by Alison Aimes
Sure enough, with the next flash, beady yellow eyes glittered at her with lust and the promise of pain.
It was a look she knew too well.
“You will do as you’re told.” Strike. The birch cane—an expensive rarity in an era when the forests had long ago disappeared—lashed her back, fire licking across her skin. Her keeper raised his arm again, his angelic feature’s twisted into a cruel smirk, his gaze sharp with lust. “You have been engineered to comply, Ayanna.” Strike. “You will submit.” Strike. The punishment stick, well-polished and strong despite its advanced age, showed no sign of breaking. No matter how she prayed.
But then again, Lead Councilman Gregor Hollisworth took exceptional care of every possession he acquired, except his new wife.
The lurch of the container smacked her back to the present.
She shook off the memory. Buried it deep. The past couldn’t touch her now.
Whatever happened next, she was no longer Ayanna Talis. No longer the reluctant fifth wife of the most powerful Councilman on new Earth. No longer a bruised and broken pawn with no choice but to submit.
She was Cadet Ava Davies, a trained Academy scientist and low-level Council female whose proud, progressive parents had allowed her more freedom than most.
It was a bold cover—an expensive one she’d paid for with every bit of dowry credit stolen from her husband. But it had held up well these past two years. After all, who would look for a runaway whose presumed value was between her legs living among the most respected minds of the universe?
The giant’s outstretched hand twitched, his ragged fingernails stretching toward her. “Pretty…green eyes.”
Green? Her stomach twisted, a new fear taking hold. No wonder her skin was burning. The camouflage and eye dyes had lasted through the crash and the last few hellish weeks, but the extreme heat must be short-circuiting the cheap facial disguise technology.
She was exposed.
“Condemned of Dragath25.” A disembodied, nasal voice filled the hold, heralding a more immediate problem. “Each one of you has been embedded with a tracker while you were unconscious. You are now the property of the Tribunal.”
Roars of protest shook the hold. Hers among them.
“Your sole purpose,” announced the mechanized voice, “is to mine the veins of silver ore found in the caverns. Meet your quota of fifty kitloms per rotation and you will live. Fail and you will die. Descent will end in forty nanosegments.
“And…you’ll…be mine.” The second comment was human and much closer.
Her gaze locked with Yellow Eyes.
From the way he looked at her, she didn’t think she’d make her quota. Frankly, she wasn’t sure she’d survive five metrals past release from the wall.
And, maybe, a tiny part of her screamed, that was better. Maybe dying fast would be a mercy. Because stuck down here, her chances of finding a cure for what her husband had put inside her just been reduced to nil and whatever hellish fate Yellow Eyes had in store, it couldn’t be as horrific as what the Councilman would do if he learned she’d resurfaced.
“Get…ready…to beg…bitch.”
The taunt roused her like a slap to the cheek. No! No more begging. No more submitting.
If she hadn’t been searched before she was stuck in this hold, the small, homemade spear Bella had insisted she carry was still tucked inside her boot. It might not be enough, but it was something.
Her rotations of folding without a fight were over.
Then a flare of heat licked along her insides, her center cramping—and the fallacy of her bold claim hit hard.
Her husband’s sadistic toy was busy working, the hormonal fever was building, and she only had two pills stashed in her uniform pocket. The rest of the homemade meds still in her hidey-hole at the crew site.
She sucked down a breath. One challenge at a time.
The container shuddered once more. The lights flickered and blinked out.
The hold lurched to a stop.
She tumbled to the floor, pain ricocheting up her wrists as her hands shot forward, saving her face from slamming into metal.
Around her, the thump of other bodies echoed.
She fumbled for her spear.
A meaty hand closed around her ankle.
Want to read more? TAKEN, Book Two in the Condemned Series, is available now. Click https://www.alisonaimes.com/TAKEN/ws and buy today.
BILLIONAIRE BLACKMAIL EXCERPT
Looking for more Books by Alison Aimes? Craving a sexy, contemporary read?
“It’s time.” Nikolas Valenti eased the phone into its cradle, a white-hot are of anticipation twisting through him. “Have the car brought round.”
“Now?” Alatza, the head of his security team, had been slouching against the desk listening in on the detective’s call. He stood military-straight now, his close-cut salt-and- pepper hair bristling along with the rest of him. “Rushing in doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m confronting her no matter what. Recent events just sped up the time table.” Nik straightened his already crisp red silk tie, his gaze shifting to the New York skyline framed by the sweeping windows of his penthouse office. He’d worked his ass off to climb to such heights. No one was taking that from him now. “I’ve waited long enough.”
Three months of checking and rechecking and the evidence always led back to the same conclusion. Sara Turner had played him for a fool.
“But if we wait just a little longer...” Alatza trailed off and didn’t say what they both already knew. With a few more days, they might be able to get the passcodes, unlock those offshore accounts, and get back the stolen money without negotiating. But might wasn’t good enough.
“I’ve got the best chance of resolving this quietly if I see to it myself.”
“Are you sure this is what you want?” His head of security wasn’t exactly a yes-man. “She meant something to you once.”
If the words hadn’t stung, Nik might have laughed. Alatza sounded more like a father figure than a grizzled bodyguard. But Nik wasn’t looking for a dad. He’d never had one as a kid. He didn’t need one now.
“We dated. We fooled around. No one tattooed the other’s name over their heart. Don’t stress so much. This time round, I know how she operates. I’ve got this.”
He unfolded from his chair, dwarfing the older man, whose wide, stout body had made him an effective and intimidating bodyguard. But at six foot three, Nik was no slouch, either.
He’d read a silly article about himself once which said if he hadn’t gone into business he’d have found success in boxing. He didn’t know if the reporter’s opinion stemmed from his size, or from his reputation as a ruthless bastard. And, in keeping with his rep, he didn’t really care.
Truth was he had learned early on how to take a punch and get back up. How to identify an opponent’s weakness and use it to bring him to his knees. No one was more driven to succeed, more determined to prove to those who’d dismissed him that he would never go down for the count.
So, silly or not, the reporter was right in one respect—beneath his expensive suits and wealthy sophistication, Nik was, and always would be, a merciless fighter.
And as Sara Turner was about to learn, you didn’t step into the ring with a Valenti without expecting a knockout punch.
As Alatza made a swift exit from the room, Nik yanked the worn file from his desk and ripped it open. He’d examined the photos inside every day for the last three months—motivation to keep him going whenever his better nature threatened to take hold.
He wasn’t the kind of guy to fall in love or buy in to happily ever after. He’d seen too much to believe that anything other than greed and lust drew people together. But he did expect loyalty from those he let into his life.
His gaze caught on the top snapshot. Sara, with that sexy smile he’d thought was only for him.
He really should have known. She’d checked off every too-good-to-be-true craving in his book. Wide, blue eyes and l
ong lashes that slanted just enough to make him think of rumpled sheets and late nights. A quick mind that challenged, provoked, and intrigued. And, of course, that reserve, wrapped tight around her like a second skin. All designed to keep him coming back for more.
Too perfect. She’d been every danger sign, every red flag, every beacon warning of treacherous waters ahead. Horny, arrogant son of a bitch that he was, he’d ignored them all.
But his eyes were wide open now.
He stared down at the photo, making sure to take in every detail. How her beautiful face tilted slightly to the side while she laughed. How her hair, half gold, half sunshine, curled down her back in hot-as-hell waves, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. How another man’s hand curved possessively against her spine.
He crumpled the picture in his fist.
Delivering his own brand of justice was going to be sweet, indeed.
To read on, go to https://www.alisonaimes.com/BillionaireBlackmail/ws and buy today.
BESTING THE BILLIONAIRE EXCERPT
Memorial services. When the divide between life and death is stark. When emotions run high. When seizing whatever joy is available seems especially poignant and right...
Easiest time in the world to get laid.
If he was interested. Which he wasn’t. Movements brisk, Russian-born Alexander Kazankov—Alexi to his friends, which was why most people called him Kazankov or, if he was honest, asshole—removed the blonde’s hand from his suit lapel. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m here on business.”
And business always came first.
Her lips turned down in a pretty pout—the same one that had made her famous in several movies—and behind him the cameras clicked away with greater urgency.
The late Russell Winslow might have been a bastard, but he’d been a flashy, well-connected one, running an investment firm that specialized in high-end resorts before finally dying at the ripe old age of seventy-six.
As a result, his passing was a big deal, and his memorial service a year later, even bigger. The well-manicured, New York Hampton lawn packed with senators, models, actresses, and moguls. All here to see and be seen. And, of course, photographed. Talking, posing, their voices appropriately pitched for such an alleged somber event. But the fact was few of them had given a single thought to the man who’d died a year ago.
Of course, none probably hated Winslow as much as he did.
Realizing his grip on the blonde’s wrist had gone tight, Alexi let go.
“Don’t say no.” Instead of being deterred, the actress moved closer, pressing her impressive breasts against his chest hard enough to leave a mark. “We would be good together. The press would love us.”
Yeah. Somehow that wasn’t much of a selling point. Nor was the faint dusting of powder at the tip of her nose. Drugged up was his least favorite look on a woman.
Deciding a reply wasn’t worth it, he sauntered past, giving his head of security, Carlos Morales, a nod. One planned shoulder bump later, a few choice words, and the cameras were all clicking in the direction of the impending ght between his security and some beefed-up poser standing next to one of the senators, tomorrow’s headline already made.
Perfect.
With phase one accomplished and the paparazzi distracted, Alexi cut through the crowd, amused at how easily it parted even without his usual bodyguards in tow.
“Sorry, buddy.” Blocking the back door, the guard’s beefy hand hovered inches from Alexi’s chest, his Brooklyn accent making every word sound as if he was talking with a mouthful of rocks. “House is off-limits. Guests need to remain in the yard.”
Ah, Mr. Jeffries. Right on time.
Alexi eyed the rent-a-cop. The man’s cocky stand gave away none of the fact that he’d failed to pass his police entry exams and been fired from his last two security jobs. But Alexi knew. Just like he knew the guy’s weaknesses. He always did his research.
It was why he’d chosen this particular door.
“Listen carefully,” Alexi shifted, ensuring his wide shoulders blocked their interaction. He might have inherited his French mother’s dark brown hair and blue eyes, but his hide-your-women build was all Cossack brute, care of his father. “Your uncle knows about the ring you swiped during that last security job.”
He spoke over the man’s curse. “This is your last day here. But I’m offering you an opportunity.” See? Not always such an asshole. “I need a private, harmless word with the family. You need a little nest egg to deal with what’s coming.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out five crisp one hundred–dollar bills. “You have ten seconds to decide.”
Three seconds later, he was straightening his tie as he slipped through the ornate solid oak door. Five hundred dollars lighter, sure. But that was chump change compared to the priceless treasure he’d have reacquired by the end of the hour.
“You should be bent over that desk. Not sitting behind it pretending to be boss.”
The ugly threat floated down the corridor, stopping Kazankov in his tracks.
What the fuck?
He snapped into action, sailing down the stretch of hallway double-time, his wide strides eating up the carpet. He’d made it only halfway before the next insult came.
“No bimbo is going to run this company.” It was the same bully.
“And no sexist pig will be working here tomorrow,” came a second voice, one that was feminine, Southern—and impressively calm, “if he speaks to me like that again.”
Not your typical memorial banalities.
His sharp rap on the barely open door brought instant silence. Followed by a low burst of whispers and the shuffle of feet.
The door swung wider. A male face dominated by tired, bloodshot hazel eyes, a pointed chin, and a mop of unruly brown hair peeked out.
Jim Winslow, youngest son of the deceased Russell Winslow and Chief Financial Officer of Winslow Industries. Though they’d never had the displeasure of a face-to-face meet, Alexi’s dossier described the man as having impressive financial skills, but no backbone to speak of. It was clear from the hesitant wobble of Jim’s chin as he looked up—and up—that the dossier was 100 percent correct.
This was definitely not the guy hurling insults.
“The family is taking a private moment.” Jim gave it his best shot. “Mourners are gathering around back. We appreciate your coming and will join you shortly.”
“I’m no mourner.” Alexi stalked forward.
True to expectations, the man shuffled out of the way.
Only to reveal a second obstacle: Paul Winslow, Russell’s oldest son and the Chief Operating Of cer of Winslow Industries. He might have had the same muddy hazel eyes and brown hair as his brother, but he possessed none of the bookishness. A head shorter than Alexi, the pride of the Winslow family was stout with a flat nose that gave him the look of a fighter. Alexi had gone up against him on several deals and won every time, except on the one that mattered most—and that smug knowledge danced in Paul’s eyes.
Alexi’s fists curled.
“You? I’ve told you before, you’re not welcome here.” Paul’s meaty hands landed on his hips, his expensive gray mourning suit bulging around the belly.
Here was the d-bag who’d hurled the insults. “Last I checked you’re not in charge.” Paul’s jaw ground together. Better still, the smug look that had been there two seconds before? Gone.
It almost brought on a smile...until he remembered the name-calling.
“Nothing to say?” He crowded close, the stink of old cigar irritating his nose. “Because you couldn’t seem to shut up a few moments ago, mudak.”
Some words, like asshole, just sounded better in his first language.
He dropped his voice to a lethal whisper. “I imagine it stings to have been passed over by your own father, but you better speak respectfully toward your new boss from here on out. In Russia, threatening a woman can have serious consequences.”
“We’re not in Russia,” sna
pped Paul.
“One phone call, one dose of chloroform, and you could be.”
He liked the way Paul’s face paled.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Delivered in the same no-nonsense tone as the sexist pig comment, the Southern drawl reverberated with the power of a shout—and traveled straight to Alexi’s dick. What could he say? That kind of sweet-as-honey, good-girl- sounding charm brought out the dirty in him. “Paul, step out of the way. I don’t need rescuing, especially from hypocrites.”
Ouch. He really did admire that kind of spirit. Even if he was about to crush it.
“You heard the lady.” With a hard, calculated shove, Paul Winslow sailed through the open door. He greeted the wall with a satisfying thump.
After that, all it took was a pointed glare and Jim Winslow ran past, ostensibly to check on his brother. They both knew he was running for his life.
“That’s one way to make an entrance.” The sexy, feminine voice challenged. “Come any closer and I’m calling the police.”
“Why bother?” Alexi flicked the lock. “I did you a favor. You and I have negotiations to discuss. Those idiots would only have gotten in the way.”
He swiveled around.
The large blue and gold study he’d fought his way into was clearly intended to be a copy of the oval office, which fit the delusions of grandeur of the man who’d once presided behind the ornate oak desk.
But standing there now was another figure altogether. One indelibly imprinted on Alexi’s brain, though he’d only seen her once before, hanging off her late husband’s arm at some charity fundraiser.
Like last time, the sight of Lily Bennett hit with the force of a fist. He might have hated Russell Winslow with a passion that bordered on obsessive, but Alexi couldn’t fault the man’s taste in women. His young American wife—make that widow—was still the hottest thing Alexi had ever seen. A mix of cool class and insanely hot curves he would have loved to sample if he didn’t have a different—way more vital—itch to scratch.
But he did. And business always ruled.
“You shouldn’t have done that to Paul.” His newest adversary gripped the phone receiver like a weapon.