Paris Winters traced the rim of her wine glass with a manicured finger, watching Henry Baxter squirm beneath the dim glow of the chandelier. The city’s glitzy haze shot through the window, painting the room in shades of electric blue and crimson. He sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers twitching against his knee, his eyes darting between the exit and her smirk.

“You seem nervous, Henry.” Her voice was honeyed silk, effortless in its seduction. “I thought you’d be more comfortable by now.”

Henry cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s just... I, uh, I saw something today.”

Paris cocked her head. “Oh?”

He hesitated, then leaned forward, his voice hushed. “There was a wanted poster in town. A woman who looked just like you. They’re saying she killed a few corporate men last month.”

Paris laughed, low and musical, before slowly sipping her wine. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else, sweetheart.”

Henry swallowed hard. “She—she looked just like you. The name on it was Scarlet Lux.”

Paris set down her glass and moved closer, her perfume—jasmine and something darker—wrapping around him. “And yet, here you are, alone with me in my apartment. If I were this dangerous woman, wouldn’t you be dead already?”

Henry’s lips parted, but he said nothing. She slid into his lap, her arms draping around his neck. His breath tightened.

“You see, Henry,” she murmured, fingers tracing the back of his ear, “men in this city don’t worry about women like me. It’s the other way around.” She leaned in, her lips ghosting his ear. “Sex workers disappear in places like this. We’re the victims. Not the predators.”

Henry’s body tensed beneath her touch, his indecision unsteady across his face like static on an old screen. He wanted to believe her. Needed to. “I just... I just wanted to warn you. If someone thinks you’re this Scarlet Lux, you might be in danger.”

Paris smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “You’re too sweet to worry about me.” With a sleight of hand, she pickpocketed his wallet. “And even sweeter for keeping me company.”

Then, the door burst open.

A blast of cold air followed the intruder, Jarah Slade. His fur-lined bomber jacket framed his broad shoulders, and his combat boots thudded heavily against the wooden floor. The bounty hunter’s face was cut from stone, and his dark skin was marked by faint scars that told stories in their own right—his eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto Paris.

“Evening, Scarlet.” His voice carried the weight of certainty.

Henry flinched, looking from Paris to Jarah. “Wait—”

Paris acted fast, hiding herself behind Henry. “He’s here to hurt me,” she gasped, wide-eyed, playing the part of the helpless. “Stop him, Henry!”

Henry’s expression twisted in hesitation, but something in Jarah’s stance—he wasn’t reaching for a gun and stood like a man who already had her trapped—told him the truth.

“Maybe you should go with him,” Henry murmured. “I think he’s right about you.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Paris exhaled softly, almost disappointed. Then, she pulled a dagger from inside her stocking and plunged it into Henry’s throat.

The sound he made was a wet, startled gurgle, his fingers clawing at the hilt as blood soaked his collar. He collapsed sideways, spasming, before going still.

Jarah didn’t flinch. “Damn. Thought he might make it out of here alive.”

Paris turned on him, dagger still slick with Henry’s blood. “I’m not Scarlet Lux.”

Jarah smirked. “And I’m not a bounty hunter.”

Paris lunged, but he was faster. His wrist device—the Huntsman—flared to life, a pulse of hot red beaming. Jarah kicked Paris square in the chest, knocking her across the room. She convulsed, the dagger slipping from her grasp as she crumpled onto the floor, her breath ragged.

Jarah crouched, rolling her onto her back, his hand wrapped in old boxing gauze pressing against her throat just enough to remind her who was in control. “You’re coming with me, Scarlet.”

Paris glared at him, even through the pain. “It’s Paris.”

Jarah chuckled. “Sure, it is.”

With one fluid motion, he hauled her up and over his shoulder, stepping over Henry’s corpse without a second glance. The hallway lights from the capsule apartment bled through the shattered door frame as he carried her out into the night.

Waiting at the curb, sleek and menacing in its midnight polish, was his vehicle—the Lennox. He popped the back door open and tossed her inside like a duffel bag, slamming it shut before sliding into the driver’s seat—

The city lights streaked past as the engine roared, blurring in the rearview mirror.

Paris stirred in the back of the Lennox, her wrists bound with high-tensile restraints. The glittery cityscape bounced off the tinted windows as Jarah drove in silence, his expression unreadable.

Paris shifted, the cold metal of the cuffs biting into her skin. “You don’t have to do this,” she purred, leaning forward as much as her restraints would allow. “I could make it worth your while.”

Jarah didn’t react, his hands steady on the wheel.

Paris smirked. “You’re gonna pretend you’re not interested?”

Still, he said nothing.

She sighed, leaning back. “Men like you don’t usually turn down an offer like that. Unless you’re a sucker for a good cock.”

Jarah let the silence stretch between them before finally speaking. “Or maybe I just know exactly what you are.”

Paris chuckled. “And what’s that, honey?”

“A survivor. A sociopath. Someone who’ll say anything to get what they want.” His tone was even, unaffected. “And I’m not buying it.”

Paris exhaled sharply through her nose. “Fine. Then let’s talk business. Name your price.”

Jarah pulled the Lennox into a heavily guarded station in Franchise, the district command center looming ahead like a fortress. He shifted the vehicle into park and turned to look at her, his gaze impassive. “Paris Winters.”

She tensed as he stepped out, rounding the vehicle to haul her from the backseat. The guards at the entrance barely spared her a glance, accustomed to seeing criminals being dragged through their doors.

Amanda Walker, the District Commander of the 3rd Precinct, was a heavy-set woman with short hair. She waited inside the sterile, metal-lined corridor when Jarah nodded in greeting. “Got your man-eater right here.”

Walker’s gaze passed to Paris. “Scarlet Lux.”

Paris lifted her chin. “It’s Paris, bitch.”

Walker arched a brow but didn’t argue. She gestured toward the secured holding cells. “We have a nice spot for her in there.”

Jarah followed as they led Paris through the dimly lit corridor, her boots scuffing against the floor. When they reached the heavy cell door, Jarah turned to Walker. “She killed Henry Baxter.”

“And for good reason!” Paris shouted.

Walker’s expression darkened. “I’ll add it to her charges.”

Paris smirked as the guards shoved her inside, the metal door slamming shut behind her. She stepped forward, pressing her hands against the reinforced glass, watching Jarah turn on his heel.

“You’ll regret this, bounty hunter!” she called after him.

Jarah didn’t look back. He strode toward the exit, his boots echoing through the hall, the weight of his bounty reward already in his pocket.