CHAPTER 14

He realized he'd made a mistake too late.

In the split-second loss of concentration, ETHAN MIKASON's grip on his waist tightened, and he was turned over and pinned down beneath him before he could react. He tried to inject the rest of the drug, but ETHAN MIKASON's hand came down in a slap on his wrist, causing him to pull the needle out as he knocked the syringe out of his hand. It fell to the pillow, just out of grasp. He fought, trying to wriggle free, trying to push him off, but it was like trying to move a mountain.

And then, in an instant, a large, strong hand closed around his throat.

He couldn't breathe.

The grip tightened with terrifying speed, and his windpipe was cut in an instant. ETHAN MIKASON loomed over him, his massive form an impenetrable, crushing wall. The HARK tattoo on his skin seemed to twist, the cold ink coiling into something more solid—more deadly—like the assassin that it's bred to be, ready to strike. He could feel its fangs at his throat, and he knew with brutal certainty that if he wanted to, he would strangle him to death.

With that passionless look in his eyes.

And for a moment, he could see himself.

Dead eyes. Empty insides.

He fought for breath with imaginary air, scratching at his fingers and thrashing his legs, but ETHAN MIKASON was sitting on them and he couldn't struggle so much.

He watched through his blurry eyes as ETHAN MIKASON easily leaned over and retrieved the syringe, the needle glinting in the dark.

"Let's see how good this stuff is."

ETHAN MIKASON removed his hand from his neck, and as he gargled on air, he jabbed the needle into his flesh.

He flailed around and punched him in the chest, but ETHAN MIKASON injected what remained in the syringe into his veins.

Their labored breathing echoed in the blackness, which made the silence even more oppressive. Apocalyptic, even."

Fuck.

Fuck!

He shot him up with what he was supposed to have, and because he wished to annihilate him so totally, he doubled the dose when he got it from his dealer. In his own words, "It'll make you forget reality and beg for more."

He was going to see ETHAN MIKASON on his knees. Not try his own medicine.

Fucking again.

He barely registered that he had a needle that had been in someone else in him. His mildly germophobic tendencies were overridden by a stronger personality trait. The trait that absolutely despised losing control.

His weight was removed from him, and he sat in absolute and utter confusion as he stood and turned on the light.

Completely fucking naked.

He had been covered by the sheet earlier, so he did not know that he was really naked. The room was filled with dim yellow light as he loomed over the bed he was lying in. The muscles in his chest contracted, making the HARK look repulsive.

He'd seen dozens of naked men—in the gym and in the locker room after high school football practice. All the time. And he never gave them a second look.

Or with interest.

Hell, he hated it when REBE walked naked around the mansion because he "has a beautiful body and doesn't like to hide it."

And yet, at the time, he couldn't help but look.

Objectively, he could admit that he had a body that demanded attention. The kind of physique that was born from intense workouts and physical discipline. Chiseled muscles that ripped through his skin, an eight-pack that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and veiny-toned arms that spoke of raw power beneath the surface.

His throat was dry—courtesy of the moron drugs, probably. This was no professor's body, not by a long stretch.

He gazed, his eyes unable to leave, as his vein-streaked hand leisurely drew down his abs, every movement deliberate, hypnotic. His fingers paused at his V-line, the muscles contracting under his touch as they lingered there.

But he did not have to go on for him to see his cock standing at attention.

Maybe it was because his muscular thighs were naked, but it seemed revoltingly bigger than the last time.

"Look what you've done." He rubbed his stubbled jaw, his eyes looking as dark and empty as the night outside. "Your fight really turns me on, little monster."

Sick motherfucker.

He sat up in bed, his movements already a bit lethargic.

But he had to get the hell out of there before the drug kicked in. No way in hell would he be in this asshole's room when that happened.

He had to go back to the drawing board and come up with a better plan to annihilate this bastard once and for all—

"Where do you think you're going?"

ETHAN MIKASON towered over him, his hand coming up to his face before he could dodge. No, his reflexes were dulled.

He couldn't dodge.

…could he?

Ruthless long fingers clamped onto his cheeks. "You didn't think you could be a little cocktease, then fuck off, did you?"

JAX

The skin where he touched him burned hotter than hellfire.

He tightened his grip on his hand and tried to pull it off, but he might as well have tried to budge a chunk of steel. He wasn't exactly weak, either. He pumped iron and took great pride in being capable of squashing people beneath his prim-and-proper exterior.

But this bastard was different.

He used violence as a tool for enforcing authority.

It didn't add up with the rest of his damn mundane life.

"Let me go," he ground out from between clenched teeth.

ETHAN MIKASON inclined his head to the side, his mouth curling. "Say please."

"Please go fuck yourself, Professor."