, I mean it.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry. I really am.”