HANS: Alliance Series Book Four
S.J. Tilly
This is a dark vigilante romance.
It contains a lot of graphic violence and death. There is stalking, breaking and entering, and surveillance.
This book deals with human trafficking. There are no first-person POVs of any trafficking victims, but you will see firsthand the trauma it leaves behind.
This book also contains death of parents, death of a sibling, and the torment of wishing you’d done more.
Since Hans only lives between these pages, if you, or someone you know is a victim of human trafficking, please call 1-888-373-7888. If you are outside of the United States, visit this site for further help https://bit.ly/InternationalTraffickingHotlines There are people who care about you, and they will help you.
Please proceed well informed and with caution.
CHAPTER 1
Hans
The soft scraping sound of my blade gliding over the whetstone fills me with a sense of calm.
It’s familiar.
My dearest friend.
Instinctually, my wrist twists to hold the metal against the stone at a fifteen-degree angle, five degrees shallower than most brand standards. A little sharper. A little more dangerous.
A little more my style.
Ahead of me, a yellow light blinks in the corner of one of my monitors.
I move my eyes up from my knife to the signaling screen and watch Cassandra, my neighbor, the bane of my existence, hop across the street from her driveway to mine.
Okay, so she’s not hopping. But in that strappy little tank top and shorts, she might as well be for how much every inch of her is fucking jiggling.
The work surface in front of me creaks as I lean forward, my fist gripping the knife handle, pressing the butt of it against the old wood.
Does she not realize what a fucking temptation she is?
Does she have no sense at all?
Her big tits bounce as she takes her next step, her flimsy flip-flops doing nothing to protect her feet from the cracked blacktop.
A girl like her should wear…
Nothing.
A girl like her should wear absolutely nothing, and she should spend her nights on her back with her thighs spread, her hands pinned, and her body heaving… underneath mine—where no one else can ever lay eyes on her.
I grind my teeth.
This world isn’t made for delicate creatures like her.
On the screen, Cassandra brushes one hand down the front of her purple top as she turns off my driveway and down the little brick pathway that leads to my front door.
My front door, which is one level up from my current spot in my basement.
My front door that I never answer.
Because I can’t talk to her.
I can’t let myself get that close to her.
The doorbell is inaudible through the reinforced walls of my hidden safe room, but I hear it clearly through my speakers.
Another screen shows a different view, and this one might be my favorite.
The camera is in the peephole, so it’s a perfect angle of her perfect face.
She bites her lip.
She shifts the glass container of badly made baked goods in her hands.
She reaches up and brushes her curly black hair away from her face.
I shove the air out of my lungs.
It’s almost time for her next haircut. Her bangs are a little long, hanging into her eyes, the curls even more apparent in the short strands, making her look just the right amount of unkempt.
I love them.
But I hate when they block my view of her soft brown irises, even if it’s only for a second.
Her tongue darts out, swiping across her plump bottom lip.
And I look to the ceiling.
The doorbell sounds again.
Maybe if I focus, I can slam my head forward, impaling my eye socket onto my blade, and put myself out of this fucking blue-ball misery.
“I thought you were home, Hans.” Her soft voice slides through my speakers, and I snap my eyes back up to the screen.
She almost always mutters something to herself when she stands at my door. But she never says my name.
My dick reacts, knowing exactly how her lips would’ve parted while she breathed out my name.
I’ll play the recording back when she’s gone. Watch the shape of those perfect pink lips as they open and close.
“Dammit, Butterfly.” I press my palm down over my growing erection.
Her exposed cleavage rises as she takes a big breath, then she dips down, setting the container on the worn welcome mat in front of my door.
It doesn’t actually say welcome. But it does have a sheet of carefully crafted explosives woven into the inner layer of the mat, so there’s that.
I keep pressing down on my dick as she straightens.
And I press harder when I watch her glance at my front window.