The bass from the club's speakers vibrated through the soles of Alida's shoes, rattling her teeth.

She pushed through the sweaty, grinding bodies on the dance floor. The flashing neon lights sliced through the darkness, making her nausea worse.

She reached the sticky surface of the bar and slammed her hand down.

"Tequila. Neat," she ordered.

The bartender slid a shot glass toward her. Alida picked it up and threw the burning liquid down her throat. It felt like swallowing broken glass, but the heat spreading in her stomach was a welcome distraction from the ice in her chest.

She rested her forehead against the cool edge of the bar. A sob finally tore its way up her throat.

"Well, well. If it isn't my perfect little stepsister."

Alida stiffened. She turned her head. Belva slid onto the stool next to her, a sickly sweet smile plastered on her heavily contoured face. Belva pushed a napkin toward her.

"Rough night?" Belva asked.

"Go away, Belva," Alida rasped, shoving the napkin back.

Belva didn't move. "Just trying to be family. Have another drink. It helps."

Alida turned her head toward the dance floor, ignoring her.

In that split second, Belva's hand hovered over Alida's glass. A tiny white pill dropped into the remaining drops of tequila, dissolving instantly. "It's a custom chemical mix," Belva thought to herself, a cruel, triumphant glint in her eyes. "In just a few minutes, she won't just be compliant; she'll be a desperate, burning mess, begging for anyone to touch her."

"Come on," Belva urged, signaling the bartender for a refill. She pushed the freshly topped glass into Alida's hand. "To moving on."

Alida was too exhausted to fight. She wanted the pain to stop. She brought the glass to her lips and drained it.

Less than two minutes later, the club began to spin.

The neon lights smeared into long, blinding streaks of color. A sudden, unnatural heat flared in the pit of Alida's stomach, radiating outward and making her skin flush. Her heart raced, pumping a dizzying, euphoric fog into her brain. Alida's legs turned to jelly. The air grew thick, suffocating her.

She swayed, her grip on the bar slipping.

Belva's arm wrapped tightly around her waist, catching her before she hit the floor. "I've got you," Belva whispered, her voice dripping with malice.

Belva half-dragged, half-carried Alida away from the crowded bar, pushing through a heavy black door that led to the back alley hallway.

The music became a muffled thud. The hallway was dimly lit and smelled of stale urine.

A massive man with a thick neck and a cigar clamped between his teeth stood by the exit door. Mortimer.

Belva shoved Alida's limp body toward him. "Here. Now we're even on the loan."

Mortimer tossed a thick manila envelope at Belva's chest. He reached out, his rough, calloused hand grabbing Alida's jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek.

The repulsive touch sent a violent shockwave through Alida's nervous system. The sheer terror sliced through the chemical fog in her brain. The drug hadn't fully paralyzed her muscles yet; instead, it had sent her nervous system into a hypersensitive overdrive.

She was being sold.

Alida bit down hard on her own tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth. The intense pain acted like a defibrillator to her brain.

As Mortimer bent down to throw her over his shoulder, Alida lifted her right leg. She drove the stiletto heel of her shoe down with all her remaining strength, crushing it directly into Mortimer's instep.

Bones crunched.

Mortimer let out a guttural roar, dropping his cigar and stumbling backward, clutching his foot.

Alida didn't look back. She shoved the heavy fire door open and stumbled back into the club, veering wildly into the VIP corridor.

"Grab her!" Belva shrieked from behind.

Footsteps pounded against the concrete.

The drug was fully taking over now. Alida's blood felt like boiling lava. Her vision was completely black at the edges. She was running on pure, blind instinct.

She rounded a corner.

A wall of men in black suits was walking toward her. In the center walked Jax Vaughn.

Alida couldn't stop. She crashed headfirst into a chest that felt like a slab of solid granite.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. She started to fall, but two massive hands clamped onto her waist like iron vices, holding her upright.

Jax looked down. His jaw ticked in annoyance. He hated being touched.

Alida buried her face into the crisp fabric of his suit. The scent of expensive cologne and clean male skin filled her lungs. It grounded her.

She grabbed his lapels, her knuckles turning white. She tilted her head up. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, swimming with tears.

"Help me," she breathed, her voice a broken whisper.

Belva and Mortimer skidded around the corner.

Instantly, Jax's bodyguards drew their weapons, the metallic clicks echoing in the hallway. Mortimer froze, his face draining of color at the sight of the guns.

Jax didn't look at the pursuers. He stared down at the woman trembling against his chest. Her skin was flushed a deep, unnatural red.

A dark, dangerous spark ignited in Jax's black eyes. He didn't push her away.

"Boss," the lead bodyguard said, his gun still trained on the alley thugs. "Should I throw her out?"

Alida couldn't hear him. The drug in her veins mutated from a sedative into a raging inferno. Her skin felt like it was on fire.

She twisted in Jax's grip, a soft, desperate whimper escaping her lips. She pressed her flushed cheek against his chest, seeking the cool silk of his shirt.

Jax's entire body went rigid. The muscles in his arms bunched under his suit jacket. His dark eyes darkened to the color of an abyss. He raised a single finger, silencing his bodyguard.

Alida blinked, trying to clear her vision. The man holding her was a blur of sharp angles and raw power.

Her drug-addled brain tried to make sense of the situation. VIP hallway. Handsome man. Strong hands.

She reached up. Her trembling fingers slid over the lapel of his jacket, pressing flat against the hard muscle of his chest. "You feel... so good," she mumbled.

The bodyguards around them sucked in a collective breath. No one touched the tyrant of Wall Street. No one.

She fumbled with the zipper of her purse. Her fingers were clumsy, but she managed to pull out the folded piece of paper. The personal check. Fifty thousand dollars.

She slapped the paper flat against Jax's chest.

"I'm buying you," she slurred, her words running together. "Best escort in the club. You're going to take care of me tonight."

The silence in the hallway became absolute. It was a heavy, suffocating quiet.

Jax looked down at the piece of paper pressed against his chest. A muscle feathered in his jaw. The vein at his temple throbbed.

He reached up and grabbed her chin. His long fingers dug into her soft skin, forcing her head up.

"Do you have any idea," Jax whispered, his voice a lethal, silken threat, "who you are talking to?"

The pressure on her jaw hurt. Alida frowned. Driven by the chemical fire in her blood and the sheer frustration of the night, she pushed up on her tiptoes.

She clamped her teeth down on his lower lip and bit him. Hard.

The metallic taste of his blood rushed into her mouth.

The last thread of Jax's legendary control snapped.

He let out a low growl. His hand moved from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers twisting into her hair. He crushed his mouth against hers, turning the bite into a punishing, brutal kiss.

Alida gasped, her knees buckling completely. She melted against him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensory overload.

Jax broke the kiss. He bent down and scooped her up into his arms, carrying her bridal style.

"Lock down the private elevator," Jax ordered his men, his voice harsh and ragged. "No one comes up."

He strode toward the end of the hall. Alida's hands roamed over his shoulders, her fingers clumsily tugging at the knot of his silk tie.

The elevator doors slid open. Jax carried her inside.

When the doors opened again, they were in the penthouse. Jax kicked the double doors shut behind them with a slam that shook the walls.

He walked into the master bedroom and threw her onto the massive King-size bed.

Alida bounced on the mattress. She writhed, clawing at the collar of her dress. "It's so hot," she cried, tears of frustration leaking from her eyes.

Jax stood over her, his chest heaving. He yanked his tie completely off.

"You asked for this," he said, his voice dark with a primal hunger.

He grabbed her wrists, pulling them above her head, and wrapped his silk tie around them, binding her hands to the heavy wooden headboard.

Alida didn't fight him. The drug demanded release. She arched her back, offering herself to the fire.

Jax stripped off his jacket. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline glittered like crushed diamonds. Inside, the temperature was boiling.

He came down over her, a predator claiming his prey.

When the initial pain hit, Alida gasped, a single tear slipping down her temple. But the pain was instantly swallowed by a tidal wave of heat. The penthouse disappeared, leaving only the sensation of his skin against hers, until the darkness finally took her.

A sharp beam of morning sunlight pierced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, striking Alida right in the eye.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Her head pounded with a vicious, rhythmic ache.

She tried to move her legs, and a sharp, pulling soreness radiated through her lower body. Her breath hitched.

Alida snapped her eyes open.

She was lying on her stomach, completely naked, tangled in high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Her wrists throbbed with a dull, bruised ache. She instinctively pulled her arms down, realizing that the silk tie that had bound her to the headboard must have slipped loose during their frantic, relentless movements in the middle of the night.

The memories hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. The club. The drug. The hallway. The man.

Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. She slowly, agonizingly, turned her head.

A man lay beside her, sleeping on his stomach. His broad, muscular back was exposed, the skin marked with faint red scratches. Her scratches.

Panic, cold and absolute, washed over her.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood, forcing herself not to make a sound. She carefully lifted the edge of the duvet and slid her legs off the mattress.

Her feet touched the plush carpet. Her legs shook violently, threatening to give out. She grabbed the edge of the mahogany nightstand to steady herself.

The man on the bed shifted, letting out a deep exhale.

Alida froze, her lungs burning as she held her breath. She waited until his breathing returned to a slow, steady rhythm.

She scanned the floor. Her dress was torn, lying in a heap near the door. She tiptoed over, snatched it up, and pulled it over her head. She found her purse underneath a discarded suit jacket.

She was about to run when a thought stopped her.

She had told him she was buying him. Her pride, battered and bruised by Deron's betrayal and Belva's cruelty, flared up. She wouldn't be a victim. She wouldn't owe this stranger anything.

She opened her purse. The fifty-thousand-dollar check had been tucked back into the side pocket—he must have returned it. In her main wallet, she found a single, crumpled one-hundred-dollar bill.

Alida walked over to the heavy oak desk near the window. She picked up a hotel notepad and a heavy Montblanc pen.

Her hand shook slightly as she wrote.

Service fee. Average skills. Like an uncivilized beast.

She walked back to the bed. She placed the note on the nightstand right next to his head, and smoothed the hundred-dollar bill down on top of it.

She grabbed her heels, didn't bother putting them on, and bolted for the door.

She slipped out of the penthouse, sprinting barefoot down the carpeted hallway to the elevator. She jammed the lobby button, her chest heaving, praying the doors would close.

Thirty minutes later, the man in the bed stirred.

Jax Vaughn opened his eyes. A dull headache pulsed at his temples from the alcohol and the sheer physical exertion of the night.

He reached his arm across the bed, expecting to pull the warm, soft woman back against his chest.

His hand met empty, cool sheets.

Jax sat up abruptly. His sharp eyes swept the massive room. Empty.

He turned his head. His gaze locked onto the nightstand.

A crumpled green bill sat on top of a piece of hotel stationery.

Jax reached out, his long fingers plucking the paper from the wood. He read the words written in hurried, elegant script.

Service fee. Average skills. Like an uncivilized beast.

The air in the room evaporated.

Jax stared at the hundred-dollar bill. A vein in his neck bulged against his skin. His jaw ticked so hard his teeth ground together.

He, Jax Vaughn, CEO of Vaughn Enterprises, a man who controlled billions, had just been paid off with a hundred-dollar bill. Like a cheap street whore.

A roar of pure, unadulterated fury tore from his throat.

He crushed the paper and the money in his fist, his knuckles turning bone-white. He swung his leg out of bed and kicked the heavy mahogany coffee table. It shattered, glass exploding across the room.

Jax grabbed the landline on the desk.

"Lock down the building," he snarled into the receiver, his voice vibrating with lethal rage. "Pull every camera feed. Nobody leaves. If a single fly escapes this hotel, you're all fired."

His assistant and two bodyguards burst through the doors seconds later, freezing at the sight of the destroyed room and their boss standing naked, radiating a murderous aura.

Jax stared out the window at the city below. "Find her," he whispered, a promise of violence. "Find her now."