by Meghan March
My stomach plummets as reality crashes through my confusion.
I’m rolled up in a rug. Oh. My. Fucking. God. This can’t be happening.
As the Proclaimers wail in my ears, vibrations shiver across my skin. What was that? A door shutting? Are those footsteps?
The murmur of voices comes next. I try to listen, but I can’t make out the words over the music, until . . .
Something knocks into my side, and thankfully, the rug blunts the impact. Did someone just freaking kick me?
I’m a smart woman. Savvy. I’ve lived in Manhattan my whole life and survived three mugging attempts. I’m not a shrinking violet, but neither of the two women’s self-defense seminars I’ve attended for charity covered what to do when you wake up rolled in a rug after being kidnapped by someone who has probably made repeated death threats against you.
The song’s volume dips for some more chanting about all the things the Proclaimers would do for the woman they loved, and that’s when I hear the roar.
“You did what?” a man bellows loud enough to suck the breath out of my lungs. He sounds furious—and powerful.
Fear unleashes a cold sweat over my skin.
“You said she could fix it!” Another voice, this one higher pitched, breaks through the Proclaimers’ voices before the song picks up intensity again, drowning them out.
Who said I could fix something? Fix what? Where? My brain races, but it’s more sluggish than normal, given the fact it’s weighted down with a billion tons of dread and the urge to shrink and run.
More murmuring. More confusion rioting in my head.
Fix what? For whom? Does this mean they’re not going to kill me? Because I would really like not to be killed today. Or tomorrow. Or really ever.
Then I start rolling. Literally. Like a rock thumping over on its side when kicked.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!
Think! Think!
My body tumbles until I’m discombobulated and the earbuds fall from my ears. Bright light blinds me as I’m freed from the rug and land on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
The scents of leather and carpet cleaner hit my nostrils as I bolt to my feet, tilting to one side like I’ve had too much to drink. I spin around, searching for an exit, but a big hand lands on the bare skin of my shoulder.
His palm is hot, like it was just yanked from a pocket or clenched in a fist. His touch sends tingles racing down to my fingertips.
Whoa. That’s never happened before.
I jerk away, stumbling forward to catch myself on the arm of a leather chair. “Please don’t kill me. Whatever you need me to fix, I’ll fix it.”
My head bowed, I say the words to the ripped-jean-covered legs of a man standing a few feet from me, even though I have no idea when I decided trying to reason with him was a good idea. With self-preservation running the show right now, all bets are off on me behaving rationally.
I brace for a blow or some form of verbal assault, but none comes. Other than the faint sound of the Proclaimers drifting up from my earbuds on the floor, a heavy silence blankets the room.
I wait for the man in the ripped jeans to move. To come toward me. To kill me. But he doesn’t.
“Fuck.” It comes out softly, like he’s speaking under his breath and doesn’t mean for me to hear it.
“Please,” I whisper, finally finding the courage to look up at the rest of the body connected to the pair of massive denim-clad legs. “Please don’t hurt—”
My voice goes silent as I stare into the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He could make a fortune off those eyes alone. Mostly because they’re set in a ridiculously attractive face that shouldn’t be attractive at all due to a slight crook in the nose and the faint white line of a scar stretching across one of his sharp cheekbones. Shaggy dark blond hair hangs in his face as his lips press into a harsh line.
This beast, albeit a gorgeous one, is going to kill me.
The voice in my head delivers the final verdict, a conclusion it reached because somehow, to the bottom of my soul, I know this man isn’t afraid to cause another person pain. Raw, savage energy flows off his body in waves, and my teeth threaten to chatter at its intensity.
Beautiful and brutal. That’s what I’d caption the shot I’m mentally taking right now of the last face I may ever see.
This is it. I should have listened. But I didn’t. This is all my own damned fault.
I bite down on my quivering lip and straighten my shoulders as tears well in my eyes, tears I won’t allow to fall.
Not yet.
First, I’m going to bargain with the grim reaper.
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You don’t want to miss the rest of Scarlett and Legend’s epic story. Tap here to purchase The Fall of Legend.
Also by Meghan March
Magnolia Duet
Creole Kingpin
Madam Temptress
(April 2020)
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Legend Trilogy
The Fall of Legend
House of Scarlett
The Fight for Forever
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Dirty Mafia Duet:
Black Sheep
White Knight
* * *
Forge Trilogy:
Deal with the Devil
Luck of the Devil
Heart of the Devil
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Sin Trilogy:
Richer Than Sin
Guilty as Sin
Reveling in Sin
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Mount Trilogy:
Ruthless King
Defiant Queen
Sinful Empire
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Savage Trilogy:
Savage Prince
Iron Princess
Rogue Royalty
Beneath Series:
Beneath This Mask
Beneath This Ink
Beneath These Chains
Beneath These Scars
Beneath These Lies
Beneath These Shadows
Beneath The Truth
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Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:
Dirty Billionaire
Dirty Pleasures
Dirty Together
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Dirty Girl Duet:
Dirty Girl
Dirty Love
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Real Duet:
Real Good Man
Real Good Love
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Real Dirty Duet:
Real Dirty
Real Sexy
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Flash Bang Series:
Flash Bang
Hard Charger
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Standalones:
Take Me Back
Bad Judgment
About the Author
Making the jump from corporate lawyer to romance author was a leap of faith that New York Times, #1 Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Meghan March will never regret. With over thirty titles published, she has sold millions of books in nearly a dozen languages to fellow romance-lovers around the world. A nomad at heart, she can currently be found in the woods of the Pacific Northwest, living her happily ever after with her real-life alpha hero.
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She’d love to hear from you. Connect with her at:
www.meghanmarch.com