The Ruthless King's One And Only Master

Eight years ago, I nearly burned to death saving a teenage boy, leaving me with hideous, severe scars.

For three years, I was kept locked away in the dark by a wealthy hedge-fund manager, serving as his unpaid assistant and a cheap, on-call stand-in for his socialite girlfriend.

When the real one returned from Paris, he dragged me to an underground poker room to throw me to Manhattan's most ruthless shadow banker as a disposable peace offering-tonight at midnight, his two-hundred-million-dollar debt to the man came due.

They forced me to my knees on shattered glass, poured high-proof whiskey over my raw burns, and even grabbed iron pliers, intending to rip my tongue out.

The ruthless kingpin merely watched with cold eyes, eventually drawing a combat knife. He pressed the tip against my eyeball, wanting to carve my eyes out himself-because in his eyes, I was just another greedy imposter mocking his dead savior.

My gaze fell on the dented pink iPod resting on his velvet tray-the exact one I had given that starving boy before the fire.

I had survived hell to keep my life, only to face being butchered by the very boy I sacrificed myself to save.

I didn't crawl. I didn't beg. I didn't cry.

Staring down the cold steel blade, I let the blood spill from my mouth and softly called out his exclusive, secret name:

"Do it, Stray."

Chapter 1

Amelia POV

Tonight at midnight, Brandt Singleton's two-hundred-million-dollar debt to Manhattan's shadow banking titan, Jax Ross, comes due. He is using me as a peace offering, throwing me into the dark room of that underground poker game.

I was his prisoner for three years, his unpaid assistant, a beck-and-call stand-in for his socialite girlfriend. Now Karmen is back from Paris, and I'm just an eyesore, the perfect collateral to settle his debt.

Before the heavy oak doors even opened, he ordered me to my knees.

"If it weren't for me pulling you out of the ash in Brooklyn, Amelia, you'd be dead," Brandt said, throwing a bleach-smelling white cotton shift at my face. "When your chest was burned, I gave you food and a bed. Now Karmen is back, and you're just in the way. Put this on. Go make Ross smile, and he forgives my margin call. Piss him off, and he slits your throat and dumps you in the East River."

Karmen leaned against the wall, her silk slip dress catching the light. "Keep a close eye on her, Brandt, don't let her make a peep. The last little girl the Vance brothers sent into Ross's parlor was carried out in trash bags before midnight. Ross hates it when people even breathe too loudly." She tapped her manicured finger at me. "Keep your mouth shut, and maybe you'll live to see sunrise."

The bodyguards tore away my coat and forced the scratchy cotton shift over my head. The coarse fabric scraped against the unhealed burn on my left collarbone. With a hard shove, they threw me through the soundproof double doors.

The room smelled of Cuban cigar smoke, aged single malt, and cold air conditioning. Four hedge-fund managers sat completely rigid around a green felt poker table. Nobody spoke. Nobody dared to reach for their drinks. At the head of the table sat Jax Ross, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit with his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, exposing a jagged scar that ran down toward his sternum. He flicked a black ceramic chip between his scarred knuckles. Click. Click. Click.

My eyes drifted to the small velvet tray set next to his elbow.

Inside a glass display case lay an old, dented pink iPod Classic, covered in peeling stickers from Brooklyn punk bands. The scroll wheel was stained with ancient coffee marks. The sticker of the black raven missing its left wing near the headphone jack was still there.

I knew every scratch on that casing.

Eight years ago, I bought it second-hand at a pawn shop on Flatbush Avenue for twelve dollars. I filled it with acoustic tracks and gave it to a starving, bruised boy who slept in the abandoned boiler room. The boy I called Stray.

I stared at the man sitting under the brass lamp. His shoulders were broader. His nose had healed slightly crooked from an old break. The bruised kid who used to eat dry crackers from my palm was now the undisputed king of Manhattan's private debt markets.

A guard's heavy combat boot slammed into the back of my left knee. I crashed onto the dark wood floorboards.

"Kneel, garbage," the club manager, Dennis Wheeler, barked from behind me.

Jax didn't even flinch. He turned over an Ace of Spades.

Dennis wiped his sweating neck and stepped forward. "Mr. Ross, sir, Brandt sent this 'merchandise' over to pay his respects. He knows you appreciate delicate, broken things."

Jax took a slow sip of bourbon and set the glass down without making a sound. "Two hundred million dollars is due at midnight. He doesn't send a wire transfer, but a woman in a nightgown?"

"Singleton says this bitch can take a beating. You can do whatever you want to her. Cut her skin, break her fingers, hold her under in the tub... If she gets too loud, we can pull her tongue out with pliers right here."

Jax tossed his remaining three cards onto the table. The hedge-fund managers flinched.

"Where is Singleton?"

Dennis quickly pulled out a remote. A flat-screen television flickered to life, showing a live video feed of Brandt holding Karmen in the back seat of his Maybach.

"Good evening, Mr. Ross," Brandt said, his tone dripping with fake deference. "Her name is Amelia. No family, no records. She lived under my roof for three years, and she knows how to serve."

Karmen leaned into the frame, pointing at my shaking shoulders. "Show him what you are, Amelia! Act like that dead girl he obsesses over. Beg him to touch you. Cry for him so he lets Brandt keep the fund."

I bit down on my lower lip until the taste of iron filled my mouth.

Three years. Brandt had coaxed me into staying, claiming he was protecting me, saying the arsonists would hunt me down the second I stepped outside. He made me fetch his dry cleaning, write his reports, and hold Karmen's coats. Now that his bets had failed, he was using my flesh as casino chips.

Jax lit a thin cigar, the orange flame reflecting in his gray eyes.

"You think this is funny, Singleton?"

"Not at all, Mr. Ross. I know your tastes. Have your fun with her."

Jax waved two fingers at Dennis.

Dennis grabbed a bottle of high-proof rye whiskey and poured it directly over my head. The cold alcohol flooded my eyes, the blinding pain tearing through me as it seeped into the raw burn tissue on my collarbone. Before I could even gasp, Dennis drove his heavy leather boot into my right shoulder blade, pinning me flat against the floor.

My cheek pressed against the wood, eye level with the low table. The pink iPod sat less than three feet away.

Eight years ago, during the coldest week of January, that boy had a fever of a hundred and four. I stole two blankets from the laundromat and wrapped him up, plugging the earbuds in and playing acoustic guitar songs until he stopped shaking. He told me nobody had ever shared a blanket with him before.

"Get up and beg, Amelia!" Brandt's voice crackled from the TV. "Bark like a dog, or I'll have Dennis use the pliers right now!"

I pushed my palms against the floor. Ignoring the boot on my back, I gritted my teeth and forced my spine straight.

Through my stinging, wet eyelashes, I looked directly at Jax Ross.

Eight years ago, I pushed him out of the fire; eight years later, he sat in the head chair, looking at me like I was trash.

He hadn't recognized me yet.

But I had recognized him.

Tonight, I was going to make him remember who I am-and then I would ruin Brandt and throw those two hundred million right back in his face.