That was all it said. No explanation. No call. Just those three words from the person you were on your way to meet. Your chest felt tight, your eyes burning, and your mind was so loud you barely noticed the car that had been following you for the last few minutes.
You turned into the parking garage near the restaurant, still distracted, still angry and hurt. You didn’t see the other car speed up behind you until it was too late.
The impact was brutal.
Metal screamed as another vehicle slammed into yours at full speed, sending your car crashing hard into a concrete pillar. Glass exploded. The driver’s side crumpled inward. Your body jerked violently from the force, the seatbelt digging into your chest as your phone flew out of your hand. For a few seconds, everything was smoke, the smell of burnt rubber, and a high-pitched ringing in your ears.
You pushed the damaged door open with shaking hands and stumbled out of the wreckage. Your car was destroyed — crushed against the pillar, one side completely caved in, headlights shattered.
You were still trying to process what had just happened when you saw him.
A tall, heavily built man stepped out of the other wrecked car like the crash meant nothing. Long messy black hair with green and blonde streaks fell over one eye. A scar split his lower lip. He wore a black leather harness over his bare, scarred chest, and he looked at you with a cold, unreadable expression.
You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg.
You just stood there in the smoke and broken glass, breathing hard, anger and shock twisting together in your chest. Before you could even speak, he started walking toward you.
That was when you did it.
You leaned forward slightly, gathered it in your mouth, and spat — hard — right in his face. The spit landed on his cheek and slowly slid down toward his scarred lip. It happened without any shred of thoughts coming into your mind. You didn’t look away. You just stared at him, eyes burning with everything you were already feeling.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of smoke coming from the wrecked cars.
He didn’t wipe it off.
Instead, his head tilted slightly. His eyes dragged over your face, slow and assessing. Then, without warning, his hand shot out and struck you hard across the cheek. The force of the slap snapped your head to the side and left a sharp sting burning across your skin. Your eyes watered from the impact, but you still didn’t make a sound. You slowly turned your head back to look at him, jaw clenched.
A slow, dangerous smile pulled at the corner of his scarred mouth.
“Well, shit,”
he said, voice low and rough.
“That’s new.”
Before you could react, he grabbed the front of your shirt and yanked you forward so hard your body slammed against his. He was massive up close — seven feet of solid muscle and violence. One of his hands came up to grip your jaw tightly, fingers digging in as he forced you to look at him.
“Someone paid me to kill you tonight,”
he murmured, almost casually.
“Make it look like an accident after that cute little text you got.”
His grip on your jaw tightened. He leaned in closer, eyes dark and unreadable as he studied your face.
“But you just had to go and do that.”
He was quiet for a second, thumb brushing over your bottom lip almost thoughtfully.
“Fuck the contract,”
he said finally, voice dropping lower.
“Imma have you anyway.”
You barely had time to process the words before he moved. Strong arms locked around you as he threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. One of his hands gripped the back of your thigh hard enough to bruise while you kicked and fought. He didn’t say another word as he carried you through the smoke and broken glass, tossed you into the passenger seat of his still-running car, and drove off, leaving your totaled vehicle behind in the parking garage.
The ride was silent. Tense. You stayed quiet the entire time, heart pounding, cheek still stinging from the slap. Hands bound with zip ties. Mouth covered with cloth tape.
Eventually, he pulled into a hidden garage beneath an old industrial building. He carried you inside without speaking — up a flight of stairs and into a dimly lit loft. He didn’t give you time to look around. He walked straight to a reinforced steel cage in the corner of one room, opened the heavy door, and dropped you inside.
The lock clicked shut with a loud, final sound.
You stared at him through the bars, chest rising and falling, still not saying a single word. Your cheek burned where he’d hit you.
Maddox Krull crouched down in front of the cage, forearms resting on his knees as he looked at you. His eyes were cold and dark, but there was something else there now — something possessive.
“Name’s Maddox,”
he said simply, voice low.
“But most people call me Carnage.”
He reached through the bars and grabbed your jaw again, forcing you to keep looking at him. His thumb dragged slowly across your covered bottom lip.
“Someone wanted you gone. I decided I’d rather keep you instead.”
His grip tightened slightly.
“You spat on me. And fuck that made me hard as fuck.”
He gripped your face and pressed them against his hard and obvious bulge
“Feel that, bunny?”
He held your gaze for a long moment before finally letting go. He stood up, turned, and walked toward the door without another word, leaving you locked inside the cage with nothing but the sound of your own breathing and the heavy click of the lock behind him.
===
Welcome to your cage
===
