CLAIMED BY THE VIPER

CHAPTER 1: The Transaction

I am in his bed, and I know precisely how much he is worth.

Fifty-two million. Unless you count the offshore accounts, I have not revealed them.

The sheets are Egyptian cotton. Thread counts so high it feels like water on my bare skin. His penthouse reeks of pricey cologne, something woodsy and nourishing that must cost more than my rent.

The type of fragrance that does not come knocking. Just lingers.

Like him.

I am counting his breaths in the darkness. Seven seconds in, four seconds out.

Deep sleep.

Good.

I step onto marble when I get out of bed. The cold surges through me, abrupt and concrete. I freeze. Listen.

His breathing doesn't change.

The city of Cincinnati twinkles below from 43 floors above. Manhattan stretched before us like a treasure map. All those people down there with their unsatisfactory lives never got to enjoy this kind of wealth."

I am robbing a man I had s*x with just three hours ago.

I should feel guilty.

I don't.

My thighs ache when I stand. He wasn't gentle. I enumerate the bruises as I go, fingerprints on my hips, a bite on my shoulder, that tenderness of having been thoroughly owned.

If they have any evidence that can prove I am implicated, I'll consider it when I'm cashing the money in my office.

It's always worth it.

The laptop sits on his desk. Closed. Password-protected. But of course, I saw him type it just now while pretending to touch up my lipstick in the bathroom mirror.

V-I-T-A-L-E-1-9-8-7

Arrogant. Using his own name.

Guys like Jason Hale believe nothing can hurt them.

I padded across the room on silent feet. Seventeen dings before this one taught me how to come into a room without making a sound.

How to become a ghost.

The laptop snapped open with a quiet click.

I wait. Count to ten.

Nothing.

Financial files. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations. Everyone likes he's presenting a gift.

Too easy.

The idea murmurs in my head. I ignore it.

I plugged in the USB drive. Progress bar crawls. Two percent. Four percent.

Behind me, the sheets rustled.

Fuck.

Every muscle locks. I don't turn. Don't breathe.

Prey instinct.

"Looking for something?"

His voice. Awake. Amused.

Before even assembling any fear, the ice pools inside my veins. My heart is banging against my ribs, and I pray you can hear it.

I force myself to turn.

Slowly.

Jason Vitale is propped up in a hospital bed. Watching me. Completely naked. Completely calm.

The lights of the city cast him in hues of blue and shadow. Six-foot-two controlled violence. Dark hair I remember pulling. Eyes I can't quite read.

He's not surprised.

He's been waiting.

My stomach is dropping.

"I asked you a question, Maya."

He knows my name.

My real name.

Not Claire. Not the pseudonym I cobbled together for this gig.

Maya.

The room tilts.

"Who are you?" I whisper.

He smiles. Slow. Predatory.

"The man whose house you just tried to rob.

"Jason Vitale," he says.

The name stops my heart. Vitale.

I know that name. My father knew that name.

Viktor taught me that name.

Enemy. But I keep my face blank. Professional.

"Should I know you?"

"You should. Your uncle certainly does."

He stands. Walks toward me. Unhurried. "And the guy who waited three months for you to make a move."

Three months.

Before tonight. Before I selected him. Before everything.

He knew.

"You're wondering how." He read my face. How I knew you'd come after me. How I knew your name. How I've been following you since you punched Marcus Dubois in Paris."

He's close now. Too close.

I should run.

But there's nowhere to go.

"What do you want?" My voice doesn't shake. Professional pride.

"Want?" He stops inches away. Heat radiates off his skin. My perfume is still on him. "I want what I wanted the first time I saw you do something.

"Which is?"

"You."

The word lands like a punch.

"But not for evening," he went on. "Not for whatever momentary enjoyment you exchange." I want a partnership."

I laugh. Can't help it. "You want to join forces with the woman who is also trying to con you?"

"No," he reached past me. Closes the laptop. "I want to team up with Maya Konstantin. Daughter of Viktor Konstantin. Bratva princess turned professional grifter. The one who has already gotten away with forty-three million over the past three years."

My father's name stops me in my tracks.

Nobody knows that name.

I buried it.

"How?"

"I'm very thorough. If I like something, I learn everything about it." He walks to the bed. Sits on the edge. "Here's how this is going to work, Maya. You're going to sit. Listen. Then choose."

"Or?"

"Or I'll call Viktor right now. And let him know where his niece ran away to."

My legs give out. I lower myself into the desk chair because I would otherwise fall.

Viktor.

The man who took care of me when my father died.

The one person I've been running from since the age of eighteen.

The man who would destroy me if and when he found me.

"You're bluffing."

"Try me."

I study his face. Looking for the crack. The tell.

Nothing.

Jason Vitale is a wall.

"What's the partnership?" I ask.

"I need a wife."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"Not a real wife. A weapon. Someone brilliant. Ruthless. Can do whatever I want."

He stands. Walks to the bar. Doubles up on the scotch like this is a board meeting.

Like I'm not trapped.

"You have a reputation, Maya. Seventeen marks. Not a single one of them had even an inkling until you disappeared. You're that

good."

"And what do I get?"

"Immunity. I make your crimes disappear. New identity. Viktor won't find you because, as far as the world is concerned, Maya Konstantin will be dead." And more money than you could steal in ten lifetimes.

"For how long?"

"Two years. Maybe three. It just depends on how fast we crush my competition.

"And after?"

"After you walk away. Free. Rich. Alive."

It's too good.

Which means it's a trap.

"And if I refuse?"

He steps closer. So tight I have to lean my head back.

"Next, I'll pass you off to Viktor. He has a bounty on his head. Two million. You stole from him too. He wants to make an example."

Fear flickers through me. Sharp. Cold.

He sees it.

"Or," he goes on, "I'll hand you over to the FBI. They'd be thrilled to get an audience with the woman responsible for 17 unsolved heists."

He knows everything.

Every crime. Every sin.

"So," his voice dropped. "What's it going to be, Maya? Prison? Viktor? Or me?"

I guzzle the scotch in one burning gulp.

Look him in the eye.

"I want half of whatever we rob."

He laughs. Rich. Genuine.

"You want to negotiate?"

"I always negotiate."

"Fine. Forty percent."

"Fifty."

"Forty-five. Final offer."

I extend my hand. "Deal."

He takes it. His hand completely envelops mine.

If I wanted to break every bone, his grip says. But I won't. Because I need you whole.

"One more thing," he says. Still holding my hand.

"What?"

He pulls me up. Against him.

"We consummate the deal. Right now."

"We already f****d tonight,"

"That was you trying to rob. This is us pledging to a contract."

My breath catches.

"You want me to f**k you for business."

"I need you to understand who it is that owns you now."

"Nobody owns,"

He kisses me. Hard. Claiming.

I fight for half a second.

My brain screams: Mistake. Trap. End.

But my body?

My body kisses back just as passionately.

It's because I've been running for three years.

And I'm so f*****g tired.

He lifts me onto the desk. The laptop thuds on the ground.

His hands are everywhere. Relearning territory. But this time it's different.

Now, for once, we both know what we are.

Liars. Thieves. Monsters.

And we're doing this anyway.

He kisses my neck, down my throat. Teeth scraping. Marking.

"Say it," he growls.

"Say what?"

His hand moves down between my legs. Finds me wet. Damn him.

"Say you're mine."

I should resist. Should fight.

Instead: "I'm yours."

"Again."

"I'm yours."

"Good girl."

He takes me to the desk. No gentleness. Just transaction.

My pleasure in his control.

My freedom for his protection.

But halfway through, something shifts.

His pace slows. His hands are gentle.

He's looking at me. Really looking.

"You're so f*****g beautiful when you give in," he murmurs.

"I'm not surrendering."

"Liar."

He's right.

I am surrendering.

Not my body. That was gone hours ago.

My control. My walls. I've been wearing it for three years.

It's cracking.

And I don't even care.

I come first. Hating myself. Loving it.

He follows. Staring into my face the entire time.

Then he does something unexpected.

He doesn't let go.

Just hold me. Forehead pressed to mine. Breathing hard.

"I've waited three months to get this," he says.

"For what? s*x?"

"For you to be mine. Really mine."

"That's not,"

"It is. You just don't know it yet."

He carries me to bed. Tucks me against him.

I should run.

Should kill him.

Should do anything but this, lying in his arms, safe.

But I don't move.

"Sleep," he commands. "Tomorrow, we discuss how to vanish you.

"Viktor will come for me."

"Let him try. He will have to come over my dead body."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you well enough. Survivor. Liar. Fighter. Exactly what I need? Exactly what I want."

His breathing evens out.

In seven seconds. Out of four seconds.

I count them in the darkness.

My eyes close.

For the first time in three years, I have a sense of security at bedtime.

Which is what makes it the most dangerous of all.

Because safety is an illusion.

And Jason Vitale is the most attractive trap.

But maybe,

Perhaps getting caught by the right predator is better than running forever.

Perhaps I could use a monster like this.

I fell asleep wondering: Who made the bigger mistake tonight, you or me?

When I finally woke up, hours later again cocooned in silk and strong arms, I realized one thing.

I don't care.

Mistake or not.

Trap or not.

I'm choosing this.

I'm choosing him.

And that's the most sincere thing I've said in three years.