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PHOEBE POV
God, what did I just witness? A murder.
I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut as another gunshot echoed off the damp alley walls.
The heavy thud of a body hitting the pavement made my blood run cold.
I was just trying to throw out the trash behind the library. Before I witnessed this unfortunate event, all my life I had always kept my head down, worked night shifts, and avoided trouble. But right now, I was pinned against a cold brick wall, staring at a dead man in a pool of blood.
Standing over him was Kingsley Falcone.
Everyone in the city knew his name. He was lethal, impossibly powerful, and controlled everything dark in this city. His black coat was soaked with rain, and his eyes locked onto mine the second my trash bag hit the floor with a loud plastic scrape.
I didn't even have time to scream.
In two long, terrifying strides, he bridged the distance between us. His massive frame completely blocked out the alley light, trapping me against the wet bricks. Up close, he smelled like gunpowder, expensive cologne, and rain. A streak of blood was wiped across his sharp jawline.
"Please," I choked out, my teeth chattering from terror. "I didn't see anything. I swear."
I expected him to yell and raise his gun straight to my forehead. But he didn't. He only stared down at my trembling face with a look so heavy it made my knees want to give out.
His leather-gloved hand shot out and gripped my wrist. It was tight, like iron, but he didn't tear my skin.
"What's your name?" His low voice cut straight through the thunder.
"Phoebe," I sobbed, trying to pull back. "Phoebe North."
He looked down at my library badge, then hauled me toward a sleek black SUV idling at the curb. He yanked the back door open and pushed me toward the leather seat.
"Get in," he ordered.
"No! Please, just let me go!" I panicked, digging my heels into the wet pavement. "I won't tell anyone, I promise!"
Kingsley leaned in close, his face inches from mine, his grip on my wrist tightening just enough to pin me in place.
"You're a witness to a murder, Phoebe," he growled low in his throat. "You aren't going anywhere."
He shoved me into the back seat and slammed the door shut.
The heavy glass completely cut off the sound of the rain. I scrambled for the door handle, yanking on it frantically, but the child locks were already engaged. I was trapped.
A second later, the driver’s door opened. Kingsley got into the front seat, his massive frame making the luxury vehicle feel tiny. Rain glistened on his shoulders. He didn't even look at me in the rearview mirror as he shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas.
The SUV tires screeched against the wet asphalt as we sped away from the alley, leaving the corpse behind in the dark.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice cracked. I pressed myself against the far door, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "If you want money, I don't have any. I’m just an archivist. I make minimum wage!"
"Shut up, Phoebe," he said coldly, his eyes watching the road ahead. "If I wanted to hurt you or rob you, you’d already be dead in that dumpster."
"Then let me out!"
"No." He checked his side mirror, turning down a private, gated driveway. "My men are clearing the scene. Until I know for sure nobody saw you see me, you stay where I can watch you."
The car stopped in front of a massive, dark high-rise building. Kingsley killed the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stepped out into the rain. Before I could even think about crawling over to the driver's side to escape, my door clicked open.
Kingsley reached in, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out into the cold night air.
He didn't drag me roughly. His hand held my wrist with a firm, steady pressure that made it impossible to twist away, but didn't leave a bruise. He led me through a private elevator directly up to the top floor.
The doors slid open directly into a sprawling, modern penthouse. The walls were black and glass, looking out over the glowing city lights below.
Kingsley finally let go of my wrist. I stumbled back a step, holding my arm against my chest where his warm fingers had been.
He unbuttoned his soaked black coat, tossed it onto a leather chair, and began unbuttoning his damp white shirt.
I gasped, taking another step back. "What are you doing?"
Kingsley paused, glancing over his shoulder at me. Under the dim lights of the apartment, I noticed the deep, dark red stain spreading across the side of his ribs. He was bleeding.
"Relax, little bird," he muttered, his voice gravelly as he pulled his shirt off, revealing a chest covered in hard muscle and old scars. "I need to fix this cut before I deal with you."
He walked toward a dark hallway, then stopped and looked back over his shoulder at my frozen, terrified stance.
"There's a lock on the front door that requires my fingerprint," he said flatly. "Don't bother trying to run. Sit on the couch and don't touch anything."
I stood alone in the middle of his massive living room, shivering in my damp clothes. I should have been planning a way to break a window or escape. But as I looked down the hallway where he disappeared, my chest tightened with a strange, terrifying pulse of adrenaline.
He was a murderer. A deadly monster.
So why did the memory of his warm, steady grip on my wrist make my skin burn all the way to my heart?
