The cellar door opens. Light assaults his eyes.

After a momentary blindness, he can see. Slash thinks light should chase away the horror movie ambiance. It doesn’t. The room still feels like a cobwebby mist shrouded tomb. Although dirt floored, it looks like an ordinary cellar. Except for the chains holding him shackled to the wall.

A woman stares at him from the top of the landing. He stares back. Slash has been wrong. Courtesy of Universal Pictures, he’s pictured his captor as an exotic, raven-haired beauty, dressed in a flowing and gauzy burial gown. This woman’s platinum hair looks styled by Vidal Sassoon. Her clothes are New York City power suit—short skirt, a red leather bustier showing through her open pin striped jacket.

His heart begins to race.

She begins her descent. No floating: just one red leather boot striking a stair, then another, moving down, coming closer. He can’t stir. Can barely breathe as he watches her advance.

Then, as if released from a spell, he is able to move. Slash struggles to get to his feet. Pain tingles through his legs as vessels reopen and circulation resumes. Somehow, after what to her must be comedic effort, he manages to stand. Good, he wants to meet this woman face to face.

One thing he’s gotten right: Damn, she is beautiful.

She stops before him. Her eyes are the most disconcerting shade of purple. He raises his chin, hoping to appear taller.

The woman takes a deep breath, drawing in the scent of him. “Mmmm, you smell delicious.”

Slash doesn’t think so, but who is he to argue with someone this hot?

Silver swirls in her purple irises and she smiles, running a pink tongue across a suddenly lethal incisor. “I like how you dress, your hair. Tough and decadent. Tell me, cherie, would you like to live up to your masquerade?”

“I already do,” he lies, thinking of his videos, his music, his idols. No reason to tell her of his love for animals. That he has a soft spot for kids. She certainly doesn’t have to know about his plans to give up the lifestyle, go to college and become a doctor, his lifelong dream. Already, the scholarship is in the works.

Her fingertip traces his lips, pushes inside the warm cavern of his mouth. “I can give you that darkness...and more. All you must do is trust me.”

An intriguing image struts through his mind and temptation stands before him clad only in red leather. Blonde, bustier and boots: a lethal combination. His teenage hormones rise to attention.

Suddenly compassion seems less important. Who wants to go to all that school anyway?

“I’m all yours,” he says.

“You always were,” she answers. Hunger shines in her eyes.