by Ella James
I squint into the sunlight streaming through the Plexiglas doors at the end of the hallway. A shadowed figure, tall and slender, glides over the powder blue tile. Two steps, stop; three steps, turn around. She brings her hands up to her face, and the chanting grows louder.
“JULIO! JULIO!”
So she’s Hispanic.
What Juarez would do if he got his hands on her… The Mexican gang in La Rosa is especially brutal. I glance up at the cameras, and Nose, one of my lieutenants in the cam room, speaks into the Bluetooth in my ear.
“Checked with Lisa—” the woman at the check-through point— “and she’s Holt’s daughter. Annabelle Mitchell.”
For a long moment, my muscles clench.
Annabelle Mitchell.
A common name, I’m sure.
I inhale deeply. Exhale.
I watch as the men reach their foul hands toward her. She shrinks in the middle of the hallway, looking like an angel in a bath of light.
I watch another moment, aroused by her silhouette—long legs and a generous bust—before I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle.
Silence sweeps the hall.
I walk down it slowly, my gaze on her. I don’t waste my energy checking to be sure every pair of eyes remains downturned. I have men for that. Soldiers on the floor. They tell me when I’m disrespected; they take care of it.
I approach the woman slowly, knowing that, despite my Downy-fresh, black jumpsuit—a color no one here wears, except for me—I’ll probably scare her. Thanks to my daily gym regimen, I’m bigger than I ever was outside, and eight years inside have left me scarred and calloused. I know that, even though I don’t particularly feel it.
She’s wearing a black skirt and a red sweater. The skin of her hands and throat is lovely cappuccino. Her hair is brown, and tightly coiled. I’m hungry for her face, but she’s turned sideways, giving me a view of mostly hair.
Her hair…
She’s facing David Baynes’ cell, and I know what that sick fuck is doing before I step close enough to see. He’s waving his cock at her. I see her eyes widen before she raises a hand to her face and spins around toward me.
The air leaves my lungs.
I can feel the moment recognition becomes mutual. Her shoulders tighten. The hand over her forehead slides down over her mouth, and that flawless swan throat stretches as she lifts her head.
Her hand more falls from her mouth than is lowered by her own design. It flops against her skin-tight skirt, and the men around us shift their weight. They dare not speak.
Her face is wide open, so innocent I want to laugh or cry. Her face is flawless, finest porcelain. Her face is fake. At least I think it’s fake.
I’m imagining things.
I’m losing my mind.
Except her lips tremble and tug down. Her eyes, they drink me up. And I see nothing but that night.
It’s her.
My angel.
My heart speeds up, as if her presence triggers an interruption in its electrical impulses. My throat goes dry, because I know she’s here for me. I can feel it.
The thick scar on my thigh burns.
My dick stiffens.
I close the distance between us with one step and lock my hand around her arm. I drop my head down near hers and murmur, “Quiet and still.”
I look up and down each row of steel bars—at the jockers, the punks, the vikings, the tecatos. I drag my dead gaze over all of them, letting them see deep down into me, where I keep the shadows of my sins.
And in a deep, resounding voice, I say, “She’s mine.”
It echoes off the walls and I can feel the men freeze as the words sink in.
Now that I’ve marked her, they won’t touch her. I’ve made her safe from murderers, rapists, and serial killers with two words.
I have to speak to her. I need to touch her. I press my fingertips against the small of her back and try to keep my face a blank canvas as her elbow brushes my abdomen. The hall is silent as a tomb, pierced by the staccato of my angel’s heels. All I can think about is getting to my cement bungalow. Pulling her sweater over her head. Ripping her bra off.
This woman is her. Annabelle Mitchell. And I’ve grown used to taking what I want.
We’re passing the warden’s office, our long legs moving perfectly in sync, when I hear a groan. Holt. Fuck!
If I leave him cuffed in here, there’s no face to serve as greeter if someone from the state stops by. If I leave him cuffed in there, Annabelle will know.
She’s about to find out.
What do I care?
I can make her see my side.
That’s ludicrous!
I lead her into the office, feeling a surprising wash of relief as she moves through the doorway. I own this place, but for the first time in years, I’m reminded of how tenuous my hold is. I’m out of here next year if the parole board is sympathetic, and there are a couple of lifers already sharpening their shanks.
I flatten my hand against her back, wanting nothing more than to get her behind this door and lock it.
As if in disagreement, Holt cries out. The woman in front of me dashes to him and cries, “Daddy?”
“Annabelle!” He’s made it out of the chair and is lying on the floor, his arms stretched over his head, his brown collared shirt pushed up, revealing his fat, pale belly. “Annabelle!” His face twists as he looks up at her. “What are you doing here?”
I step between the two of them, looking first at Holt and then at her. She’s stunning—just as I remember her. For a moment, my words get hung up in my throat, but then I look at Holt and my feelings are muddied. “This is your stepdaughter?”
Holt cranes his neck up, his sweaty face looking pale and older than I’ve ever seen him. “Annabelle, what are you doing here?” There is frenzy in his voice. Of course there is.
“Dad?” Her voice is raspy, a veil of smoke over decadent darkness. She looks from me to Holt, to me again, to Holt. Her thin, dark eyebrows pinch together. “Dad, what’s going on?”
I look her over once more, heels to breasts, and finally, after a moment’s hesitation, I allow myself to look into her face again. She looks at me, too. Her eyes blaze. Curiosity or more?
“Annabelle, you need to go.” Holt struggles to get into a crawling position, as if he’ll be able to get up and help her. He looks ridiculous, a felled hippopotamus. I snort, and he cries, “Please! Don’t hurt her! She’s innocent!”
Disappointment flits across her face, heeled by skepticism. Her eyes admonish. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Your father stole some money from me. Almost a million dollars. He says he did it for you. You and your mother, and your little sister.”
Her mouth falls open.
Holt is curled up in a ball, his face behind his forearm.
“Dad, why? We’re doing fine!”
He looks up at her. Presses his lips together. Sobs, “I’m sorry.”
“Your father owes me, Annabelle. He owes a debt too large to pay. He’s going to die for that.”
Her beautiful face pales. She looks from me to him, and back to me. Then steps away from me. “Dad, please tell me you’re joking!”
“It’s not a joke.”
I lean down over Holt and uncuff his hands. I pull him to his feet, drag him to the closet behind his desk, open the door, and lean him against the shelves. With the door half shut behind me, I let my fist have at his face, aiming for the vulnerable places that will bleed a lot without necessarily doing lasting damage. I pound out my frustration, my anxiety, my fear, until Angel is screaming, Holt is crying like a bitch, and finally, her hands are on me. Grabbing at me. Making my cock hungry.
When Holt looks half dead and his shirt is bathed in blood, I grab him by the shoulders, haul him across the room, and shove him out the door.
“Consider the debt paid.”
*
Annabelle
“Oh my God! What the fuck is wrong with you? You almost kille
d him!”
He stands there, at his full height, in front of Dad’s desk. His fisted hands drip blood.
My stomach roils.
He steps around the desk to some metal file cabinets and grabs a bottle of hand sanitizer. He uses tissues and the alcohol-based gel to clean his hands, and I just stand there, watching. My heart beats so hard it hurts.
Even still, he’s beautiful. A beautiful monster. Time has been good to his face and heavy on his soul. I can feel the difference in him.
He walks to the door, flips the lock, and turns to me. He’s big. My God, he’s ripped. His killer’s physique is draped in black—black shirt, black pants—which makes his eyes seem darker. His dark hair is cut short, brutally so. His lips—beautiful and lush, always remarked upon by the Hollywood press—are cruel and hard. His throat is thick and strong, his forearms bulging. After a moment’s hesitation, I can’t keep my eyes from sliding down his body. They’re drawn to his thigh, to that twenty-inch gash I watched the nurses staple shut on that awful night—but that’s not what holds their attention.
His dick is hard.
And huge. My God, I can see every line of it in those tight pants, and it’s as flawless as my recollection: a high-priced dildo, sized XL.
Heat spreads through me, starting in my cheeks and neck and spreading south, fast.
I back away. I don’t mean to, but he’s that commanding. Sharing air with him intimidates me. Frightens me. Angers me.
“You really hurt Holt. Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you have any morals? Any shame?”
The words are out before I have the chance to bridle them. My eyes pop open. “Sorry. No, I’m not.”
His eyes bore into mine. For a halting breath, it feels as if they’re reaching into me.
He remembers…
But the softness quickly gives to steel.
He moves quickly, like the superhero he was a lifetime ago, in movies. He catches me around my waist and tosses me against the wall. He moves like a ninja, all sparse utility and lethal grace. I brace myself for the impact of bumping into brick, but his arm behind me shields as it restrains.
He pushes his hips into mine, his chest against my breasts, till the air leaves my lungs and my unease dies in my mind. I’m panting as I look into his face. The cunning eyes; the tiger’s hard bone structure.
He sinks his hand into my hair and stands stock still. Only two fingers move, rubbing the curl he’s captured.
“I could kill him,” he whispers.
“No!”
“Or I could allow you to pay his debt.”
I’m so close, I can see his teeth. They’re brilliant white, the canines sharp.
“What do I have to do?” My voice trembles, making me feel like the young girl I was when we met.
“You will give yourself to me. Body and soul.” His thumb strokes my cheek, so calloused it almost scrapes. “You will be here every day. Ready to give me what I want. Ready to please me.” His breath catches. “I’ll please you, too, Angel.”
His hand reaches between my legs, pushing my thighs apart so he can cup his palm over my pussy. I wonder if he can feel the heat there.
His gaze, directed downward, flickers up to mine. I’m looking for the guy I met that night. Twenty-one and famous, a renowned actor who’d just killed his three best friends in a horrifying car wreck. There is nothing left of him. These eyes are hard and cold. If they’re a window to his soul, I don’t want to get anywhere near him.
It’s as if he can hear my thoughts. He stills, just staring at me.
I can’t breathe.
A second later, he reaches up my skirt and pushes his hand under the elastic of my thong. His fingertips brush my warm lips, then curl, jerking up so he’s ripped my panties clean in half.
“Let me stroke this hot cunt of yours. I can smell it. Sweet as honey. Are you willing to give it to me? I’ll be good to it. So good,” he murmurs. He glides a finger lazily between my lips, making me gasp. I grind against the wall. “But that won’t change what this is. You’ll be my whore, Belle. You’ll be a killer’s slut. Are you willing to do that?”
He finds my clit and traces lazy circles around it. I can’t think, can only look into his stunning face. “You’d…really kill him?” I can’t comprehend.
He nods. “Tonight. I’ve already given the order.”
“Sick,” I hiss.
“There are rules. He knew them, Angel.”
“I’m not your Angel.”
He pushes a finger inside me, then another. I whimper. Close my eyes. What’s wrong with me? What does it say about me that I’m letting him do this? “I don’t…want you. You’re sick.” I clench around his fingers, wanting more. I must be crazy. I open my eyes and am stunned anew by who I’m looking at. Cal Hammond—prisoner. Without thinking, I reach up and grab his shoulder. “You don’t look like a prisoner.”
He takes my hand and pushes it off him, not harsh but not gentle. “I’m not. I’m a Don. I run things here. All the business, all the gangs. I’m going to run you, too.”
He flicks the fingers inside my pussy and I sag against the wall. As my knees go soft, I sink down on him, pushing his fingers deeper into me.
“Ricardo,” I murmur.
“Not my name.”
“What is?”
He kneels down, so I can feel his breath on my cunt. “Beast.”
I writhe my ass against the wall, trying to get away from him. He holds onto my thighs and shakes his head.
“Are you sure you want to do this? Reject my offer? If you do…”
I slap his face. It’s not a decision. I just…react. He pulls his fingers out of me, leaving me cold and hollow. I can barely stand on my own legs. I look into his face. I’m so confused.
“Who are you? What is wrong with you?”
His face hardens. “Will you accept my arrangement, Annabelle? Yes or no?”
My heart thuds hard. “Why do you call me Angel?” Please remember. Please remember me.
He stands up, capturing my wrist as he moves. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my forehead. He strokes my cheek. “You look like an angel.”
So he doesn’t remember. Or if he does, he won’t say it.
“What arrangement?” I whisper.
“Your body. That’s my price.”
The tingling starts in my inner thighs and climbs, up to my cunt, into my belly, where it crawls deep down inside and goes nuclear. I’m so wet, practically dripping. So off-kilter. Dumb, blind, lost.
“What if I don’t do it?” I whisper. “What if I say ‘no’?”
“We discussed this. I’ll have to punish your stepfather in the only way I can.”
“You have a choice!” My voice echoes, then dies off.
“He had a choice, and he chose wrong. Do you think I pity him? Do you think I pity any man who chooses something reckless?”
I look at him, and all I can think is, You were reckless.
I step a little closer to him. “I don’t understand. How can you expect forgiveness if you can’t extend it? Everyone deserves compassion, Ric— Beast.”
He shakes his head, and I’m stunned to see the anger fall away. He looks desolate. So cold.
“No one deserves compassion. Not a man like Holt, and not a man like me.” He takes a long stride back, widening the gap between us. He folds his arms over his chest, and I can feel my legs begin to shake because I know I have to choose.
“What will it be, Angel? You’re out of time.”
I shake my head. “Do you remember me?” If he doesn’t, I don’t know how I’ll do this.
He frowns, and it’s clear he has no idea what I’m talking about. “If we’d met before, I would remember you.”
I put my hand over my chest. It hurts a little. More than it should, probably.
“Ricardo, I don’t know if I can—”
“Not Ricardo.” His long legs close the distance between us. Strong fingers clutch my shoulder, press me into the wall. Ho
w can you not remember?
His hand pushes up my skirt again. He parts my lips with two deft fingers and shoves three fingers into me. I’m so wet, it doesn’t hurt. I simply ache.
“Never call me Ricardo.” His face, so close to mine. “Never call me anything but Beast.”
“It’s not a name,” I pant.
“It’s my name.” His hazel eyes burn mine.
“If I do this—”
He shakes his head. “It’s best you learn now. Never ask for anything from me. I’ll never give it to you. You take me as I am, Angel. Only as I am.”
“I don’t know who you are,” I whisper.
And that’s when he scoops me into his arms. My heart soars. Until he lays me on the ground and sinks between my legs. He leans down, and for a moment I think he’s going to kiss my pussy. Like that very first time. Make me see stars.
Instead, he spreads my legs wider and takes his pants down. His cock springs free, and it’s so hard it’s pointing straight up, the head of him furious red, his balls drawn tight and impatient.
“Let me show you who I am.”
With one hand, he holds both of mine over my head. He looks into my eyes. His are screaming: what? He thumbs my slick folds, parting them, then plunges in—hard! So very hard.
“I—” he thrusts— “am no one—” he thrusts— “that you know. I never will be. I will hurt you—” he thrusts— “for my pleasure—” he thrusts— “I will make you pay—” thrust— “Every day you fuck me, I will make you pay.”
He thrusts brutally hard, so hard the carpet burns my ass. So hard I can feel him buried deeper than anyone before.
I moan.
“Your call, Angel. Your choice.”
His eyes, when I look up at him, are redolent. His eyes—they beg me to say “no.”
But I’m hungry. Foolish. Daring. Reckless. I’m dancing in the eye of the storm. Drowning in a fairy tale. Living in a dream. I can’t say no. Not even if I lived to be a thousand.
Did you enjoy this novella? Consider leaving a review!
Ready for part two? It’s coming next Monday, August 25. Too impatient? Need more now? Check out The Rockstars of Romance book blog, where you’ll find an additional scene from Beast’s point of view, plus a fun giveaway.
