Bound By Blood To The Mafia King

The thick steel needle slid out of the vein in Ashlyn's forearm.

The immediate rush of blood back into the punctured tissue brought a sharp, stinging bite. She bit down hard on her pale lower lip, the metallic taste of her own blood grounding her.

The nurse pressed a sterile cotton swab ruthlessly against the puncture wound. A sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit Ashlyn. The sterile white walls of the penthouse medical room tilted. Her body swayed, her center of gravity completely thrown off by the massive loss of blood.

"Pathetic."

The voice came from the hospital bed. Diana Robinson let out a cold, dry scoff. Her lips were cracked and pale, but her eyes burned with absolute disdain.

"You're just a greedy bitch selling your blood for dirty dollars," Diana spat, her voice raspy but full of venom. "Don't act like you're dying."

Ashlyn lowered her eyelashes. The thick lashes perfectly concealed the absolute, freezing indifference in her eyes.

When she looked up, her shoulders were hunched. She shrank back into the oversized hospital gown, her hands trembling as she clutched the fabric over her chest.

"I... I'm sorry, Diana," Ashlyn whispered, her voice shaking violently. "I just... I feel a little weak."

The fragile, overly dramatic display infuriated Diana. The heart monitor next to the bed beeped faster. Diana grabbed the half-empty plastic water cup from her bedside table and hurled it with all her remaining strength.

The hard plastic grazed Ashlyn's shoulder and slammed into the floor. Water exploded across the pristine tiles, splashing against Ashlyn's bare ankles.

Ashlyn gasped, taking a quick, stumbling step backward. She pressed her back against the wall, eyes wide, playing the role of the utterly terrified, helpless victim to perfection.

The private doctor stepped forward, his face stern. He raised a hand to calm Diana's erratic breathing.

"That's enough," the doctor said sharply. He turned to the nurse. "Help Miss Grant out to the living room. She needs to rest."

Ashlyn swatted the nurse's reaching hand away.

"I can walk," she murmured, her voice barely a breath.

She pushed her weight against the heavy, soundproofed door of the medical room. It clicked shut behind her, cutting off Diana's heavy breathing.

The hallway of the penthouse was freezing. The cold air conditioning blasted against her thin cotton gown. Ashlyn violently shivered. A fine layer of cold sweat broke out across her forehead.

She leaned her shoulder against the freezing marble wall, dragging her feet forward. With every step she took, her heart hammered against her ribs, struggling to pump oxygen through her depleted veins.

Her vision started to blur. At the end of the long corridor, the massive crystal chandelier splintered into dozens of blinding, painful spots of light.

She closed her eyes, forcing her brain to work. Over 600cc. An incredibly dangerous volume that would put any normal person into immediate hypovolemic shock. That's an extra fifty thousand dollars. Her mind calculated the numbers with ruthless precision. The funds would clear by midnight. It was exactly the amount she needed to finalize the acquisition of that shell company on the West Coast.

She reached the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below her, the neon lights of Empire City bled into the dark streets like glowing veins.

A flash of ruthless, predatory ambition crossed her eyes-an expression that did not belong on the face of a twenty-one-year-old college student.

Suddenly, her stomach violently cramped. Acid and bile rushed up her throat. She slapped her hand over her mouth, swallowing down the intense urge to vomit. She leaned her forehead against the freezing glass, gasping for air until the nausea subsided.

Pushing off the window, she continued toward the massive, empty living room. Her low-heeled slippers made absolutely no sound against the thick Persian rug.

The thermostat in the living room was set to a brutal sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Ashlyn wrapped her arms tightly around her torso, her fingernails digging into her own skin to trap whatever body heat she had left.

She walked toward the black leather sofa, ready to collapse.

Out of the corner of her eye, a frantic flashing red light caught her attention. It was the security panel by the front entrance.

Heavy, chaotic footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. Then came the frantic, high-pitched beeping of the biometric lock being forced into override mode.

Ashlyn's muscles locked. Her spine went rigid.

Bang.

The heavy, bulletproof oak door was kicked open with a sickening amount of brute force. The dull thud of wood hitting the wall echoed through the cavernous living room.

The sharp, stinging smell of gunpowder hit Ashlyn's nose first. Then came the heavy, metallic stench of fresh blood. The combination was so thick it made her lungs burn. She held her breath.

A massive, towering silhouette stood in the doorway, blocking out all the light from the corridor. His broad shoulders filled the frame.

Ashlyn squinted, her eyes burning. The harsh backlight only allowed her to see the shredded remains of a black leather jacket.

The man stepped into the living room. His heavy tactical boots crushed the expensive rug with a dull, grinding sound. The sheer physical dominance rolling off him made the air in the room feel suffocating.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on.

The harsh light illuminated Alex Robinson's face. His sharp jawline was covered in dirt, grease, and streaks of dried, dark blood.

He had been missing for two months. Dead or alive, no one knew. And now, her employer was standing right in front of her.

Ashlyn's heart stopped for a fraction of a second, then kicked into a frantic, erratic rhythm.

Alex's dark eyes, completely bloodshot and wild, locked onto her instantly. He looked like a feral beast that had just dragged itself back to its cave-exhausted, bleeding, and incredibly dangerous.

Ashlyn knew exactly what to do. She let her knees buckle.

She let the genuine physical weakness of the blood loss take over, amplifying it into a display of absolute, fragile terror.

Alex crossed the massive living room in three long strides. He brought the freezing cold and the stench of death right to her face. He reached out a hand wrapped in a torn, fingerless tactical glove.

A massive wave of vertigo hit Ashlyn. Her legs completely gave out. She pitched forward into the empty air.

Two arms, hard as steel pipes, caught her instantly.

Ashlyn's cheek slammed into his rock-hard chest. Right before the darkness completely swallowed her consciousness, her nose pressed into the collar of his coat, inhaling the familiar, harsh scent of cheap tobacco.

Alex kicked the frosted glass door of the master bathroom open. His heavy tactical boots left dark, wet mud stains across the pristine anti-slip tiles.

He carried Ashlyn's weightless body to the massive marble vanity. He dumped her onto the cold stone surface. His movements were rough, but his large hands carefully avoided the fresh puncture wound wrapped in gauze on her forearm.

He turned his back to her and ripped the shower handle upward. Scalding hot water blasted from the showerhead. Thick, white steam immediately began to fill the enclosed space.

Alex cursed under his breath. He grabbed the collar of his ruined black leather jacket, the leather stiff with dried blood, and ripped it off his shoulders. He threw it onto the expensive glass shelf. The heavy leather hit the glass with a loud, dull smack.

The freezing marble seeped through Ashlyn's thin hospital gown. She shivered violently, her eyebrows pulling together in a tight frown. A tiny, broken whimper escaped her lips.

Alex froze. He was halfway through unbuttoning his filthy shirt. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto her paper-white face. A flash of intense, raw frustration tightened the muscles in his jaw.

He stepped back to the vanity. His rough, calloused fingers grabbed the hem of her hospital gown. The fabric was stained with the blood from his own coat. He needed to get it off her before the dirt infected her needle wound.

The sound of cotton tearing echoed sharply over the roar of the shower.

The physical pull on her clothes, combined with the suffocating heat of the steam, dragged Ashlyn back to consciousness.

She felt a burning hot, rough hand brush against her collarbone. Pure survival instinct kicked in. Her eyes snapped open.

The first thing her vision focused on was Alex's broad, bare chest. The skin was a canvas of brutal violence. Deep purple bruises overlapped with jagged, fresh cuts and thick, raised white scars from older battles.

Ashlyn's heart slammed against her ribs. She scrambled backward, her hands slipping on the wet marble. Her spine slammed hard into the freezing bathroom mirror.

The loud thump made Alex snap his head up.

They locked eyes in the cramped, steam-filled bathroom. The air between them instantly turned to stone.

Ashlyn's gaze dragged upward, following the sharp, tense line of his jaw.

Her pupils dilated to the size of pinpricks. The breath completely vanished from her lungs.

Running across the left side of Alex's previously flawless, hard-angled face was a massive, jagged knife wound. It started just below his eye and slashed violently down to his jawbone.

The flesh had barely begun to scab over. Thick, dark red sutures held the skin together, crawling across his face like a grotesque, mangled centipede. It was horrific.

Behind her wide eyes, Ashlyn's brain fired at lightning speed. That scar would be permanent. It would completely ruin his ability to blend into high-society corporate events. The suture technique was incredibly sloppy, meaning he was operating entirely outside of his usual medical support network. He had been cornered in whatever gang war he had just survived, isolated from his resources. That was a massive, exploitable weakness.

But Helga Caldwell couldn't show that. Ashlyn Grant, the fragile, money-obsessed college student, had to react.

Tears instantly flooded her eyes. Her lower lip began to tremble so violently her teeth chattered.

She sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, slapping both hands over her mouth. A muffled, high-pitched scream of absolute terror ripped from her throat.

Alex saw the sheer horror in her eyes. He saw her body physically recoiling from him, pressing into the glass as if trying to escape a monster.

His hand, which had been reaching out to unbutton the rest of her gown, stopped dead in the air.

The muscle in his jaw ticked. He let out a low, harsh sound that was supposed to be a laugh. The movement pulled at the fresh stitches on his face, twisting the scar into something even more demonic and terrifying.

The steam in the bathroom grew thicker, but the temperature between them plummeted to absolute zero.

Ashlyn pressed her trembling hands against his bare, scarred chest. She pushed. The physical force was weak, but the rejection was absolute.

Alex let her push him. He took a half-step back. The feral heat in his eyes completely died, replaced by a freezing, hollow void. He looked at her exactly the way a man looks at a worthless piece of trash.

He reached blindly to the side, grabbed a dry, thick bath towel, and whipped it hard at her face.

The heavy cotton covered Ashlyn's head entirely, plunging her into darkness and muffling her fake sobs.

Under the towel, Ashlyn instantly dropped the terrified expression. She let out a slow, silent exhale, forcing her racing pulse to steady.

Alex's voice sliced through the sound of the running water. It was completely devoid of emotion, laced with a lethal warning.

"Wash the blood off. Then get the hell out of my sight."

He didn't wait for a response. He spun on his heel and marched out of the bathroom. The heavy metal buckle of his belt slammed against the doorframe.

The frosted glass door was slammed shut with enough force to shake the walls. The condensation on the tiles rained down.

Ashlyn slowly pulled the towel off her head.

She looked at her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, but her eyes were completely dead and calculating.

She reached her hand down to the edge of the marble sink. Her fingertip touched a single drop of dark red blood Alex had left behind. She rubbed the blood between her thumb and index finger, smearing it.

Her mind was already spinning. That scar was the perfect weapon. She knew exactly how to use it to push him over the edge.

Ashlyn pulled the conservative, long-sleeved silk pajamas tightly around her body. The thick fabric perfectly hid the bruised puncture wound on her arm. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the humid bathroom air, and pushed the door open.

She stepped out barefoot onto the hardwood floor of the hallway. She deliberately stomped her heels slightly, making sure the soft thud of her footsteps announced her approach.

In the massive living room, Alex was sitting on the edge of the black leather sofa. He held a heavy, square bottle of high-proof bourbon in his hand. No glass. He tipped the bottle back and took a long, brutal swallow directly from the neck.

He heard her footsteps. He didn't turn around. The muscles in his back were coiled tight beneath his ruined shirt. In the dim, ambient light of the living room, the jagged silhouette of his scarred jaw looked even more menacing.

Ashlyn stopped exactly three steps away from the sofa. The absolute limit of a safe distance. She twisted the hem of her silk top around her fingers, her knuckles turning white, radiating pure, nervous anxiety.

Alex lowered the bottle. He slammed the heavy glass base down onto the solid marble coffee table. The loud crack made Ashlyn physically flinch.

He turned his head slowly. His dark eyes dragged over her like broken glass.

Ashlyn immediately averted her gaze. She let her eyes dart nervously toward his chin, then quickly looked at the floor, acting as if looking at his mangled face for more than a second would give her nightmares.

That blatant, physical display of disgust was the spark that hit the gasoline.

Alex let out a harsh, grating laugh. The sound was like sandpaper rubbing against bone.

"Why are you standing all the way over there?" he sneered, his voice thick with alcohol and venom. "Afraid the ugly is contagious?"

Ashlyn bit down on her lower lip. Tears, perfectly timed, spilled over her lashes and hit the expensive rug. Her shoulders hitched in a violent sob.

"You..." she choked out, her voice shrill, pitching into the tone of an unreasonable, terrified girl. "You look terrifying! You look like a... a monster!"

Alex exploded.

He shot up from the sofa. His massive frame instantly blocked out the overhead lights, casting a huge, suffocating shadow that swallowed Ashlyn whole.

He closed the distance between them in two heavy strides. His tactical boots stomped against the floor. Ashlyn stumbled backward in perfectly choreographed panic, retreating until her spine hit the freezing surface of a concrete structural pillar.

There was nowhere else to go.

Alex's large, calloused hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her jaw like a steel vice. He forced her head up, making her look directly into his ruined, stitched-up face.

The pressure on her bone was agonizing. Ashlyn felt like her jaw was going to snap. She gasped in genuine pain, the tears flowing faster now.

Alex leaned in. His face was inches from hers. The heavy stench of cheap bourbon, dried blood, and raw fury blasted against her nose. His eyes were completely black, swirling with a violent storm.

"This monster face," he gritted out, every syllable dripping with acid, "is what kept me alive on the streets. It's what pays the massive wire transfers into your blood-sucking bank account every month."

Ashlyn's chest tightened. She knew he had taken those hits to pay for Diana's medical bills and to secure his place in the syndicate. But she couldn't show a shred of empathy. She had to be the shallow, ungrateful bitch.

She thrashed against the pillar. Her small hands slapped wildly at his rock-hard forearms, her nails scratching against his skin.

"Let me go!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Let me go!"

She twisted her face, fighting his grip, and screamed the line she had been preparing since the bathroom.

"We're terminating the contract! I never want to see your terrifying face again!"

The air in the living room instantly died.

Alex's body froze completely. His pupils contracted so fast it looked painful. He stared at her as if she had just spoken in a dead language.

Slowly, the pressure on her jaw released. His hand hovered in the air for a second before his fingers curled inward, forming a fist so tight the knuckles popped. Thick blue veins bulged against the back of his hand.

Ashlyn brought her hands up to massage her throbbing, red jaw. She took a ragged breath and threw the final match into the fire.

"I don't even want this month's final payment," she cried, shrinking against the pillar. "I just want to leave this horrible place!"

Alex stared at her. He watched her desperate, pathetic need to escape him. The last shred of human warmth in his eyes completely evaporated, leaving behind nothing but a freezing, lethal emptiness.

He spun around. He lifted his heavy tactical boot and kicked the solid marble coffee table with devastating force.

The heavy stone flipped. The bourbon bottle smashed into pieces. Amber liquid and shards of glass exploded across the floor.

The violent crash made Ashlyn scream. She dropped to her knees, covering her ears with her hands, curling into a tight, trembling ball of absolute helplessness.

Alex stood over the wreckage. He looked down at her, his chest heaving.

He raised his arm and pointed a single, shaking finger toward the front door.

"Get out," he said. His voice was no longer a roar. It was a terrifying, dead whisper. "Get the fuck out."

Ashlyn didn't hesitate. She scrambled up from the floor, her bare feet slipping on the rug. She didn't grab a coat. She didn't grab a bag. She ran toward the heavy oak door like the devil himself was behind her.

She ripped the door open and sprinted into the dark hallway, leaving Alex standing alone in the ruins of the living room.