Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1)

by Sav R. Miller

  Caroline’s face hovers close to mine, blue eyes dilated, and our breaths match in harshness and frequency. Her fingernails bite into my bare shoulders, and I welcome the pain.

  It’s a reminder that I’m awake. Alive.

  Here, with her.

  That I have questions she needs to answer.

  She licks her plump lips, teeth sinking into the bottom one. Desire for her courses through my veins; she’s a fresh rain after a long drought, her innocence a magnet I can’t tear myself from. The fire in her soul something I want to consume me. Make me whole. Redeem me.

  All this time, I thought she’d be the one surrendering to me—giving in. Jesus Christ was I wrong.

  “You were having a bad dream, I think.”

  “Yeah,” I breathe, mesmerized by her proximity. “I was.”

  Shifting slightly, putting an inch between us, she clears her throat, eyes locked on mine. God, I don’t ever want her to look away. “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She blinks, her chest inflating and concaving with each increasingly labored breath.

  My shoulders warm under her touch, pleasure slithering down my spine, and I can’t help wondering if she feels it too.

  But instead of addressing that, or our altercation earlier, or the fact that she’s injured, or that I just had a fucking nightmare for the first time in years, I lash out.

  Gripping the back of her neck, I drag her lips down to mine, sealing her fate, entwining it with my own. Sort sol be damned; Caroline obliterates the fucking sun all on her own.

  IT’S HARD TO THINK with Elia’s tongue in my mouth; he’s like a diving team on an expedition to the seafloor, searching for buried treasure.

  His large hands tangle in my hair, fusing our mouths before I have a chance to ask about the sounds he was just making in his sleep. Pitiful moans woke me from the blackout slumber I’d fallen into, and even though my vision swam when I sat up, searching for the source, I still found myself reaching for him.

  That would’ve been the perfect time to sneak into my room and lock myself inside, but his groans grew in pitch with every shuddering breath wrenched from his chest, and it freaked me out. Made him seem too human.

  My head pounded, pain ebbing from a single spot on my temple, and I hadn’t been able to think clearly. I was reaching for him before I realized what was happening, drawn to him by some invisible force.

  He kisses me with a voraciousness that steals the air from my lungs. One of my hands brushes over the tattoo on his side as it falls to his stomach. The other winds up his chest, wrapping around his neck.

  My fingers press into the rock-hard muscles, making him shiver. I’m straddling his lap as he strains upward, forcing us closer like he’s trying to sew our bodies together, erase the evidence that we’re two separate entities.

  Stroking his side, I wrestle his tongue with my own, lapping and licking and sucking until the sounds of our sloppy kisses fill my ears, heating my cheeks and making my thighs clench.

  His hand leaves my hair and makes the slow, agonizing descent down my back, leaving a trail of molten lava in its wake. I pull back, tearing my lips from his. He moves forward again, trying to reconnect us, but I retreat, keeping the distance. “Elia.” My voice comes out breathless. Husky.

  “Mio amore,” he whispers, rolling his hips beneath me.

  The shirt I’m wearing—did he put this on me?—slides up at our contact, allowing better access between us, and my clit presses against the bulge in his boxers.

  It hits me that this is only the second time I’ve seen him this undressed outside of the pool. Since that day he came home drunk and took off his shirt, he’s been more cautious around me like he suspects I feed off his vulnerability. And yet, here he lays clad only in his underwear, body on full display.

  “We have to stop.”

  “Why?” He leans forward, lips grazing my neck, and the heat flaring in my pussy nearly makes me cave.

  “Don’t you think we have stuff to talk about?”

  “We have the rest of our lives to talk, Caroline.”

  The throbbing in my head intensifies. An ache so powerful that my vision blurs around the edges like a vignette filter. My palm covers the spot, applying pressure, and Elia slides me from his lap, concern marring his features.

  “Fuck, did I hurt you?”

  “No. I think I hit my head earlier.”

  He curses under his breath, getting to his feet and scooping his dress pants up off the floor. “Kal said you probably had a concussion. Jesus, I completely forgot.” He turns, raking a hand through his messy locks. “Do you feel okay, otherwise?”

  “I guess?”

  “Nausea, blurred vision, fatigue?” He rubs his palms over his face like Lady Macbeth washes her hands. “Shit, I let you stay asleep. You’ve probably got brain damage by now.”

  My eyes widen, and I sit up straight despite the pain flaring. “Whoa, whoa, I think I’m okay. This isn’t my first concussion, you know.”

  “Well, that makes it worse.”

  “The only thing making it worse is you freaking out right now. Seriously, I’m okay.”

  He turns, staring a hole through my soul, and my breath catches. Taking a step forward, he exhales, cupping my cheek. “Sorry, I just... this is familiar territory, and it didn’t exactly end well the last time.”

  My brain jolts, desperate for another sliver of his personal life, even though I shouldn’t care—shouldn’t want to know anything else about him. But I do. God help me, I do.

  “What other time?” My eyes flicker to the scars on his arms, another question on the tip of my tongue.

  Shaking his head, his hand falls to his side. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Where have I heard that before?”

  “This is different. Something that happened more than twenty years ago. It really doesn’t matter.”

  I cock my head to the side, settling back against his headboard. “Didn’t you once say that if it still hurts, it matters?”

  “Again, this is different.”

  “Why?” I can’t stop myself from pressing, from trying to figure him out. We’ve been at this charade for over a month now, and it feels like he knows more about me than I do him. The imbalance makes me uncomfortable, gives him an edge I swore no man would ever have on me again. “Because I’m just a little girl that needs saving? Who needs some kind of trauma for my life to be meaningful enough for you to give me a second glance?”

  “Cristo. No, Caroline, it’s because your situation is still happening, and you won’t let anyone help you.”

  “Someone is helping me.”

  He stares at me for a long moment, a flicker there that looks a bit like pain. But when he blinks, it’s gone, replaced by a coldness I don’t understand.

  Doesn’t he know I’m talking about him?

  “Right. Well, I’d hate to stand in their way, but for the time being, you’re my wife, and I think I should be the one avenging your soul.”

  “I’m not asking you to do that.”

  Again, he just stares at me, his gaze so intense it sparks a low heat in my belly. I ward it off, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, not dropping his eyes, and slowly pulls out the pocketknife I had strapped in my high heel.

  “What was your plan tonight, Caroline?”

  “I—”

  He moves, his gait slow and lithe, a hunter approaching his trapped prey. My thigh muscles clench as he flicks the blade open, knees knocking against the edge of the mattress. “Don’t lie to me.”

  Lashing his hand out, he grips the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing—his shirt, I’m realizing—and yanks it up, exposing my dress. A few of the ties have loosened, making it sag away from my skin, but it’s still plastered against my chest, pushing my breasts together obscenely.

  Elia’s eyes darken, pools of unbidden desire, and he presses the tip of the
blade to the middle of my chest, applying the slightest pressure. It’s a pinprick, like getting tested for mono, and it sets an inferno ablaze in my heart.

  Something is seriously wrong with me.

  He pulls back, the knife ghosting over my skin, and pauses with it poised at the seam of the dress. “Were you going to kill Todd Davis?”

  I shake my head, and he pauses, tilting his, studying me. My nostrils flare at the proximity of the knife, an awareness that he quite literally holds my life in his hands flooding through me, scattering goosebumps over my flesh.

  Kneeling on the bed, he uses his free hand to tug the t-shirt up and over my head, tossing it to the ground. His palm flattens against my breasts, pressing me back into the mattress.

  He hikes his leg over me, straddling my thighs on his knees, and my eyes close against the sensations swarming in me. Hot, heady need flashes through my body, a fever I’m not going to be able to sweat out.

  The back of the blade glides across my collarbone, smooth as silk. I swallow over the lump in my throat, hoping he can’t see just how affected I am by this.

  Hell, who am I kidding? The stuttered breaths falling from my parted lips are a dead giveaway.

  “Do you like this?”

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and my fingertips tingle, but I remain quiet.

  “Answer the question, mio amore.” Elia’s tongue joins the fray, licking up the trail of fire the knife leaves behind. He laves around the base of my throat, teeth scraping against spots the blade explores, and my body jerks beneath his. “Keep your eyes closed and answer me.”

  “Which one?” I’m hoarse, throat clogged with want.

  I feel him shift, feel the knife strain against my dress, and when I peek through hooded lids, I watch as he slices through the material, splitting it down my middle. Pushing it from my breasts, he cups one in his large hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my hardened nipple.

  “The first one. I can tell by the way you’re squirming beneath me that you fucking love this.”

  My back bows, arching away from the mattress, but he moves again, sitting on my stomach, keeping me in place. “No panties,” he growls, a slight quiver in his voice that sends electricity singing through my veins. “Naughty girl.”

  Feathering kisses on the inside of my thighs, one hand still massaging my breast, I feel the knife slide along my side, cool against my heated flesh. The whole situation feels dirty, depraved, and I’m starting to see stars.

  Elia Montalto isn’t a fucking king; he’s a god.

  He licks up my seam, the tip of his tongue delving between my slick folds, and presses the dull edge of the blade into my belly button, dragging his hand down. Metal accompanies his tongue, the juxtaposition of the two temperatures making my thighs quake.

  Blowing on my clit, he probes my entrance with the handle, and a soft whimper escapes me at the intrusion. “Answer me.”

  “I don’t remember the question.”

  “Yes, you do.” My eyes start to open, exasperated, but he tsks. A sharp stab at my pussy wracks a shiver down my spine, fear heating my blood. “Eyes closed, mio amore.”

  I clench my jaw. “No, I wasn’t going to kill him.”

  “But you wanted him dead. His name was on that list.”

  My walls crumble, the barrier between us stretching thin; it snaps as the knife comes up and rounds my ear, nicking the shell. A soft gasp escapes me; I go to open my eyes and retreat, but Elia’s free hand clamps over me, keeping me in darkness.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Caroline.”

  I scoff, feeling shaky. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Baby, the difference here is that I actually mean it.”

  “You hurt me just by being nice to me.”

  I can’t see him, but I feel the moment his body tenses, muscles seizing up. He shifts, pelvis digging into mine, and moves his hand. But I don’t open my eyes.

  His lips find my pussy again, kissing and caressing like a man on a mission. He sucks at the skin, rolling his tongue around my clit, all while keeping the knife poised at my entrance. When his teeth bite into my labia, pulling it back, I cry out, waves of pleasure ebbing through me.

  Using the heel of his hand to stimulate my slit more, his hot breath echoes over my wet, flushed skin. One of my hands comes down and palms my breast, squeezing tight as he edges the knife into me.

  I’m so turned on, I can’t tell if it’s the sharp or dull side. All I feel is excitement and a slight bite of pain. “Oh, fuck,” I moan, the sound almost primal and not at all like me. None of this is like me.

  What would Mommy and Daddy say?

  He withdraws, flicking my hip. I don’t understand how his hands can feel like they’re everywhere on my body, all at once, but it certainly intensifies the ecstasy coursing through me. Fire builds in my belly, pressure pushing up and down simultaneously, and my hands grip the bed sheets until my knuckles ache.

  “Jesus Christ, bella. You’re fucking perfect.” With an inhuman growl, he buries his head between my thighs, sucking and lapping like a man getting his last drink for all of eternity. Like he can’t get enough. I writhe, pumping my hips up and pushing my pussy further into his mouth, riding the high he’s giving me.

  The knife is back, swirling at my opening, but this time I don’t clam up. He doesn’t relent, devouring my clit like he’s trying to remove it from my body, while the blade begins its inward ascent.

  Right at the moment he presses in completely, the instrument disappearing inside my pussy, I realize there’s no pain. I open my eyes and see the knife, closed, beside my body, while he stares up at me with those impossible gray eyes, fingers pumping into me.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  The sounds of my arousal, crude and sopping, fill the room. Just as his pinky probes the hole no one’s ever been in, fingering the tight ring of muscle, a sharp stab of euphoria washes over me. A tide released from the pull of the moon; I come harder than ever before.

  My toes curl, back bows, mouth opening on a silent scream as fireworks explode in my mind, blacking out everything else—no pain, no shame. Nothing except the absolute ecstasy zinging to my extremities.

  It’s so powerful that as soon as I’ve come down, I shift over the side of the bed and promptly vomit on the floor.

  THE SMELL OF CHARRED flesh permeates the air as I walk into Crimson’s basement; inhaling deeply, I round one of the makeshift tables made of discarded milk crates, meeting Kal at his toolbox.

  He’s wiping blood from a meat cleaver; hands gloved, as usual, black hair pinned back with a shower cap. A plastic smock drapes over his clothes, but a smidge of red still managed to splatter onto his neck.

  I clear my throat, nodding at the slumped figure across the room. Sheldon McCarty’s behemoth form droops in a chair, wrists and ankles chained down, head lolling forward. Thick, red liquid pools on the tarp around his feet and at least three fingers are missing from his right hand. And he’s completely naked.

  “Get anything out of him?”

  Kal shoots me a look, cocking an eyebrow. “Doubting me?”

  Shrugging, I shove my hands into my pants pockets and watch as he tucks his toolbox into a structured duffel bag. “You know how important this is.”

  “Every job is important; otherwise I wouldn’t fucking be here.” He mutters something about the Hippocratic Oath, turning from me as he adjusts the smock around his neck, tossing his bloody rag into a nearby biohazard bin. “In any case, I’m not done. He’s one tough son of a bitch.”

  Pulling a pair of rusty pliers from his back pocket, Kal shoves his sleeves up past his elbows and makes his way back over to Sheldon. He kicks the man’s shin with the tip of his boot until a bruise starts to coagulate, and the congressman returns to consciousness.

  Kal rips the gag from Sheldon’s mouth and grips the hair at the base of his neck, jerking his head up toward the ceiling. There’s a sever
e amount of detachment in Kal’s eyes as if this is the most normal thing in the world. That makes him the best damn fixer on the East Coast. Highest paid, too, which is the only reason he’s still at it. Helps him fund free clinic hours and vacation homes.

  “Ready to tell Montalto here what your relationship with Caroline Harrison is?”

  Sheldon’s breathing is sporadic, black eyes wide and disconnected—in shock, I’d guess, from what he’s endured thus far. Upon closer inspection, I see Kal left one mutilated finger still partially intact; the skin completely removed. Only bone remains with the tip ground down.

  Instead of complying, the wheezing sack of shit spits at Kal and me, launching stringy blood and saliva in our directions. I’m too far for it to land, but it hits Kal’s exposed forearm, and an animalistic growl tears from his throat.

  His hand flexes, drawing the pliers closer to Sheldon’s mouth, and he tosses me a quick look. “I suggest you decide now how important this fucker’s information is because I’m three seconds away from ripping out his tongue.”

  Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I contemplate the situation. Sheldon likely has information on how many government officials in King’s Trace are involved in Dominic’s depravity. As days pass by, more of my blow goes missing, and Caroline shrinks from me, hiding her heart and soul as though I haven’t already staked my claim on them.

  I want all of those men dead, for her. For whatever they did to her.

  That they’re also stealing from me is just a fucking bonus.

  We’ve yet to interrogate Angelo, however, and he’s the most likely to cooperate. It’s just a matter of getting him to come in; Gia says he’s afraid that if my father catches wind of his hand in the matter, his semi-immunity will disappear. It might, whether my father finds out or not. I haven’t decided yet.

  Making my way to the chair Sheldon’s strapped to, I stroke the stubble lining my jaw, imagining this asshole’s hands on my wife. Touching her without her consent, just because her daddy said he could. Offered her as payment for debts that he accumulated with his own personal gain.