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  Devil’s Bargain

  Natasha Knight

  Copyright © 2019 by Natasha Knight

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About This Book

  One night.

  His rules.

  It’s a Devil’s Bargain.

  * * *

  She calls it a devil’s bargain. I call it a deal she can’t refuse.

  * * *

  I was owed a debt and I expected payment. That payment? One night in my bed. My rules. The debt cleared, and she could walk away.

  * * *

  There are worse things. And besides, debtors can’t be choosers.

  * * *

  The night started as it should. She obeyed as she should.

  * * *

  But then something happened. Something I was unprepared for. And what I saw changed everything.

  * * *

  I broke my own rules after that. And I didn’t keep my end of the bargain. Because walking away was no longer an option I would grant her, no matter the cost.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Hawk

  2. Melissa

  3. Hawk

  4. Melissa

  5. Hawk

  6. Melissa

  7. Hawk

  8. Melissa

  9. Hawk

  10. Melissa

  11. Melissa

  12. Hawk

  13. Melissa

  14. Hawk

  15. Melissa

  16. Hawk

  17. Melissa

  18. Hawk

  19. Melissa

  20. Hawk

  21. Hawk

  22. Melissa

  23. Melissa

  24. Hawk

  25. Hawk

  26. Melissa

  27. Melissa

  28. Hawk

  29. Melissa

  30. Melissa

  31. Melissa

  32. Hawk

  33. Melissa

  34. Hawk

  35. Melissa

  36. Hawk

  37. Melissa

  38. Hawk

  Epilogue

  Thank you

  Sample from Taken

  Also by Natasha Knight

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Melissa

  * * *

  It’s past midnight when I get home, the perfect clear sky black but for the sliver of the moon. The walk from the bus stop is only two blocks, but this isn’t the best neighborhood and I’m on my guard.

  The one thing I can consistently rely on is that the streetlamps will always be broken. I wonder if the township even bothers to fix them anymore.

  Twice on the short walk I catch myself glancing over my shoulder, the streets quieter than they should be.

  When I turn onto the walkway up to my house, the motion detector sets off the light and I reach into my tote to dig out my keys.

  Once more, as I climb the three steps up to the porch of the quaint, two-story yellow house, I look behind me.

  But I’m alone.

  And all the windows of all the houses are dark and the only sound is that of my keys jangling as I finally find them at the bottom of the bag.

  I insert the key into the top lock but when I turn it, nothing happens.

  Did I forget to lock it? It’s happened before, when I’m not paying attention. Although I’m usually careful.

  I dismiss it, insert another key into the second lock. That one is locked.

  Relieved, I push the door open and step into the house and before I’ve even pulled the key out or closed the door, I know something’s wrong.

  It’s the smell of the place. It’s different. Subtle, but it doesn’t belong.

  Aftershave.

  And not just one scent.

  Instinct tells me to run. To get out. But before I can process, the light goes on and it’s simultaneous to someone clearing their throat.

  It’s only then that I manage to get my legs to work.

  But I don’t even get out of the house before a hand clamps down around my arm and tugs me back inside as the door is slammed shut.

  I stumble, out of breath for that smallest effort, and I don’t know how I don’t scream.

  How, with my heart hammering against my chest, I somehow don’t scream as I look at the man sitting on the armchair, a worn-out antique that came with the rental.

  As I take in the two who stand in my living room.

  The third who’s holding onto me, his grip like a vice.

  “Let me go!”

  I struggle.

  The one in the chair watches and I can see he’s entertained when his lips curve upward.

  He gives a nod of his head and I wonder if he timed his order for the man to release me because the moment he does, I fall flat on my ass. I’m surprised he doesn’t laugh when I do.

  “Finished?” he asks when I look up at him.

  He’s wearing a suit and the others are dressed in black jeans and black shirts.

  I don’t know how I don’t move or scream. It’s like I can’t. Like I’m paralyzed. Even my vocal cords are paralyzed.

  “Ms. Doe,” the man in the armchair says.

  They know my name.

  Of course, they know my name.

  Men like this, they’re not petty thieves. Not here to steal things. Not at this house anyway.

  “Are you finished?” he asks.

  I swallow. Nod.

  He gestures to the man looming above me who once again closes his hand around my arm and hauls me to my feet before releasing me to stand on my own.

  Armchair Man checks his watch. “You’re late.”

  “Who…” But my question dies away as he rises to stand.

  He’s huge. A giant. Bigger even than the one beside me, and I find myself shrinking back.

  “And now we’re behind schedule,” he says casually, simply continuing his sentence.

  I spring back as he approaches.

  He grins and I get the feeling he’s used to this. To people being afraid of him. I get the feeling he likes it.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  “I’m not the one you have to worry about, sweetheart,” he says with a wink.

  He gestures with a single nod to the man at the door to open it.

  I look outside at the sedan that’s just pulled up to the curb. It looks totally out of place here in this neighborhood. It’s got to be worth more than several years of mortgage payments on any of these houses.

  The driver gets out, leans against the car and lights a cigarette. A second car, a replica of this one, pulls up behind it.

  “Coming?” Armchair Man asks me.

  I turn back to find him watching me. He gestures for me to go to the car and he’s not smiling anymore.

  We both know I don’t have a choice, but still, I can’t just go with him.

  “This is a mistake. I—”

  “Hawk doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Are you walking on your own or am I walking you?”

  “Hawk? I don’t know—”

  “Walk or be walked, Ms. Doe?”

  I swallow.

  He gives me that grin again and leans in close like we’re old friends.

  But I know men like him.

  I grew up with them.

  And there’s nothing remotely friendly about them.

  “I suggest you walk. The other way isn’t so pleasant.”

  I also know there’s no benefit to doing as they say. No leniency for obedience. And so I try
again to run because I can’t not.

  This time, I make it out onto the porch and it’s when I’m setting foot on the front lawn that he catches me. Armchair Man. And his grip, it’s different than the other man’s. Harder.

  “Please,” I plead, tugging to free myself. To somehow pry his fingers from me.

  “For a minute there, I thought you’d be smarter,” he says, beginning to lead me down the cracked pavement to the waiting sedan, my struggles seemingly inconsequential.

  When we get to the car, I set my hand against the hood, brace myself.

  “Really?” he asks like I’m too stupid for words.

  I meet his eyes and I try once more to free myself. He releases me abruptly, then boxes me in and cocks his head to the side. The look in his eyes is so steely, so cold, it sends ice along my spine.

  “Get in the goddamned car,” he orders, his voice harder.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to obey.

  Instead, he wraps one arm around my middle and a moment later, I’m in the car and he’s beside me, and when we pull away, I hear the locks click into place and that sound, it’s like a foretelling of my future.

  1

  Hawk

  I sip whiskey from my place at the back booth of the auction floor. It’s the quarterly draw, a party I throw for my associates, for lack of a better word. We’ve had a good quarter, and this is their reward.

  Every man who’s walked into this room is captured by the many cameras. Every name noted. Every bid recorded in the ledger.

  Piano music sets the backdrop, the collection of voices loud over it even though most speak in whispers during the breaks in entertainment. These, too, are recorded, and they’ll be dissected later.

  Pretty women serve drinks and anything else required of them as the stage is readied, the next girl taking her place on the raised dais.

  This one, her name is Calla or Cara or something. She looks young, but I’m assured she’s legal. They like young, the men gathered here.

  She’s on offer for one night only, and from the look of her, she’ll bring a high bid.

  I study her face on my screen from the cameras installed behind the curtain. She’s hesitant, to say the least, but Marcus handles it. Marcus’ loan comes due tonight—and I’ve been more than patient—so he’s got some incentive to make sure she gets her sweet little ass on that stage.

  Besides, she’ll be paid handsomely for her time. For the use of her body.

  I watch as she’s situated on the dais that’s set at the very center of the stage. The auctioneer, an old English man, takes his place behind the podium. The gong sounds as the curtains are raised and a hush falls over the room.

  The spotlight shines on the girl and she squints into the bright light, momentarily blinded. Two women peel the cream-colored cloak from her and let it drape at her feet. There’s a swell of approving sounds from the men who are probably all sporting hard-ons for the pretty, young blonde.

  I admit, she is magnificent. Not my type, but magnificent.

  The auctioneer takes in the response and starts the bidding high.

  Good.

  Flesh comes at a cost. One these bastards can afford to pay.

  The elevator doors slide open, drawing my attention. Axel steps out and turns his gaze only momentarily to the stage. He’s about as interested as I am in that girl. These women, it’s too fucking easy with them.

  Calla, or whatever the fuck her name is, is probably creaming herself as she’s turned, bent over, and the numbers being shouted out grow higher and higher.

  I’m more interested in the woman who’s following Axel.

  Well, following isn’t quite the word.

  She’s got a man on either side of her and, for as small as she is, she’s struggling to free herself of them.

  She turns her head this way and that as she takes in the scene. I think she gasps when her gaze falls on the exposed woman on the stage about whom the auctioneer is embellishing the virtues of a virgin ass.

  He’s good.

  He’s very good.

  Because her price just doubled.

  The word virgin never disappoints. I get it. There’s something about being the first man to sink your cock into virgin territory.

  Marcus catches my eye from the side of the stage. He raises his glass to me.

  I raise mine back because this puts me in a good mood. It means I’ll get my money tonight and I won’t have to get my hands dirty for it.

  Contrary to my reputation, I don’t like getting my hands dirty. I will when I need to, but this is easier. Cleaner.

  Axel reaches my table and clears his throat.

  I turn to him. He gestures to the girl to be brought forward.

  “Ms. Doe. Liza’s sister,” he says, sounding almost bored.

  I shift my gaze to meet the girl’s frightened one and all I can think for a moment is how her almond-shaped eyes match the color in my glass so perfectly.

  Whiskey eyes.

  Pretty. Very pretty.

  With smooth olive skin and hair so dark it’s almost black.

  The photo I saw didn’t do her justice.

  “Let her go. She’s not going anywhere, are you, sweetheart?”

  I don’t expect an answer.

  When they release her, she brings the huge bag that was apparently on her shoulder in front of her.

  She’s clutching it like armor between herself and me.

  “Get rid of that.” I gesture with a quick nod of my head to the tote. I want to see the rest of her.

  When one of the men reaches to take it, she pulls back, hisses at him. Actually hisses.

  I chuckle, sip from my glass, and watch, surprised to be entertained.

  In the background, I register the gavel coming down once. Twice. The number is making me very happy.

  When the bag is gone, she looks back at me, her face flushed. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands but eventually closes her fingers over the back of the chair in front of her.

  At least she’s not making a spectacle of herself. Not yet, anyway. Not that anyone here would help her if she made a run for it.

  She’s wearing a heavy jacket. Too heavy for this time of year.

  “Sit.”

  “Are you Mr. Hawk? I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “Sit.”

  Axel mutters a curse under his breath, takes her arm, pulls out the chair she’s gripping and puts her in it.

  “That’s better,” I say.

  He stands to the side, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. His eyes narrow as he scans the crowd and they fall on one man in particular.

  I look at the man, make note of who it is.

  “Errand?” I ask him.

  He turns to me, gives me one brief nod.

  “I’ll take care of this,” I say to him. “Go.”

  He looks at me. “You sure?”

  I glance at the pretty girl sitting stiffly across from me and give him a one-sided grin. “I don’t think Ms. Doe will give me any trouble, will you?”

  She just stares at me.

  Axel chuckles. He makes his way through the crowd and it’s like the parting of the sea as he approaches. Which is why he works for me. He’s one mean son of a bitch. It’s good to have him on my side.

  The noise of the crowd intensifies as Calla is removed from the stage and the curtains are closed. It’ll be a little while before the next one is put on the block.

  I turn my full attention to the woman before me.

  “Hawk,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Just Hawk. Not Mr. Hawk.”

  “Oh.”

  “Melissa Doe. Strange name.”

  “This is a mistake.” She reaches into the giant tote, which is lying at her feet.

  One of the soldiers puts a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

  “What—”

  I give him a shake of my head.

  He steps back.

  I don’
t think she’ll pull a gun out of the thing. She’s not the type to even own one.

  She gives him a nasty look and resumes digging around to pull out her wallet. “Look,” she says, opening it, taking out her driver’s license and holding it out for me to see. Her hand trembles. “My last name is Chase. You’ve made a mistake.”

  When I reach to take the license, she pulls it away. I raise my eyebrows and hold out my hand, palm up.

  She looks at it, and, very reluctantly, puts the driver’s license in it.

  “I don’t know you. I don’t know—”

  “You’ll get to know me,” I say without looking up, studying the license instead, turning it over. “This isn’t a very good fake. You’ve never been pulled over?”

  “What?” She flushes, eyes huge and panicked. “It’s not fake.” Her voice is a little higher.

  I tuck it into my jacket pocket.

  “That’s mine,” she starts weakly.

  Without taking my eyes off her, I raise my hand and one of the servers comes over with an empty crystal tumbler. I pour whiskey into it, push it toward Melissa and think how much I like the sound of her name. It’s soft and sexy and her lips are full, and I can smell the fear coming off her and fuck, I take a deep breath in because nothing—and I mean nothing—gets my dick hard as that sweet scent.

  “Drink,” I say.