Chapter 2 The Devil's Proposal

Makros Crete raised a delicate brow as the girl crumpled to the ground with a thud. He looked at his hands as if they belonged to another body. Then, the corner of his lips twitched. He could have caught her. Should have, perhaps. But he didn't, because he never did anything he didn't want to do. Crouching slightly, he watched her. He still loomed over most men, even hunched like this. His gaze darted to the head of the table which was now nothing more than a pool of blood and shattered bone. A man had walked away from this room a few moments before. A man who, under different circumstances, might have presented a challenge because he was clever, experienced, and dangerous. But the fool had been in a rush. He saw an opportunity. A rare one. A delicious one. His laughter was low and full-bodied, the kind that came from deep in the belly of amusement. This might prove to be his trickiest move yet. His gaze dropped once more to the unconscious girl. Leila Crawford. Like father, like daughter. When she walked in with such defiance in her eyes, he thought she would pull out a gun and take him out. He had expected a leather-wearing bimbo with long blonde hair and thick fake lashes. Instead, he got this. A red-haired bombshell in a Barbie-pink suit, her lips designed to drive a man insane. He laughed, straightening up to his full height. Oh, this was going to be fun. The ride back to his temporary apartment was uneventful. Leila stirred once or twice, but she was too far gone to do much else. By the time they reached the house, night had fallen, settling on Florida like a damp cloak. Makros didn't like it here. Two weeks on American soil was already too much. Their laws were suffocating, their people arrogant. Everything about this place grated against his nature. As Leila regained consciousness, the first thing she noticed was the smell of blood. It clung to her skin, her hair, and lungs—thick and smothering. The sheets beneath her were unfamiliar and smooth silk against her bare arms. The second thing she'd noticed was him. Makros Crete stood with his back to her, a towel slung low on his hips. The glow of the bedside lamp threw his shadow against the wall, outlining the heavy cut of his shoulders. The sharp grooves of muscle trailed down his spine. A long, jagged scar marred his back—a brutal reminder that he was not like other men. A sudden gasp escaped her lips. Makros turned at the sound, ice-blue eyes locking onto hers. A slow smirk curled his mouth. “You Americans,” he drawled, slipping into his pants with ease. “Did no one ever teach you that it's rude to stare at naked men?” Leila blinked rapidly, forcing herself to look away. Not that it helped. The image had seared itself into her brain. The taut muscles, the scarred skin, the rawness of him. Generally speaking, it took a well-executed wink and an offer to buy a man wine before she saw this much of one. This time, it had all been laid bare. And damn, what an ass. She swallowed hard. Focus. Her thoughts snapped back into place as reality set in. This was not her bedroom. This was not her home. This was a prison wrapped in luxury. The walls were deep obsidian, sleek and unyielding, with no windows in sight. A single chandelier spilled golden light over the king-sized bed she was trapped in. The sheets smelled expensive—fresh linen and the lingering trace of Makros’s cologne. Woody. Dark. Unfamiliar. Her stomach lurched. She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be dead. Her pulse hammered as she forced herself upright, ignoring the way her muscles screamed in protest. “Stay the fuck away from me,” she spat, her voice hoarse but venomous. Makros laughed. A genuine, rich sound. He moved toward her with that slow, predatory looseness of a man who feared nothing, and expected only submission. Leila flinched as he sat on the edge of the bed, too close, too casual. “I'd appreciate it if I were you,” he said lightly. “Could've left you with the others. Could've painted the walls with your brains.” He tilted his head. “But here you are—alive.” His words twisted in her chest. Her family was gone. All gone and it was because of him. The rage hit fast, hot and all-consuming. She didn't think, only reacted. Her leg shot out, connecting squarely with his groin. Makros inhaled a sharp breath, his body doubling slightly at the impact. Not enough. She swung, a flurry of fists aimed at his throat, his face, anywhere she could strike. It was a desperate attempt to bury her fury somewhere he'd actually feel it. She didn't get far. A crushing grip closed around her throat, slamming her back into the mattress. Her lungs seized. The weight of Makros was on her, his fingers curled tightly enough to remind her how easily he could take her life. “Still have some fight in you,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “Admirable. Stupid, but admirable.” Leila dug her nails deep into his wrist, but it was hopeless. He was too strong. Her vision began to blur, black spots creeping in. Then suddenly he let her go. She coughed, gasping for air, her body scrambling to remember its functions. Makros sank back, hooking his elbows over his knees as he considered her. Entertained. Curious. As if she were some compelling science experiment. “See?” he said smugly. “You are a quick learner.” Her hand shook as she wiped her mouth. Fear or exhaustion or flat-out rage, who knew which had won the territorial tug-of-war in her? Makros leaned toward the nightstand and handed her a glass of water. Leila looked up at him like he'd stepped off a flying saucer. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He shrugged. “You look like you're about to pass out.” “I'd rather die of thirst than take anything from you.” His smile widened. “Dramatic.” She turned the corner then, spitting on him. “Go to hell.” Something in his expression shifted. The humor left his face, replaced with something sinister. Then, as casually as if he were discussing the weather, he said, “Marry me.” Leila went still. For a second, she thought she'd misheard. Then the words clicked, and a violent shudder wracked her frame. “What?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” “No, I haven't.” “You killed my family,” she seethed. “And now you–” “I think,” he cut in, his icy fingers brushing her jaw with precision. “That you have no options.” She jerked away from his touch, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “You're insane.” Makros laughed, low and knowing. “I am.” He leaned in, lips hovering near hers. “You either marry me…” Something cold pressed against her temple. “…or I put a bullet through that gorgeous head of yours.” Silence. Leila's pulse slammed in her ears. The weight of the gun, and the conviction in his voice let her know that he meant it. Every word. For the first time since she'd awoken in this nightmare, one thing became horrifyingly clear. There was no escape.