The Annihilator (Dark Verse #5)(3)

Terrified, filled with a deep-rooted instinct for survival, she jumped back into the maze, and pressed herself into the wall, running toward relative safety. Whoever had issues with her buyer, she didn't want any part of it. Knowing she was visible from the elevated ground, she somehow managed to crouch and run, making herself as small as possible, her breaths heavy as her arms strained behind her back in the restraints.
Finding a corner away from the direct line of sight of the seating area, she straightened, catching her breath, her eyes wildly scanning for any danger.
And she felt a blade touch the nape of her neck.
Stilling, her body fraught with tension and her heart fraught with fear, she froze.
The blade traveled down the line of her spine, the sharp point just on the surface of the skin. A little pressure and it would rip her open. She closed her eyes, the sensation inducing fear and something else inside her, hoping against hope the killer didn't torture her.
She felt a warm, tall body press into her front as the blade kept traveling over her back, and she clenched her eyes shut, her arms shaking.
A breath on the side of her neck, the scent of something familiar in her nose, and the voice of death in her ear.
"Eyes, flamma."
Her eyes flew open, shock, something else filling her system as she tilted her head back.
Devilish, mismatched eyes locked with hers through a mask, and her breath caught.
He'd come.
He'd come for her.
He'd killed for her.
Lyla began to sob, intense, acute relief flooding her body.
As his blade ripped through the restraints holding her wrists, she launched herself into his chest, feeling his body freeze and she clung to him, her tears wetting his shirt, his scent ensconcing her, his warmth chasing the chill from her bones.
She felt one of his hands hold her wrists behind her—similar to the restraints but somehow she didn't feel bound—the other hand coming to grip her jaw. His thumb traced her lips before tracking the tears on her cheek, his gaze watching her cry in something akin to fascination.
His lips came to her cheek, his tongue darting out to lick her tears, before he pulled back, watching her with such innate possession she felt it in her marrows.
"I didn't think you'd come," she whispered in the space between their lips, her body overcome with the emotions she'd felt in the last few minutes.
His gaze intensified, and he leaned down, speaking right against her mouth, his words brushing her lips but barely, so close she felt them on her skin, a promise and the threat all in one sentence both claiming and capturing her.
"I'll always come for you."




Chapter twoLyla, Present Day


The monster was going to die.
She sighed inwardly, watching the middle-aged man old enough to be her father walking toward her in the auction room after winning his bid. The dark ambiance amplified by the strobes of light didn’t hide either his good looks or his dripping wealth. Well, he had to be wealthy to get a foot in the auction door, and his looks didn’t mean a thing. She’d been with worse. More importantly, she knew better than most how the worst monsters lurked beneath a pretty face. They came below to this hellhole to live out their most detestable fantasies, ripped and shredded and went back to their facades above of being upstanding, moral citizens with wives and families and picket fences. She hated those kind the most. It was easier to deal with a monster who was a monster upfront and not a snake in the grass.
The man’s eyes took in her form on display in the translucent robe, going from her neck down her ample breasts down to her waxed mound down to her painted toes, and even after so many times, she barely controlled her flinch at the lecherous perusal.
She knew why they bid on her. She was a rarity, an exotic natural redheaded delight in a sea of blondes and brunettes, and she was attractive. She brought in good fucking money at every bid, which was exactly why the organizers kept putting her up on the stage and the idiots kept risking their lives. They all thought they’d be the one to get away with it, blinded by their power and arrogance.
They were wrong. For six years, they had been wrong, every single one of them, and there were over a dozen corpses to speak for it.
Before she could fall into her thoughts, she schooled her expression to the one of serene calmness that her early handlers had taught her.

“You are soft, inviting. Look pretty, lower your chin, and stay silent.”

The man—she was calling him Fifteen in her head since he was the fifteenth man to buy her at the auction—stepped close to her, taking a lock of her long, wavy hair in his hands.
Oh, he shouldn’t have touched the hair.
She didn’t voice the thought.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asked with a smooth grin, the lasciviousness in his eyes naked enough for her to know exactly what he was thinking.
“Lyla,” she spoke quietly, exactly at the volume she had been trained to talk at.
Every girl got trained in a way that suited their looks to make them seem most appealing. For Lyla, everything was supposed to be soft, docile, meek—her voice, her mannerisms, her demeanor. She had to give off sexy siren and sweet submissive vibes all at once.
One of her only friends, Malini, had been trained exactly in the opposite way. She was bold and forward. She’d been told to behave wildly, to make a man want to tame her. A small sliver of amusement spiraled through her at the thought. The trainers had it all wrong. It was all an act they did. Malini was the gentlest, sweetest soul. Lyla could not remember the number of times she had sought out her care when the other girl had soothed her in ways she imagined mothers or sisters soothed their loved ones—with light touches and soft words and enough love to make her want to see another day. But she hadn’t seen her friend in a few months, and when she’d asked around, one of the handlers told her a man had taken her for a long contract. That could mean years before she saw her again, if she ever saw her at all.