It would have been so easy to stay there. To turn herself in. Let Manivietto trade her to whatever old man whose vote he needed. Instead she pulled the cord that rang the guards and left their dead brother outside the door.
Her mother’s wails echoed down the cobbled streets and off the walls of district, chasing them as they ran. One of her brother’s wives, Nicita, with her great barking voice had shouted, begging them to come home.
But they’d promised Jonan.
It had taken days to wash the last of the blood from under her fingernails.
Now, years later, in the bed of the man who’d killed him, Tessa froze, because one floor down, a door clicked.
She drew up into a tight ball, wrapping her arms around her knees.
Sanger. Delsanthio. The Boss. Her brother’s killer.
He’d been inside her.
The familiar tread on the steps sounded outside the door.
He was coming.
Fuck you, Universe.
25
like a pet in a fucking cage
TESSA FLOPPED OVER on her stomach. If there was ever a time to suddenly become a good actress, this was it.
The doorknob twisted. He froze at the doorway, holding a tray of food, looking around the room. She’d have sworn he scented the air.
“Did you just wake up?” he asked.
Because, unlike him, she was not a good actress, she just murmured something that sounded halfway between an affirmation and a moan. And because she did know Sanger liked to look at her body, she stretched indolently, spreading her legs in silent, hopefully distracting, invitation.
Those perfect lips curved.
Her throat tightened. Why did he have to be so beautiful? It made it way too easy to forget that less than twenty minutes ago he’d strangled a man.
He set the tray down beside her on the bed.
A spray of magenta bougania with turquoise fronds sat in a small vase on the tray.
She trailed a finger along one of the pointed blooms. “Flowers.”
“There’s a vine outside the kitchen. Made me think of you.”
Her heart pounded, and the breath she exhaled was shaky. The image of his muscles bunching as he pulled at the wire around a dying man’s neck kept flashing in her mind, alternating with Jonan’s bleeding corpse.
His eyes gave nothing away, he was as robotic as ever. “Your heart’s beating fast.”
The signs of heat were so similar to the signs of fear. For good reason. When the body has the power to make a woman forget her soul, she should be afraid.
She couldn’t admit to fear, so she admitted to lust. “I’m getting close.”
On the tray sat a brown paper bag, edges folded back into a make-shift basket full of pastries. He tilted his chin at it, the side of his mouth turned down in a rueful smile. “I had pastries delivered. I didn’t know what you liked, so I got one of everything.”
Why was he pretending to be so nice?
Why toy with her?
She’d be here even if all he did was slap her ass and keep her on her knees. She had no choice. He could do as he liked with her. No one would stop him. She certainly couldn’t, and yet here he was, playing this prince-charming farce to perfection.
A big bowl on the tray held mixed berries. Her mouth started to water. There were varieties of berries there she’d never even seen before—and that was saying something since Manivietto had taken pride in seeing his women well fed, mother, aunts, sisters and wives.
Her hand moved toward it. “Are you eating this time?”
He scratched his jaw. “I had some downstairs.”
There were a lot of pastries, and it was a big berry bowl. He must have intended for them to share, but she wouldn’t argue. If the Boss wanted to be a gentleman and let her eat all his berries and pastries, fine with her. Maybe he’d starve while they did nothing but fuck and swap lies for the next two days.
He kissed her shoulder, and she tried to ignore the way her spine tingled at the raspy drag of his unshaved jaw. He smelled like every heaven ever, and her stupid faithless body heated for him, opened for him.
“I’ll be back with eeffoc.”
She stuffed a berry into her mouth to keep herself from telling him to eeffoc off.
When he came back, she’d finished two pastries and most of the berries, and regained enough self-control that her heart stopped clattering around in her chest.
He bore another tray, this one held eeffoc.
“You’re spoiling me.” She tried to make it sound flirtatious, but it came out accusatory, which from anyone else would have invited a scowl.
He set down the tray, wiped something off her cheek with his thumb, and leaned down to kiss her.
“You taste like lintorippis,” he whispered against her lips.
Her eyes burned. He’d killed Jonan. He just strangled someone. Hold onto that. Remember that. “I love lintorippis.”
He handed her a mug. She took a long steadying sip.
White teeth flashed a grin in a tan face, and he took a bite of a pastry. “Anything else you really want?”
She dropped her gaze, running her hands along the ripples of the smooth, white sheets. “We don’t usually have much of a choice.”
The hard ridge of his throat moved as he swallowed. “I know.”
Thinking about food made her sad. Leyla would have loved this. Maybe somewhere across Didgermmion, some Prime was stuffing her full of choco and berries in a bed of clean, soft sheets. Maybe he even looked like Sanger, like sin and sex and manliness all tied up with a big, beautiful cock. She really hoped so—minus the strangly, murdery Boss part.
Leyla deserved to be happy, even if it didn’t last.
“You didn’t tell me Manivietto was your brother.”
She shouldn’t be surprised. He was the Boss. The Boss knew everything. He probably had Leyla in some cage somewhere. “He’s not my brother by choice.”
He took a long, slow sip of coffee, like he was mentally preparing for something he needed to say. “I’ve arranged for some clean clothes to be brought here in your size—men’s clothes, black like you wore before. But…I don’t think we’re safe here much longer. People are talking about a big Prime who killed three humanis over a felana in heat. They’re saying she’s the sister of the one from the bathhouse. I want to take you somewhere safe. Somewhere underground.”
“No.” Her voice sounded sullen even to her own ears. So, she ate more.
He sat down behind her and pulled her closer, so she was between his spread thighs. Purring and stroking her back, and being so warm and sexy Prime-smelling that her heart did a little somersault.
“I’m not staying with you after this is over, Sanger. So, you can stop being so nice.”
“I could be there for your next heat.”
She was silent.
Some energy was writhing through him, like he was fighting his own internal demons, like he’d made some kind of decision but didn’t know how to implement it. “I could make it so no one else ever had to touch you. I could keep you safe. You could have anything…do anything you wanted.”
What did she want to do other than kill him? All she’d ever thought about was killing the Boss. That was her only goal. What else did she do? Steal food and run. She laughed, the sound such an ugly, mirthless cackle that he winced.
“How is that different than being yours?” she asked.
His body stilled, muscles rigid. She imagined him thinking about that, with his machine of a brain. Not slow. Calculated. She didn’t feel like waiting for him to sort it out.
“I can answer that if you’re struggling,” she said, her voice coming out so sharply, he tensed. “It’s not. I’d be kept like a pet in a fucking cage. Like some sort of novelty zoo creature. Trot out the felana again, she’s in heat, time to feed her some cock.” She grabbed a berry and shoved it in her mouth, to stop herself from saying anymore. The hurt and anger and fear was bubbling out.
As usual, the mo
re obnoxious she was, the more he liked her. A laugh rippled through him. “Some would say to belong to a Prime is to be treasured.”
“I call it trapped.”
His jaw scratched the skin of her shoulder as he shook his head, his hand wrapped around her waist, to rest on her bare thigh. “Protected.”
“Subjugated,” she said, all belligerent and shit.
He laughed. Or course he did. Just like obnoxious, the more belligerent she got, the better he liked her. That hurt too. He was the only person in the world who liked her when she was her natural cranky rude self.
That sucked. The one person on the planet who actually liked who she was turned out to be her mortal enemy. “I’m leaving, Sanger, and you can’t stop me.”
“I could.” He cupped her breast and strummed his thumb over her nipple, squeezing it to a tight peak. It brought an instant stab of need between her thighs, her body sliding back into the desperation of the heat. “I could tie you up, lock you in my tunnel, keep you in my bed and never let you go.”
“Would you?”
“You’d hate me if I did.”
She’d hate him anyway.
She couldn’t keep him out of her body, but she could keep him out of her heart. Time for distraction. For both of them. She shoved the tray away and twisted so she was straddling him. The berries overturned and rolled around on the floor, leaving red and blue and purple tracks. “Get ready, Prime.”
He made that crinkly-eyed, lazy half-smile that always made her gush.
“I’m back to being Prime, am I?” His hands settled on her hips. “This morning, when you were rubbing your pussy in my face, I was ‘Sanger.’”
Was he actually joking with her?
He pitched his voice high. “Sanger. Sanger. Sanger.”
She threw a pillow at him. “Fuck you.”
He swatted the pillow with one big hand so it flew across the room and hit the wall. It landed with a little huff of its own. With one hand, he grabbed his shirt by the back of the neck, and tugged it over his head, all bunching triceps. Her mouth went dry.
His flat muscled abdomen twitched. He unbuttoned the top of his pants. And then she stopped thinking all together.
His cock burst free, as perfect and beautiful as the rest of him.
Her stomach dropped.
Her heart did that thing again, thrashing against her ribs like a wild animal in a cage. It knew she was fucked, mind, body and soul.
She dropped low, snarling at him, stretching her lips open wide and sucked him deep, all the way back, fighting with her own throat to open wider for him. His fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her closer, setting up a rhythm, until she couldn’t tell if he was fucking or face or she was rocking back and forth of her own accord.
As always, he bridged the line between rough and soft. He thrust deep, held her still, hard and savage, but the look in his eyes, the stroke of his fingers was soft.
Precum flooded her mouth, poured hot down her throat, spilled from the corners of her lips.
She groaned around it, digging her fingers into his thighs, sliding her hands up to cup the heavy weight of his scrotum. She squeezed, testing. Then a little harder, just to see what he’d do. He watched her, eyes gleaming, like he was trusting her against his better judgement.
She squeezed hard. Harder.
As hard as she could.
With a curse, he yanked his dick away, fisting her hair. “What the fuck?”
She tried to force a smile, but it felt unhinged.
She backed away, and the height of him, the power in him, the sense of careful restraint… for that moment, she could perfectly see how he’d become the Boss. It was all there, the economic motions, the calculation, the fury in his eyes.
He grabbed her by an ankle, dragged her across the bed, the sheets wrinkling and chafing against her back. Eyes hot and hungry. A rough hand—a strangler’s hand—closed around her neck, tightening, as his body settled atop hers.
She flinched, wanting to pull away. For once, not wanting him, not at all.
“Why do you keep fighting me?” he snarled.
This man had killed her brother, killed another man only moments earlier, but her stupid body didn’t care at all.
She wrapped her hand around his wrist, tried to pull it away from her neck, and bit down on her lip to curtail the welling of tears. “You said you didn’t want this to get real.”
“It’s already real.”
“Not for me.”
“Liar. Quit fighting it.” Grip gentling, eyes softening, he kept on urging, and soothing, and coaxing, until she let him spread her wide, draping her legs over his shoulders and down his back. His hair tickled her belly, and his mouth was molten hot as it touched down.
A gentle finger slid inside her, his tongue teasing, feather-soft.
Perverse.
Ask for rough, get gentle.
Squeeze his nutsack hard enough to reduce his sperm count, and get sweetness.
The thought enraged her. She reacted instinctively, and threw her arm out and slapped his face, appalled and proud and scared when she actually made contact.
The sound echoed across the room.
He went still, his eyes flashing wide for a single moment.
His skin mottled instantly.
His shoulders bunched, finger withdrawing, the muscles of his upperarms straining like he was fighting a battle inside himself for control.
Then, with a hiss, he blasted into motion, flipping her onto her stomach, pinning her down with a hard hand in her hair. He snarled, pushing her face down so her cheek pressed into the bedspread, shaking her by the scruff of her neck. “What is your problem?”
She said nothing.
He shook her, like a wild animal, shaking its prey. “Have I ever harmed you? Hurt you? Lied to you?”
Yes! Yes! Many, many times. But she couldn’t say that. She wanted to fight, but he had her trapped in a wrestler’s hold, his arm pressing against her windpipe, her head locked in a vice-like grip, hair yanked by his fingers.
“I’ll end up leaving here bald if you don’t ease up with that shit.”
His massive body pushed her farther into the bed, so his lips were right there at her ear.
“Don’t you ever fucking hit me again,” he growled, but his hand did release it’s hold. “And don’t you ever touch my nuts again in anger.”
She tried to control it, tried to stop it, but the rage bubbled over, and before she could stop it, her hand snaked out from under her body and curled into a loose fist. It didn’t find purchase, but she succeeded in elbowing him ineffectually in a granite-hard stomach.
He inhaled like he was struggling hard to keep his calm. “I’ve done nothing but help you. Keep you safe. Feed you. See to your every need.”
She bucked again, fully prepared for snarling, and hair pulling, that didn’t come. When she tried to break free of his hold, he cursed, low and feral, and his hand came down in a slap to her ass so sharp she yelped. He hadn’t hit her since the first day.
But he made up for lost time. His hand came down fast. She grit her teeth until her vision went dark, but aside from the single yelp, she refused to give in to him, refused to give him the satisfaction. Let him cover her ass in angry red marks. Let him hurt her. She’d win in the end. He smacked her ass again, harder and harder and harder.
And then he stopped. Breathing hard above her. His heart thundering.
She went rigid, waiting for him wrap his hands around her neck again.
A heartbeat later, he pressed his thumb along the dripping folds between her legs, then trailed higher, until the broad blunt pad pressed against her ass.
She couldn't explain it, but every time he did, it was like her whole body disappeared and all that was left of her was that connection.
He pressed harder, his thumb going in deeper than it had yet. It hurt, but it felt good too. Fingers probed her pussy, found her wet as always.
He was questing, asking her bo
dy a question. She moaned into the bed, as his thumb withdrew and a finger pressed into her ass through her tightened muscles. A second joined it.
Too far. Too thick.
It hurt, but he didn’t let up. If anything, he managed to get in even deeper, one hand, still fisted at her neck, holding her pinned. “Am I being too rough?”
“Not rough enough, Prime,” she gritted out. Rough was welcome. It was his tenderness she hated.
He pulled at her hips, kneaded at her thighs, until she was ass-up, face-down, knees to her chest. The pair of fingers, thick and long, pushed deeper, the thick crown of his cock bumped against her slick thighs.
She was panting around the pain, rocking upward, trying to get his cock where she needed it.
He held her still, the long fingers of his free hand, splaying around her hip.
He needn’t have bothered. She wasn’t going anywhere. Her insides may have quivered and rebelled against the invasion of his fingers, but they also reveled in his dominance.
When he switched to a deep driving beat of those thick fingers sawing in and out, she knew what was coming.
And as fast as he’d started it, he stopped, his fingers left. She sagged into the bedding, as he rose above her.
Her smaller body was by him, and his teeth grazed her ear. “Do you feel it? The driving need for me?”
It was too much. His growls. The rush of his breath in her ear was the only warning, before his teeth closed down on her earlobe. He bit down harder, and it hurt far more than any slap or spank ever could. And he punctuated it by driving the full thick length of him inside her pussy.
Whether it was a reminder to be still, a threat not to hit him ever again, or a promise, she didn’t know.
She clenched around him, and her hips bucked against him because the orgasm was right there, just over the horizon, and her body, the heat, had taken control. Nothing else mattered.
His voice was like the rasp of a blade on stone. “You gush like a fountain every single time I slap your ass. Answer me. Do you feel it, too? I wake in the night wanting you. Even now, fucking you, I’m thinking of the next time. Is it like that for you?”
The Claiming Page 13
