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Tipping my chin up, I try to see more of him, but all I get cursed with are those sky-blue eyes. “I suggest you go to Build-a-Bear. I hate cuddling,” I hiss as I grind my teeth, trying to wriggle free.

“Only if you promise to be the voice on that cute little music heart they shove inside,” he playfully snickers, yet his eyes are firm and serious.

It infuriates me.

“Fuck you!” I snap. Pressing my hands to his chest, I shove back and break free.

What the hell! Can’t I get a break? I fall on the books. Again.

“Okay,” I sigh, lying as flat as I can on top of all the books, staring up at the ceiling. “I give up.”

“That easily?” His voice is deep and smooth, filled with an annoyance only insane wealth could buy. He doesn’t speak to barter; this man is used to control. Demands, with no room for negotiation.

Of course not, asshole! I didn’t survive this long and pull off my greatest hack only to die in a library on top of bibles. This is just a diversion until I figure out how to blind you with pepper spray.

“I’m tired. You’re not,” I argue. “You enjoy this, so why turn you on? My fingers ache from working to pull off…” Rylan, don’t incriminate yourself. “You don’t need to know the details; it’s likely early-onset arthritis. So do I feel like physically fighting you? No, it’s like asking an ant to climb a tree. Too much effort.”

“What if the tree sways lower so you could come along for the ride?” He plays along, enjoying this far too much.

Planting my elbow, I push up slightly and glare at him. “What do you want?” I grab another book, aiming for his cock. He skillfully kicks it before it gets close. “Why the mask? Who are you?” I grunt in frustration.

My eyes scan the dark aisle. How am I going to get out of this clusterfuck?

“Who would you like me to be? The villain who punishes you for the crime on this?” He shakes my laptop. “Or the hero who saves you?” His eyes wait, as if he hopes I choose the answer he most desires.

“How about an invisible man who lets me walk out of here?”

“And where would you go?”

“Why the fuck do you care?” I snap, as I dig my heel into the pile of books on the ground.

“So many questions.” He kicks the books, clearing a path to me. “What will you give me?” He sets my laptop on a middle shelf, closes the space and squats down, legs wide as he studies me like prey.

My eyes drop to his hands, ungloved. Isn’t he worried about leaving fingerprints behind?

“Most sociopaths are intelligent, yet you didn’t bother to wear gloves?” I spit.

“I’m not a sociopath.” His mask shifts. He’s grinning, wide and full of ease.

“Liar,” I grunt. From down here, he’s all harsh angles; barely any light touches his eyes.

I kick, hoping my foot connects with his nose. An iron grip catches my ankle. I scream bloody murder—hopefully not mine. He shifts his entire body. Suddenly, he pins me down, lying on top of me like I’m peanut butter and he’s a slice of bread stuck to me. My next scream is muffled by his hand over my mouth.

“Stop screaming.” His voice isn’t sharp, just worried, like he’s afraid I’ll shred my throat, probably before he can.

His body presses into mine, heat crashing through my cold skin and igniting something I shouldn’t let burn. I like one-night stands for a reason; I don’t like feeling my partner’s weight on me. It makes me realize I’ve never been hugged—loved. That’s why I prefer to hook up in clubs: no bed, no reason for a man to press into me. A wall and study balance will do.

But this, the heft of him, the hard muscle, the way he cages me in, it makes my pulse stutter in a good way.

My heart slams against my ribs. My vision flickers, and I force myself to meet his eyes—calm, curious, shadowed by the looming bookshelf surrounding us. Blue like the sky I might never see again. Panic makes my toes tingle; if I don’t focus soon, I’m gonna pass out.

Think. Find the exit. Hack this, find a back door, and escape through it so you can survive.

I drag a breath through his massive palm clamped over my mouth, and force my body to go slack. The books digging into my back are as hard as bricks, but his weight pressing down almost feels like a shelter. He shifts, unsteady, thrown off by my surrender under him. A flicker crosses his eyes—anger, maybe, or relief.

Screw him! If I want to die screaming, I bloody will! I scream again. My hot breath dares to turn sides as it attempts to suffocate me. Traitor!

Slipping my right hand down, I try to reach the pepper spray. He shifts, lying completely flat. His knees secure my flailing legs, his chest smashing my breasts painfully under his weight.