by Lana Sky
I can’t help but notice that the blond has vanished from her perch. Could she be hiding again?
Evgeni’s eyes meet mine before I can be sure. “Willow should stay here, with her family,” he suggests for the third time.
Maybe he’s right.
Knowing that doesn’t prevent me from grabbing her hand, though, pulling her with me. I’m sure he’ll follow, but I don’t fucking care. I drag her into the elevator, striking the button for the penthouse floor.
Only when we’re back inside my suite, do I finally face her.
I expect that blank stare, but when I cup her jaw against the flat of my palm, she comes alive, her lips fluttering, confusion widening those dark eyes.
“I should let you go with them. You got what you wanted,” I tell her. “Your family is safe. Mischa is in the clear. Everyone is fucking happy. We’re even.”
I don’t have to look in her eyes to know that we’re not.
Stepping closer, I force her to crane her neck just to hold my gaze. “What the hell do you want from me?”
Her flashing eyes convey the answer. She already named her price. She wants my fucking soul.
Well, she can have it.
I turn my gaze to her hands, slim and pale, bruised from her struggle. “You can stab me if you want.”
It’s the wrong choice of words. She flinches, and I grit my teeth, surprised by the guilt I feel. “Or you could beat me,” I suggest, changing tact. “Sell me on a platter to the Saleris. Take your pick.”
But again, her choice is obvious. She wants me to bend to her will and give her the one thing I can’t.
And I won’t. Pride aside, not because I swore not to—but the morality of it, if I even believe in that kind of shit. It’s wrong to take her throat in my hands, sensing the pulse surging beneath. Wrong to toy with that palpitating little artery until a hint of fear appears in her eyes.
But it’s worse to want her. To feel her heat on my skin, sense her taste on my tongue. It’s wrong to crave her.
“Do you really want to play with fire, principessa?”
No. She wants oblivion. To forget the hell she’s been through. Because of the attacker. Because of me.
As greedy as ever, she inches closer, pressing her face to my chest first. Then her searching hands crawl up to my shoulders, finding my jaw. Her fingers shake, as if she’s fighting against the contact with all her might—but she can’t resist whatever impulse drives her to stay near me. To touch me. With gentle pressure, she makes me face her.
In her eyes, I see another glimpse of the same emotion I felt the night she climbed into bed and crawled beneath me. Is it pity?
Or something far more dangerous.
“Take what you want,” I tell her. “I don’t care anymore. Just tell me what you want from me. You can have it. Just take it!”
She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, and I hiss through my teeth. Of course, she’d want the one thing I’ve denied her all along.
Corruption.
I can see it in her eyes, mingled there amongst her hate—the very emotion that’s haunted me all this damn time. Because it shouldn’t be there, not in her. Not after what I’ve done.
Even Liv lost that gleam after a while. I remember it now like a punch to the gut. One day, I looked into her eyes, and they were guarded against me. I’d lost her, long before she drew her last breath.
Because I was never worthy of her, worthy of anyone.
So love can’t be what I see in the woman standing before me now. I’ll prove it, no matter the cost. Even if I have to hurt her to do so.
The next time I look in these eyes, I’ll make sure that hate is all I find.
My hand latches onto the back of her skull, dragging her closer. Our lips meet, but this kiss is no chaste peck. It’s painful. Gnashing teeth—hers, seizing my lower lip as if in punishment for calling out her habit for doing the same. I groan at the bitter sting, hoping she pulls away. Relieved when she doesn’t. Her taste is hell, her touch like sin.
And my motives for indulging her blur. The scent of roses is a drug more potent than alcohol. I lose track of my thoughts. I lose my goddamn mind.
I only crave more.
Pulling her against me, I slide my jacket from her arms, grasping for the slender body beneath. Her dress has thin little straps that are easy to flick aside. It’s even easier to grip the front of the material, below the neckline, and rip it open. The fabric parts to reveal swaths of pale skin, and I’m choking out words I can no longer hold back. “Damn… You’re too beautiful. Beautiful.”
And she is. A body formed from sin, designed to entice. To entrap. To torment.
I’m tired of living a life of repentance. Tired of exercising restraint when it comes to her.
Those dark eyes dare me to do it. To cross the line we’ve both been toying with all this time.
So, I slide my hand over her hip, down the porcelain length of her thigh, then up between her legs, and I earn my ticket to hell.
Her flesh greedily envelops my thumb, hot enough to burn. It’s nothing like the first time I touched her. Her body relents, those tight muscles dragging me deeper, her hips arching so violently I have to wrap my arm around her waist, tethering her to me.
Mine. It’s an impulse so strong I feel it with every pulse of my fucking heartbeat. A need. A promise. A curse.
We’re linked. Two damn twisted souls who only feel sane around each other. I don’t even have to look into her eyes to know what I’ll find there, glistening behind that sheen of tears. Relief, building as I shove my finger inside her, and she takes every inch I have to give.
Sweet fucking relief.
I reclaim her mouth with such force our teeth click together. Her taste fills my tongue, and I choke her down in desperate, deep pulls.
For the first time in so damn long, the buzzing chaos in my head feels silenced. My thoughts are clear, my head lighter, the world smothered for once.
But it’s not enough.
Feeling her cunt quiver in the palm of my hand isn’t enough. I shove her back onto the couch she dominated earlier, pinning her down, those hips beneath mine.
A part of me craves to savor her. The louder part demands I claim. My brain is a rush of need. No rhyme. No reason.
Returning my attention to her cunt, I slide another finger alongside the first. She shudders, her nails sinking into the leather of the couch, her eyelids fluttering, lip clenched between her teeth.
“I… I should take my time,” I tell her, hating how I sound. Broken. Guttural. Mindless. Like a goddamn animal.
But, fuck, her body reacts, her cunt growing slicker with every pass. She’s molten, weeping for me.
And I can’t take it anymore. Hissing through my teeth, I ease my hand from her, wrenching open the front of my pants. I grip my cock, groaning at the feel of her. Two strokes, and I fear I could come from this alone. Watching her. Smelling her.
But then I see her eyes, widening at the sight of me.
Slow the fuck down. I shake my head to clear it and grip her thigh, dragging her closer. Carefully, I guide both of her legs apart, fixing my gaze on the pink flesh awaiting beneath a swath of golden curls.
It’s mine.
She was always mine.
And I deserve to savor her.
25
Willow
Nothing on earth compares to the sensation of feeling him pin me down, crushing me to the couch. His body is a heavy, rugged burden to bear—and yet a part of me feels crafted for this very purpose. To endure him.
Be devoured by him.
If only this moment were more terrifying. Then I’d have the sense to fear it. The cruel truth is, that his weight isn’t stifling the way I think it should be. My body conforms to him, providing softness where he is all hard muscle. Fragility against his brute strength. Even, my curves fit perfectly within the contours of his chest, almost too perfectly.
Like I was made for him alone, no one else…
The
thought is too dangerous to consider in full. I try to suppress it, fighting to clear my head, and keep my focus on him. I’ve barely gotten my bearings when he crouches, spreading my legs, his gaze between them. His expression sends a thrill through my belly as I realize where he’s looking. The door to the balcony is still open, allowing the cool air to replace his touch, heightening every exposed inch of flesh only he has ever explored. Defiled.
Like a starving man’s, his eyes rake over me. Ravenous.
I grapple for the nearest armrest, using it as leverage to watch him as my thoughts blur, head spinning. Then…
He lowers his mouth, and I feel the contact hit like a bolt of lightning. Instantaneously, I explode. Combust. Whatever word can describe every nerve frying at once—a sensation so overwhelming you go numb at first. Perception is a slow, torturous battery of one new feeling after the other.
The moist heat of his mouth, followed by the pulsing pressure of his tongue…
My brain is slow to catch up, piecing together exactly what he’s doing. Just when I think he can’t possibly do more, his fingers fearlessly navigate flesh and nerves to find a bundle of skin that makes me arch into his grasp.
It’s cruel what he does to me, playing my body like an instrument only he has ever learned to tune. I feel things I’ve never experienced—stomach-churning pressure aching between my legs. His tongue lashing like a whip. The sinful heat of his breath.
All at once.
I’m falling. Flying, all while being held by thick, trembling hands that grip me tight as if they never mean to let go.
Through all the chaos, some internal impulse warns me to breathe. Gulping for air, I look down and shudder.
His teeth glisten, tongue tracing his lips before he delves between my legs for another mind-bending swipe.
He feels so good. Too good.
Like the sting of alcohol times a million. I go limp, surrendering to the onslaught. My nerves overheat, my muscles spasming in anticipation of something… Something terrifying, the threat of which turns my belly into knots.
All I can do is grit my teeth and wait for the impact.
And it’s devastating when it comes.
My spine curls back on itself. I think I’d levitate if his weight wasn’t here to crush me down. I’m on fire, each stroke of his tongue a drop of gasoline, chased by a sharp grating pressure that makes me jump. His teeth, I think, raking and teasing.
Grinding and taunting.
My thoughts are a formless mass, my body rocking amid the pleasure. For a moment, it feels like it will never end.
And then it does, so suddenly it’s like being raised to the height of the moon and left to fall.
Dazed and heavy lidded, I glance down and realize why.
He’s rising onto his knees, cock in hand, an expression on his face like a man being slowly tortured. Without mercy or the hope of salvation, his torment must be. He groans, the sound so dangerous my head spins.
“I need to be inside you…”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the sound of his voice.
I never knew…
Now I do. This is what I’ve wanted. Him on his knees, begging me for relief. Needing me. Craving me.
If I tell him no, it will shatter him. Hurt him beyond physical means. He’s in the palm of my hand.
For now, a tiny voice whispers. But for how long?
I don’t think it matters.
I blink, and his mouth is on mine, his breaths heavy, his hands snatching my waist, dragging me beneath him. He feels too solid. Too heavy to ever make this work without crushing me. As if he’s reading my mind, his mouth finds my ear.
“It will hurt,” he warns, his tone unapologetic.
Pain between us is nothing new.
But when he presses against me, demanding entry, it burns. The sting takes my breath away—and then, in the next instance, a burst of pleasure comes like a wave to demolish everything in its path.
I was made for him. It’s the only way to explain how he fits. How good it feels when he moves, rocking his hips into mine. Then away.
Then harder.
I can’t make a sound to tell him what I feel. My mouth finds his ear anyway, my teeth snagging the lobe and biting down, converting my pleasure into his pain.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “You feel so damn good…”
His pace increases, each thrust deeper than the last. Deep. Deeper. Endless.
Suddenly, he throws his head back, throat cording around a groan as fire floods my belly in dangerous spurts.
And this is true destruction—what he did to me in the past was nothing.
At least then, he left my body whole.
This time, he destroys me from the inside out.
And I will never be the same again.
Corruption, in reality, turns out to be far different from how I envisioned it. I always imagined shame and chains. An existential dread and an overwhelming sense of defeat.
In actuality, all I feel is…
Tired.
So damn tired. His body is a support I never knew I’d needed. Almost like finding a raft after years spent swimming against an unforgiving current.
Salvation is surprisingly quiet. There is no fanfare. No heralding trumpets or soaring arias.
Just steady, slow breathing. Endless quiet. Warm lips that brush my earlobe with devastating softness, and a voice that grates, “You’ve gotten what you wanted.”
Have I?
No. The realization stings, threatening to shatter this fragile cocoon of peace. I ignore it, squeezing my eyes shut and turning further into the comforting heat beneath me.
His body is a symphony of muscle and bone, his heartbeat the steadying metronome at the center of it all. It hammers in a consistent, constant rhythm, revealing what he will never admit out loud.
I let myself be lulled into a daze by the beat, hoping to steal away a few more minutes at least. A little longer…
“We need to go.”
And just like that, the moment ends, his heavy sigh serving as the finale. Gently, he nudges me aside and stands, crossing the suite to enter the bathroom. I hear the distant spray of running water, and he returns a few minutes later with a wet rag in tow.
My pulse stammers. This isn’t fair. Not the way he crouches, grabbing my knee to ease my legs apart.
I don’t think he even understands what he’s doing. To him, he’s merely dragging the rag in between my thighs, washing away the blood and sweat and traces of him.
The truth is more destructive—he’s making it more real. I’ll never be able to smother the memories of his touch. His smell. The disarming gentleness with which he swipes the rag across my skin.
Once finished, he retreats to the entryway, salvaging the remains of our clothing.
My dress is beyond repair; the neckline torn.
“Here.” He drapes his suit jacket over me, wearing just the shirt, and slacks himself.
When we return to the car and leave the city, an eerie dichotomy becomes apparent. Part of Hell’s Gambit lives on, thriving as if never disrupted while the other half smolders. In a sick way, it reminds me of him.
All this time, his body has lived on despite the ravages of his psyche and broken mind.
Fabio’s warning echoes now, louder than ever. Some memories are better left buried.
Though for whose benefit?
The past doesn’t belong here. I resist its pull for as long as I can, but it’s no use—I keep thinking of those letters. What secrets was Olivia hiding?
And what horrors have Donatello Vanici’s brain thought to suppress?
And why…
26
Don
We return to the house and find Fabio already waiting on the porch. He looks worried as hell, his hair unkempt as if he spent the entire night tearing his hands through it.
I’m clenching my jaw, eyeing the woman beside me.
“You should go change,” I warn.
The last thing we need i
s for Fabio to suspect what happened between us. Without looking my way, she holds the front of my jacket together with both hands, obscuring her body beneath. The second we exit the car, she heads inside, rushing past a startled Fabio.
“What the hell happened?” he asks, descending the steps to approach me. “Is she alright?”
“No,” I admit. Though it could be because she almost killed a man.
Or because I’m a sick, twisted fuck who took advantage of the aftermath.
I watch her go, compelled to follow her. Delve inside that brain and see the truth for myself. She’s an enigma, unfathomable almost to the point of insanity. Sometimes we’re on different fucking planets.
And then the next second, we’re a goddamn hive mind, thinking in sync, breathing in harmony. Fucking like the world might end if we didn’t.
Damn…
“Don?” Fabio’s staring at me, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me you took advantage of your little vacation and threatened her—”
“You should get in contact with Mischa,” I suggest, turning my attention back to him. “So we can reassess the terms of this fucking insanity.”
Though there’s no need for any further discussions.
It’s over. I broke my own fucking rules—and perhaps that was her goal all along? Yes. That’s all she wanted. I let myself play into the paranoia for a heartbeat before reality sets in.
I keep seeing the way she looked at me, covered in blood, staring into the distance like some lost puppy.
No one could fake that.
“Don? Don, are you listening?”
I shake my head to clear it. “What?”
“I said I already spoke to him,” Fabio says. “Mischa. Now that his own family was in danger, I think he’s finally convinced that we’ve all been played for fools.”
“But the game isn’t over yet.” I turn my attention inward, trying to sift through the scattered bits of information for the umpteenth time. None of it makes sense.
“We should talk inside,” Fabio warns, leading the way. “I have something to show you.”
