My boyfriend shook his head. With no trace of emotion in his voice, he ordered, “C’mere.”

I ambled the distance to him and wrapped my arms around his neck, staring him dead in the eye. There was disobedience in my pupils. He needed a diversion from whatever bothered him enough to drive him crazy and make him drink and smoke himself to death.

Dean had a problem. He knew it. I knew it.

He had a problem, and this problem pushed him straight into the arms of his vices. He physically needed the alcohol and the weed to forget whatever it was that bothered him. I wanted to ask—was desperate to dig deeper into the dark rooms of his soul and pull out secret after secret, cleaning it from the cluttered mess—but couldn’t. It killed me, but I had to be there for him, any way he’d have me.

“You’re gorgeous,” he gruffed, trailing a finger over my jawline with the hand that wasn’t holding his brandy.

“You’re drunk,” I deadpanned, laughing nervously.

“True.” His predatory eyes played with my body in a way no other man could with their hands. “And still, you were gorgeous when I was sober, and you’ll still be gorgeous when I nurse a fucking hangover from hell tomorrow morning.” His hands slid down to my waist, and he grabbed me with force, spinning and placing me on his bar. My lower back pressed against an endless number of luxurious bottles, and the surface underneath me slipped chill into my bones, even through my long, torn, black skinny jeans.

His hand slid to the buttons on my jeans, and he was quick to pull them down until they hit the floor. My Sex Pistols yellow T-shirt was thrown onto the gray settee in less than a second, my flip-flops nowhere to be found. Dean then flattened me against the bar with his palm on my chest, and when the bottles dug into my back, he wiped them all off of the surface with his arm, a dozen of them falling to the floor in unison of colors, sound, and light.

“Jesus!” I gasped, the noise of shattered glass ringing in the room like an alarm. Dean grabbed the bottle of brandy that sat next to him and took another swig before pouring some into my navel and sucking on it, his warm lips on my skin making my lower stomach explode with nerves and need.

“I’m not a bad person,” he slurred, seemingly out of nowhere and to no one in particular. His level of drunkenness had me genuinely worried, but even though Dean was still a riddle, one thing was stark clear.

He didn’t want to be nursed or contained. He wanted to go unhinged.

His demons came out to play, and tonight, I was going to be their victim. I lay there at his altar, waiting to be punished for something I hadn’t done. His pain was going to be distributed between us.

And I was glad to take some of it away, even if it was just for one night.

“No. You’re the best person,” I mumbled as he dropped to his knees and tore the underwear from my skin. Red, searing marks brushed my thighs like welts. He flung the balled fabric behind his shoulder and dove down, tasting what was between my legs like it was his source of life, grinding his teeth against my sore hot spot, making me go crazy. He was a hungry zombie, feasting on his pound of flesh, and I stood no chance against his darkness.

Dean Cole was nothing like people pegged him. He was the worst kind of devil. One that hid behind a polite smile, preppy clothes, and good manners.

“Shit, Dean,” I panted hard, losing my grip of reality, of my senses, of myself. “You’re going to kill me.”

“No, Rosie. I am going to save you,” he growled, placing his thumbs on my sex and stretching me open to the point of delicious pain. He then plunged his tongue into me, fucking me mercilessly while I held onto the edges of his bar and screamed. For help or from pleasure, I wasn’t sure.

“Jesus. Oh, God.” I wiggled left and right, trying to escape the profound thrill that hit me.

“Tell me that I’m doing the right thing,” he snarled, clasping the sensitive flesh of my folds and slowly pulling it between his teeth until I cried out again. Delicious pain swirled between my legs. I wanted him to do it again, and he did, before saying, “I don’t want to know him, Rosie. I can’t deal with him right now.”

What was he talking about? Who was he? The little working cells of my lust-fogged brain were anxious to know. Who was crazy enough to hurt this gorgeous, kind man? And more importantly, who held the power to do so?