"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."

Jax threw on a fresh shirt, not bothering to button it all the way, and stormed out of the hotel lobby. A fleet of black Maybachs was already idling at the curb.

His assistant ran alongside him, holding an iPad, sweat dripping down his face. "Sir, the blind spots in the service elevator... she slipped out. We tracked a yellow cab she got into ten minutes ago."

Jax snatched the iPad. He stared at the grainy footage of a slender woman running barefoot into a taxi. His eyes burned with a dark, obsessive fire.

"Give me the keys," Jax demanded, holding his hand out to his lead driver.

The driver hesitated, then dropped the keys into Jax's palm. Jax slid into the driver's seat of the lead Maybach. He slammed the door, the engine roaring to life like a caged beast.

Across the city, Alida was shaking as she unlocked the door to her tiny Brooklyn apartment.

She ran straight to the bathroom, turned the shower on scalding hot, and scrubbed her skin until it was raw and red. She needed to wash away the scent of his cologne, the memory of his hands.

Suddenly, a violent pounding echoed from the front door.

"Alida! Open this door you little bitch!" Belva's shrill voice pierced the thin walls. "Mortimer wants his money!"

Heavy thuds followed-the sound of men kicking the wood.

Alida wrapped a towel tightly around herself, her heart dropping into her stomach. She grabbed her phone with wet, trembling hands and dialed the only person she trusted.

"Aunt Martha," Alida choked out. "They're at my door."

"Fire escape. Now," Martha's voice was sharp and commanding. "I'm two blocks away. Meet me at the diner alley."

Alida dropped the phone. She threw on jeans and a sweater, grabbed her purse—the check Jax had contemptuously shoved back at her was still inside—and ran to the window.

The front door splintered with a loud crack.

Alida threw her leg over the windowsill and scrambled onto the rusted iron fire escape. She climbed down as fast as she could, her hands scraping against the rough metal.

She hit the alley floor just as Belva burst into the apartment above. Alida sprinted toward the diner.

A beat-up Ford sedan screeched to a halt. The passenger door flew open. Alida dove inside.

Martha slammed on the gas.

"Call your father," Martha ordered, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror.

Alida dialed the hospital room. When Arthur answered, she forced a bright tone, swallowing the tears that threatened to choke her. "Dad? I got the exchange program. I'm leaving for London today. I'm so sorry I can't say goodbye in person."

"Oh, my brave girl," Arthur coughed. "I'm so proud of you. Go. Don't worry about me."

Alida hung up and buried her face in her hands, weeping silently.

Martha pulled up to a dimly lit industrial loading zone two miles from the main passenger terminals of JFK Airport. She shoved a thick envelope into Alida's lap. "I’ve kept this emergency kit ready since Mortimer first threatened you. I just had to call in a life-debt to activate the flight. Inside is a passport belonging to a girl who passed away three years ago-you look exactly like her photo. There's also a boarding pass for a commercial cargo flight leaving for Heathrow in twenty minutes. They won't ask questions. Go."

Alida hugged her aunt fiercely. She pulled the fifty-thousand-dollar check from her purse and shoved it into Martha's pocket. "Pay for his surgery. Please."

"Go!" Martha yelled.

Alida grabbed her bag and ran through the sliding glass doors, not looking back.

On the highway leading to the airport, Jax's Maybach was weaving through traffic at a hundred miles an hour.

His phone buzzed on the dashboard. "Sir," the assistant's voice came through the speaker. "She ditched the cab in Brooklyn and switched to an unmarked sedan. We just tracked it to the JFK cargo perimeter."

Jax's jaw locked. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He swerved hard to the right, cutting across three lanes to catch the airport exit ramp.

He was entirely focused on the road ahead, his mind consumed by the image of that humiliating note.

He didn't see the massive eighteen-wheeler in the oncoming lane until it was too late.

The truck's front left tire exploded with a sound like a bomb. The massive vehicle violently swerved, crashing through the concrete median barrier.

The truck cab loomed over Jax's windshield like a mountain of steel.

Jax's pupils dilated. He yanked the steering wheel violently to the right.

The Maybach avoided a head-on collision, but the truck's trailer whipped around, slamming into the rear quarter panel of the car.

The impact was catastrophic. The Maybach spun out of control, flipping end over end. Metal shrieked as it tore apart. The car slammed into the retaining wall, the airbags deploying in a cloud of white powder.

Jax's head struck the side window. Blood poured down his face, blinding him. The world spun, then faded into absolute, crushing darkness.

High above the burning wreckage on the highway, a Boeing 777 pierced the clouds, carrying Alida far away from the nightmare.