by LK Shaw
He places one more kiss along my neck. “Go back to sleep, piccola fata. We’ll talk in the morning.”
My body remains tightly wound, but Death doesn’t touch me in any other way. In fact, the longer I lie there, the more relaxed he becomes. Yet his hand stays where it is. What is he doing to me?
Chapter 8
Pierce
* * *
Mila remains rigid in my arms. It takes more willpower than I thought it would not to slide my hand down her body to where I want to touch her the most. It’s not time, though. Not yet. I want my little fairy to ache for me.
To crave me.
To beg me.
Because the minute she does, I’ll be able to get her to tell me everything.
Who Mikhail’s allies were. Where he stored their weapons. Where the women he trafficked are. Why she was working for him, even though she says she is glad he’s dead. I want to know all Mila’s secrets.
She’s a puzzle. Twice she’s spoken to me as though she recognized me. Not as Pierce, but someone else. Someone who has visited her. Apparently someone from hell. It’s happened both times when she appears to be asleep. Which fits right into my plans for her. Lovers tend to spill secrets in bed.
Minutes tick by, and ever so slowly, Mila’s body begins to relax. Her breathing slows and softens. I find myself relaxing with her, but I quickly bring my guard back up. There’d been a brief moment of panic when I’d first crept into her bedroom and she’d been missing. She couldn’t have escaped. Not without an alarm being raised.
Then, I’d spotted her on the couch, fast asleep, her body curled into a tiny ball. She looked so small and defenseless lying there. I have to stop kidding myself. Mila is Russian. The enemy. I have to treat her as such. Why did you carry her into the bedroom, taking care not to wake her, then? I curse that inner voice. She’s a means to an end. That’s all.
A soft snore comes from the woman nestled within my arms. A woman who feels far too good there. With a grunt of disgust, I untangle myself from her, grab my cell off the nightstand, and pad into the living room. I make a call.
“I’m here,” I tell Jacob on the other end.
“Have you gotten any more information from her yet?”
I still haven’t disclosed her name. I ignore the reasons why. I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Not yet. I will, though.”
He pauses, as though measuring his next words.
“Spit it out,” I tell him when the silence lengthens.
“I’m not sure about this, Pierce. I saw something in her eyes today. Something I don’t think I like.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that Jacob is having doubts. He’s always been the soft-hearted one. Even more so since he married Brenna. It’s why I made myself his unofficial bodyguard when I was initiated into the syndicate at fifteen. Someone had to watch out for my cousin. Not that he’s weak. Far from it. But he hasn’t cut off his emotions like I have. Like I’d been forced to. Except rage, that is. That one I kept.
“Mikhail orchestrated Francesca’s kidnapping. Your wife’s kidnapping. He and his men raped my sister,” I bite out. “Would have raped Brenna. He may be dead, but their organization isn’t. She may have information we can use to destroy them completely.”
Jacob sighs. He knows I’m right. “Fine. Just take some caution in how you proceed.”
“Understood,” I say. “How’s Brenna doing?”
“My wife is strong. She’s coping. We’re going to visit her parents in the morning. She wants to see them. Reassure them that she’s all right.”
I hadn’t been sure about the woman my cousin had been forced to marry, but his assessment of her is correct. Brenna has far more strength than I’d originally given her credit for.
“How did the old bastard react to his granddaughter’s kidnapping?” I ask.
“Donnelly cares about two things: money and power. So long as he doesn’t lose either of those, he can’t be bothered with anything else. Cormac or his son, Jack, would make better allies than the old man. With our luck, the son of a bitch will outlive us all,” Jacob says with disdain.
A noise behind me draws my attention. “I need to get going. I’ll check in another time.”
I disconnect the call and make my way down the hallway until I reach the bedroom. Mila is still where I left her. A smile crosses my face. After setting down my phone, I crawl back in beside her, tucking her against my body again and returning my hand to its former resting place. She stiffens.
“Did you hear anything interesting, piccola fata?” I chuckle against her ear. It’s a rusty sound from disuse.
“What do you keep calling me?” she asks, blithely avoiding my question.
“Just a little pet name.”
Mila growls low in her throat. It’s a sexy sound. One that gets my cock’s attention. It would only take a few well-placed touches, and she’d be ready to take me. I’d just have to lift her leg, push aside her panties, and slide deep inside her. But I control the urge. Finally, she blows out a puff of air and settles back against me. The quiet stretches between us.
“So, Brenna is your boss’ wife’s name?” she whispers into the dark.
I let her question linger a little before I respond. “Yes.”
“I’m glad she’s okay. I did my best to get her out of there.”
My brow crinkles at that. This woman is not what I expected. “Why would you help her?” I ask.
Mila shifts and glances over her shoulder at me. Her expression is hidden in shadows, but the weight of her stare is heavy. She shakes her head and faces away from me again. “Because no woman deserves to be imprisoned. Raped.” She takes in a shuddering breath. “Tortured.”
There’s something in her tone. A sliver of a note that makes me believe Mila isn’t just talking about Brenna. The image of the scars painted across her back flashes inside my head. “Is that what happened to you?”
Once again, she goes rigid in my embrace. Silence is her only response. After several minutes, it’s clear Mila isn’t going to answer me. She doesn’t have to. Her whole demeanor tells me everything I need to know.
How is what you’re doing to her any different?
Chapter 9
Mila
* * *
I don’t feel an inkling of guilt for eavesdropping on Death’s conversation. Or for pretending to be asleep. I’d had a lot of time to practice when I’d been with Maksim. I’d discovered that people, more often than not, see what they want to see. This man, though, sees too much. If I’m not careful, he’ll pull everything from me.
“Who did you think you were talking to earlier? Tonight, and last night after I returned to my playroom? The person who has never spoken to you before?” he asks.
My heart skips a beat and my pulse picks up. I don’t talk about my dreams. Not to anyone. Not since that first time with my mother.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Death pinches my nipple through my tee shirt, and I suck in a breath at the sensation.
“Mila.” His voice drops in tone and there’s a warning in it.
“I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat firmly. There are some secrets I won’t share. They’re not his to learn.
There’s another pinch, only this time he pulls the hyper-sensitive tip. I cry out in pain. But just as quickly, the pain morphs into a numbing pleasure. He releases his grip and gently kneads my breast, soothing the lingering ache.
“Is that really the answer you want to give me?” he rasps against my ear.
I shake my head. “My dreams are my own.”
Death bites down on my earlobe, sucking it between his lips. “So, he visits you in your dreams, then?”
Cursing my slip, I bite my tongue again, determined not to give in.
“How long have you been dreaming about him?” Another pinch and pluck.
I clutch at his hand, but instead of trying to get him to release his hold, I secure it tighter to me. H
e murmurs approval against my neck and grazes his teeth across my skin. A shudder runs through me.
His rock hard cock digs into my ass. He shifts and it slips between my legs. My traitorous body opens to him. I gasp, and behind me Death groans, the vibration traveling straight to my core.
“How long, Mila?” Death asks again, rolling his pelvis, his cock gliding along my pussy, the tiny bit of fabric of my panties doing nothing to dim the sensation.
He’s hot and hard, steel encased in velvet. The cotton is damp, grower wetter with each gentle thrust he makes.
“My whole life,” I spit out.
At last Death removes his hand from my breast, but only to slowly slide it down my stomach. My muscles clench, and I hold my breath. His finger teases the elastic waistband, dipping just underneath the edge of the cotton fabric. He’s so close to my center. Just a small movement. That’s all it would take.
“Who is he?” He continues taunting me with only a ghost of a touch across my lower belly. As though he’s daring me to ask him to keep going. As though it’s my choice to make. Because then I’m the one who wanted it. He didn’t merely take from me. I can almost hate him for using my pleasure against me.
Just because he wants me to ask, it doesn’t mean he isn’t above coaxing my weakness out of me. Death begins to pump his hips in short, shallow movements. With each one, the head of his cock butts against my clit. The place just below where his finger lightly caresses me.
My breathing is choppy, and every nerve in my body tingles. He surrounds me. Encompasses me. He is all I smell. All I feel. It’s overpowering. Yet, I want more.
“Please,” I beg him.
Death stops moving, and I whimper.
“Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you need,” his baritone voice deepens.
He’s right too, and I hate him for it. I do need it. My flesh is sensitive. My clit throbs.
“Who is he, Mila?” he asks one more time.
Tears of anger, pain, and frustration threaten to spill. God. Maksim was right. I am nothing but a whore. A needy cunt.
“He is Death. He visits my dreams from Hell.”
I can sense his need to keep battering me with questions, so I grab his hand in mine. “You said,” I beg. “Please.”
He left me on edge, and I need the promise of release. At last, he answers my plea. His fingers slide the last few inches and collide with my clit. I press myself into his touch. He flicks the sensitive flesh, then calms the jolt of pure pleasure with a gentle rubbing motion.
Round and round, up and down. In tandem, his hips begin to rock again, the hard line of his cock gliding along my pussy lips. Soon, all thoughts leave me as arousal takes over.
My real-life Death knows how to play my body. He gathers the wetness from my slit and returns to rubbing, the friction not yet enough to push me over. Only enough to make me go mad with the denial of it. I chase the feeling, wanting to grab hold of it.
“Look at me,” he growls.
I whip my head to the side, and his lips claims mine in a fierce kiss. They’re soft and damp and perfect. His tongue darts out to tease me, matching the flicking motion of his finger. The seam of my mouth parts under the persuasive touch. Death’s fingers pick up the pace as the kiss deepens. I reach up and thread my fingers through his hair, my nails digging into his scalp, holding him closer.
He groans into my mouth. A small burst of feminine pride warms me. He hits the right spot and an explosion of ecstasy shatters through me. The tension builds, and it only takes a few more perfect movements of his finger to light the fuse on my orgasm. My body shudders, and my back arches, pushing my ass even harder against him.
Tingles of energy race down my legs and into my toes. He continues the kiss for a moment longer, but I can already feel his withdrawal. For the briefest moment I imagine that Death cares about me. About my pleasure. But as he removes his hand from beneath my panties and slides his cock out from between my legs, the picture dissolves and I’m forced back into reality. He doesn’t care about me. Not in the slightest.
It’s nothing but an illusion.
Chapter 10
Pierce
* * *
A warm, soft body burrows against my chest. Hot breath ghosts across my skin. The faint scent of oranges wafts under my nose. For a moment I feel content. When was the last time I’d woken up with a woman in my arms? I can’t even remember.
Except piece by piece, memories of last night begin to filter through my brain. I open my eyes to a tangled mess of short blonde hair. Mila is plastered against me. She’s wrapped herself so tightly around my body it’s like she was trying to crawl inside it.
Faint light filters through the windows. It’s still early, but far later than I usually rise. It’s not like me to sleep in. I need to get out of this bed, but I can’t seem to make myself move. Instead, I think about what I learned last night. Why do I care about what happened to Mila? Why is it that with every question she answers about herself, ten more come to mind?
I should be asking her about Mikhail. About who his allies were. Getting any information from her I can that will help me annihilate the rest of the Russian faction and anyone who worked with them. Yet all I want to know is who hurt her, and what I need to do to seek vengeance.
“You’re pathetic. Lusting after some whore when you should be getting answers. You can’t even do that right. You’re weak, Pierce. Just like your father.”
I grit my teeth at the poisonous voice inside my head. It’s been years since that viper took up space in there. But ever since my return with Jacob from his self-imposed exile nearly a month ago, the voice has become a regular visitor. I’d actually started to regret returning to Brooklyn, even though I’d been born and raised here, and it was home.
Needing some space to clear my mind, I roll out of the bed. I quickly pull on my briefs and grab my phone. Hardening my expression, I stare over my shoulder. Mila is sitting up with the sheet tucked around her waist, a wary expression on her face.
“You have five minutes to meet me in the kitchen. We have things to discuss,” I snap.
I escape out the door and into the other room. And you thought Jacob was running from his past. A quick glance at the clock reminds me that the supply of food I ordered should be arriving soon. While I wait for Mila, I pace, and then stop myself. Pacing is for those who are indecisive.
Instead, I lean up against the fridge with ankles and arms crossed and clear my face of any expression. A tactic I’ve perfected over the years. Moments later, she comes walking down the hall wearing yet another too small t-shirt that emphasizes those plump tits of hers, and a pair of shorts I wish gave me a better glimpse of her surprisingly long legs.
Her steps slow as she approaches the kitchen. She meets my gaze head on, and a slight flush rises in her cheeks.
“You’re going to answer some of my questions,” I tell her.
Her jaw clenches, as do her fists, but she doesn’t argue. Instead she narrows her eyes and glares at me before finally taking a seat at the table. I remain where I am.
“You said you were at Mikhail’s compound for revenge. How long were you there?”
Mila turns her back on me and clasps her hands on the surface of the table. The blatant disrespect in the gesture should piss me off, and it does, but I’m also slightly amused. Mostly, because in the brief time since we left the warehouse, she seems to have forgotten the rules. I’m glad. We both need the reminder of what happens when she doesn’t do what I tell her.
I cross the room in only a few steps and palm the back of her neck. Gently at first, then squeezing a bit more tightly, until she hisses in pain. I bend down and speak harshly in her ear. “I thought you understood how this went. I ask you a question. You give me an answer. I think you’ve gotten a little too comfortable in such a short period of time. Just because you’ve had free rein of this house doesn’t mean I’ll let it continue.” I tighten my grip a fraction more. “Don’t think that last night ch
anges anything. Your pussy isn’t so good that I’ve forgotten who you are. Who you worked for. Now, how long were you there?”
“A few months,” she gasps out.
“I’m sure you learned a lot, heard a lot, in that time, didn’t you?” I ask, only loosening my hold a fraction. “Like the location of their weapons stores? Or who some of their business associates were?”
“I heard a few things, but not a lot. I wasn’t there to get information,” she says with a hint of sarcasm. A bold move for a woman in her position.
“That’s right, you were there for revenge. Because Mikhail murdered your mother. What sort of revenge were you planning, then?” I ask.
She tilts her head back as much as my grip allows and raises her eyes to me. Eyes that spew hatred. I ignore the pang in my chest.
“Answer the question, Mila.”
“I was going to kill him,” she grinds out between clenched teeth.
“Then what?”
Her forehead wrinkles. “What do you mean?”
“You were inside his lair. If you killed him, did you really think his men were going to just let you walk out the front door?”
She actually rolls her eyes. “Of course not. I had an escape plan.”
I release my hold on her, since she is cooperating, and take a seat in the chair beside her. She rubs away the pain in her neck. I lean back, cross an ankle over my knee, and thread my fingers over my stomach. “Why don’t you tell me about this escape plan of yours.”
Mila slumps slightly in her seat. “Before I even showed up at his door, I watched the place from the outside. To make sure I could find another way out. I saw where the guards were, the security cameras, how often they changed shifts. I took note of everything I could, until one day I discovered a weakness in their defenses.”
“That spot in the wall. The place where you were trying to get out that night,” I say, actually impressed with what she’s told me. “I saw you pull out some of the loose bricks. I take it that was your handiwork.”
