The Bodyguard's Temptress

Chapter 4

Knox

I watch my little temptress snuggled on the couch with her friend, engrossed in whatever show they're watching. The unfamiliar green beast surges inside me.

Brandon Lewis. If I didn't know he was gay, I'd slit his f*****g throat for holding her like that.

When he started coming around, I dug into his background. Public records, social media, all that. Though he hasn't officially come out, no straight man shares that many shirtless pictures of Chris Hemsworth and Henry Cavill. I don't care how attractive they are.

As long as he remains a good friend and doesn't f**k her over as a business partner, he can stick around.

I have something to take care of tonight, anyway.

I know I warned the dirty old f**k to never go near her again, but hearing my baby girl sob in my backseat has molten lava coursing through my veins.

He should have never touched her in the first damn place. While the logical part of my brain acknowledges that he didn't know she was mine, the possessive, irrational side currently in control demands that he pay.

He should be home soon.

I think I'll pay him a visit.

I park my car a few streets from Johnathon's house. Shredding my tux, I swap it out for a black hoodie and sweatpants. Then, I slung my bag over my shoulder, and tuck my gun in my waistband.

With ease, I jog the four blocks to his house at the end of the street. There's no gate, that's not surprising. I find that men who think they're untouchable often neglect basic safety measures. It's also hard to make enemies when your circle is a bunch of rich, disgusting pigs.

Tonight, however, Johnathon has made himself an enemy.

Scanning my surroundings, I figure out a way to get into the house. This isn't the first time I've broken into a house, and it won't be my last.

A door cam indicates surveillance, which means the windows are likely secured too. I creep around to the back of the house, where another camera awaits by the backdoor.

There's a big-ass pond and pool back here. Guessing he didn't know what to do with all this land. Good thing there's plenty of room for his grave, he's gonna need it.

I grab a rock near the pond and hurl it at the camera, shattering the screen. I crouch in the bushes, waiting to see if anyone rushes out. If no one does, it confirms there's no security here. If they do, it'll complicate things, but I'll adapt.

After a few minutes of stillness, no one comes. Slowly, with my senses on high alert, I emerge from the bushes and approach the back door. It's only secured with a simple coded lock.

Stupid, cocky f**k.

This part shouldn't be too hard. Given his age and excessive drug use, I doubt he'd choose a complex code.

I punch in 1-2-3-4.

The door emits a beep, but doesn't budge.

"s**t," I mutter under my breath. I can make maybe two more mistakes before an alarm goes off. Urgently, I enter the reverse sequence: 4-3-2-1.

I hold my breath as the door beeps again. This time when I turn the handle, there's a satisfying click. Gripping my gun, I slip past the doorway, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I prepare to confront whoever's inside.

I move deeper inside the ridiculously massive house, looking for any signs of Johnathon's two daughters, eighteen and twenty years old. Of course, I won't harm them. I only have one target.

As I round the corner into the kitchen, I'm suddenly met with a piercing scream. A young Hispanic woman lunges for a pan hanging above the stove, ready to swing.

Fuck me.

"Shh," I hiss, lowering my gun. "I won't hurt you."

Seeing my lack of aggression, she relaxes, slowly lowering the pan. In a flurry of rapid Spanish, she demands to know why I'm here. I meet her gaze, and explain that I'm here to carry out a job.

Her eyes widen with fear and sorrow. "¿El tambien toco a tu hija (did he touch your daughter, too)?" she asks, her voice trembling.

My blood pounds in my ears. It looks like my baby girl isn't the first woman he's targeted, verbally or otherwise. I'll be doing the public a service by putting this sick bastard out of his misery.

She goes on to explain that she tried to go to the police, but he paid them off. Then, when she tried to quit, he threatened to have her brothers deported. He's been blackmailing her for months, while she has watched him continuously bring in intoxicated, barely legal women to exploit.

In her native language, I assure her I'll take care of him. I hand her my business card, promising she won't work for him after tonight. Until she can get another job, I'll ensure she can provide for her family without fear or coercion.

Eres un buen hombre (You're a good man)," she says gratefully before leaving.

I'm glad she thinks so, but I'm far from it.

I'm no monster like Edwards, but I'm no saint either.

Settling in the dining room, I meticulously set out the tools I'll need to do this job on the table.

Pliers. Scalpel. Rotary tool. Hunting knives. Rope. Tape. A syringe full of adrenaline, just so my dear friend doesn't pass out and miss all the fun.

As I impatiently wait for him to arrive, I pour myself a dram of whiskey, savoring the amber liquid. At least I won't have to be completely sober for this s**t. Although, knowing I'm protecting my little temptress is an intoxicating thrill in itself. She'll never know what'll happen tonight, but all that matters is she'll stay safe.

I check my phone again. Natasha is finally asleep.

Perfect.

I notice that she never sleeps much. I assume it's to escape the nightmares that haunt her, the faceless demons etched in her mind. At least she has Brandon to comfort her, though, my green beast wishes it were me.

But that idea is ridiculous and dangerous. I can't have her, and I shouldn't even be thinking about it. I'm just her bodyguard, sworn to protect her.

As Edwards's truck pulls into the driveway, its headlights cast an ominous glow across the front of the house. I slip into the closet across by the front door, cracking it open just enough for a clear view of the entryway. I wait in tense silence, my heart pounding with anticipation.

Moments later, the door swings open, and Edwards enters the foyer. He carries a young woman in his arms. Her head lolls to the side. As I watch him lay her on the couch facing my way, my gut churns as I immediately recognize her from Marco's engagement party — one of his nieces.

What the f**k?

She just turned eighteen two weeks ago. Marco emphasized to all Andre's men not to touch her, yet one of their associates is two seconds from raping her.

Suppressing a surge of fury, I tighten my grip on my gun, preparing to shoot him in his f*****g d**k the second I get a chance.

"I wanna go home," the woman slurs.

As I gaze at the woman lying helpless before me, all I can see is Natasha and what those men who abducted her may have put her through. Though she's never spoken about it, the very thought of what she may have endured ignites a firestorm of rage within me.

The Southside Devils are notorious for Enthrall, their new date rape drug. I know they tested it on Natasha, trapping her in a nightmarish cycle of paralysis and consciousness, feeling everything while faceless monsters used her body over and over again.

Tonight, justice will be served. Edwards will pay for his sins. Natasha will be able to sleep at night knowing a man like her rapists is rotting in hell. No one else will suffer from his depraved desires.

"It's okay, baby. Let this pill kick in, and once I'm finished with you, I'll take you home," Edwards croons, his voice dripping with malicious intent.

A wave of revulsion washes over me. The fact that he needs Viagra to get hard, coupled with his despicable behavior of drugging and taking advantage of young women, solidifies his status as a predator.

One that needs to be put down.

With each passing second, my grip on the gun tightens, my knuckles turning white with resolve. I continue to sit perfectly still and wait for the perfect moment to strike.

Edwards yanks out one of the woman's breasts, stroking his c**k over her unconscious face. He groans in satisfaction. "f**k, you're not as pretty as that other young slut, but you'll do just fine."

He's talking about Natasha.

The beast in my head roars, banging on his cage and demanding to be released.

Mine!

With all thinking out of the window, I burst out of the closet, launching myself at him with a ferocity fueled by my wrath. We crash to the floor. His eyes widen with terror, but as recognition sets in, his fight or flight instincts kick in.

He fights back, his movements fueled by fear and adrenaline. With each blow, each strike, I unleash my fury. I won't show mercy. Tonight, the predator becomes the prey, and I'll be the one to render him helpless.

Wrestling on the floor, the old man thrashes beneath me, kicking and shouting for help that won't come. He lands a good hit, taking me aback, and seizes the gun. He points it at me, but I react quickly, kicking him between his legs. He crashes to the floor with a loud groan.

Damn, did the Viagra reverse his age by thirty years as well?

He's strong as hell for a seventy-year-old man.

I pick up the gun and point it squarely at his head. His hands shoot up in a pathetic attempt at defense. I sit down beside Marco's niece, who's completely passed out now. I gesture with the gun for him to join us on the adjacent couch.

Hesitantly, he complies. "What do you want from me, man?" he asks, his voice trembling as tears and snot mingle down his face.

"I'm glad you asked, Johnathon," I drawl, tilting my head as I study him. "I wasn't entirely satisfied with our previous agreement from earlier. You hurt the feelings of someone very important to me, and I believe every tear she shed should be matched with a drop of your blood. Unfortunately, I didn't keep count, so I think I'll just have to bleed you dry."

His grey eyebrows pinch together in confusion. "You mean Andre's w***e of a daughter?"

I fire a warning shot into the cushion beside him. He shrieks in terror. The smell of urine instantly fills the air. I tsk, shaking my head. "Choose your next words carefully, Johnathon. My patience is thin."

"I-I'm sorry," he blabbers, "please don't kill me. I have two daughters."

I chuckle bitterly. "And yet, there's a young woman beside me around their age that you were just about to rape."

"I swear, Marco let me borrow her for the night," he says, continuing to plead for his pathetic life. "I didn't take anything that wasn't given to me."

My jaw ticks. 'What do you mean he let you borrow her?"

He swallows audibly. "When I left the party, she was waiting in the backseat for me."

Dread coils in my stomach. That means someone had already drugged her, knowing what he would do. It couldn't have been Marco. He's extremely overprotective over her, and the only father figure she has ever known.

So, who the f**k is behind this?

My phone interrupts my thoughts, Andre's name flashing across the screen. Still watching Johnathon, I answer it. "Boss?"

"Don't kill him, Knox," Andre commands.

I feel my face contort. "What?" I hiss, incredulous.

So, Andre knows. He knows I'm here. What I've come to do. And what Johnathon was about to do to Marco's niece.

"There's been a....mistake," Andre continues too calmly for my f*****g liking, "the wrong girl was delivered to him. Bring Claressa home, and don't kill him. I know he said something that upset Natasha, and your job is to protect her, but leave him be for now."

I grit my teeth, trying to suppress my rising anger at the thought of letting Johnathon live another f*****g day. But if Andre wants him to live, I have to comply. Nobody defies his orders and lives to speak of it.

"Boss, your daughter went home crying her goddamn eyes out because this piece of s**t brought up the most traumatic experience of her life. And you want me to just let him off the hook?" The words leave my lips in a bitter snarl, frustration and disbelief lacing each syllable.

He sighs heavily. "It's an order, Knox. You know better than to question me." The tone in his voice is warning enough that I'll end up dead if I kill this pathetic, pissy dirty old f**k sitting across from me. It's almost worth it until I think about the fact that if I died, who would protect Natasha? Because it sure the hell won't be her father, or any other man in the mafia.

"Fine," I spit out, abruptly ending the call.

The cocky motherfucker actually smirks at me, as if he knows he's untouchable. He's about to learn just how wrong he is.

"Andre wants me to let you go," I growl, shooting daggers laced with poison at Johnathon. "But he didn't specify how intact you should be."

I stride across the room, keeping my eyes on Edwards. Retrieving the rotary tool, I loom over him, the hum of the machine filling the tense silence as I switch it on and shove it into his hand.

"Cut it off," I command, my voice low and dangerous.

His eyes widen, his brows furrowing in disbelief.

"Your d**k. Cut. It. Off."

"You can't possibly-"

I press the barrel of my gun against his temple, cutting off his protest. "I won't ask again. Either you do it, or I'll blow your f*****g brains out all over these white walls. No one will be here to save you."

"But Andre-"

"I'll deal with Andre," I interject, my voice icy with resolve.

With a shaking hand, he lowers the tool to his still-erect p***s, likely painful to the touch at this point. Tears and mucus stream down his weathered face, mingling with the sweat of his torment. As the blade touches his skin, his piercing screams reverberate off the walls.

As his suffering unfolds in front of me, I feel a sick sense of satisfaction. The sight of blood, the sound of his cries—every moment feeds the fire of retribution burning within me. I know there will be consequences for what I've done, but in this moment, I don't give a flying f**k.

By the time he's finished, there's blood every damn where, and he holds the severed appendage in his hand. I hope he bleeds out right on this goddamn floor, but I'm sure with his connections, he'll have someone come sow it back on. Still, the message has been delivered: I'm not one to be f****d with.

Now that he understands there are consequences to his actions, something his parents obviously didn't f*****g teach him, I'll keep a close eye on him. I'll be there to chop his d**k off over and over again until he learns how to not be a f*****g rapist.

Collecting my tools, I scoop Clarissa's unconscious form into my arms, and head for the door. I cast a parting glance at Edwards, who's still sobbing on the couch. "Nice chatting with you, Johnathon," I say with a cold smile, "When we meet again, keep your eyes off my f*****g girl. Or next time, I'll make you eat it."