by James Tate
"He had to know we'd work it out sooner or later," Mace rumbles from the backseat. "After what he did to Portia, he has to know this is personal now."
"Also, we have a secret weapon." The tight smile on Hawke's face sends a shiver through me. For all my teasing Mace, I actually kind of like Natalia, too … like, for real. Not just to gain her trust like we're supposed to be doing. Or for a stupid bet.
"Boss, we're not doing anything to hurt her, are we?" I ask hesitantly. I'm not totally sure I want to hear his answer when he cuts a glare at me before turning his eyes back on the road.
"We'll do with her whatever we need to, to get the job done. Understood?" His voice is cold, and I exchange a worried look with Mace in the mirror.
"Yes, boss," we both respond, but the conversation falls flat after that. Portia's death affected all of us, but it hit Hawke and Arsen the hardest. They're way more alike than they're comfortable with.
This new cruel streak Hawke is showing concerns me though. None of us are any fucking saints, but usually Hawke is the strongest moral voice amongst us. Now though … well I think I'll stick a bit closer to Tzarina. Just in case.
Chapter 14
NATALIA
Weston's broad shoulders shuffling around the kitchen make me sigh. He's trying to make coffee, by the looks of things, but he should be resting.
"Hey, West," I bark from the doorway, making him jump.
"Jesus fucking tits, Natalia," he curses, sucking spilled coffee off his fingers. "Don't sneak up on a guy like that! I could have killed you or something."
"Uh-huh, sure," I snicker. "Pretty sure the only thing you're killing is that cup of coffee. It's about to—" My warning is cut short by his elbow catching his mug on the edge of the bench and sending it crashing to the floor "—fall."
"Shit," he groans, pouting down at the mess on the tiles. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to make coffee with only one hand?" He indicates to his other arm, still strapped across his body with a sling to stop the gunshot wound reopening.
"I can imagine," I grin. "Shouldn't you be resting anyway? Why don't you head back upstairs, and I'll bring the coffee up to you? I'll clean all this up, too."
Weston hesitates, looking at the puddle of coffee and broken cup shards around his feet. "Are you sure? I feel bad, but …" he trails off and grimaces down at his immobile arm.
"It's totally fine. After all, you did get shot saving my life. You have no idea what Dmitri would have done to me if you guys hadn't been there." I shudder at the morbid, blood-splattered thoughts skittering across my mind.
"Ah well," Weston gives me a sly smile, "when you put it like that, perhaps you'll deliver that coffee in that sexy fucking nun's outfit you wore the other day."
I grin back at him, even as my nipples are tightening with arousal. "We'll see. Now get upstairs, I won't be long here."
Weston does as he's told, stepping away from the mess and smacking a quick kiss on my lips as he passes me. As fucked up as this whole situation I'm in is, that little gesture of normal affection brings a tear to my eye and within moments I find myself sobbing silent tears as I mop up coffee from the floor.
If I'm totally honest, I don't really know why I'm crying. But given a good guess, it could be the fact that in my life I've never really had a "boyfriend". Not someone who gives quick kisses on his way out of the room … or maybe I'm crying for the fact that I won't ever really get to enjoy the bonds I'm forming with these bad boys.
I'm no quitter though, so if anything they're just giving me incentive to stay out of my father’s clutches as long as possible. After all, I'm not actually suicidal. Not in the traditional sense of the word. I just know that if push comes to shove, I'd rather take my own life than let my father exact revenge for what he'd undoubtedly see as betrayal.
Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I pull myself together and dump the broken mug into the trash. First thing, Weston needs to rest, no matter how much I want to go up there and let him bend me over to fuck me like a damn punishment.
I decide to skip the coffee because who am I kidding? I still don't know how to work that damn machine. Instead I heat up a cup of milk and make him a hot chocolate. Everyone knows hot chocolate helps you sleep, right?
Well, hot chocolate laced with crushed sleeping pills does anyway.
Carrying it up to Weston's room, I tap awkwardly on his door. What is the etiquette here, anyway? Who knows. He calls out for me to come in anyway, so I push the door open and step through.
"Aw," he pouts when he sees me still dressed in sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt.
I roll my eyes and bump the door closed behind me. "You need sleep, West. Not sex. Not right now anyway."
"But later?" he asks so hopefully I can't fight the grin spreading over my face.
"Later. I promise. Here, I made you hot chocolate instead of coffee." I hold the mug out to him and he accepts it with a satisfied smile.
"Come lie with me for a bit?" he suggests, shuffling over in his little single bed. "Nothing dirty, I promise. I just want to spend a bit of time with you, Natalia."
My lips pursed, I narrow my eyes at him. I should say no, something tells me I should. But … it’s been so damn long since I just cuddled with a man. Besides, he's hot as fuck. Like, scorching. I'd be mad to say no. So instead, I cross those few steps to the bed and slide in beside him.
"Tell me if I bump your shoulder," I order him, and he grunts his agreement. He's sitting up against the pillows a little bit, sipping on his laced beverage, so I cuddle into his side and rest my cheek on his chest.
"Mm, this is nice," he murmurs after a little while, and I can hear his voice already thickening with sleep. He reaches over me and places the mug down on his bedside table. "Maybe I do need a little nap."
"Mm hmm," I agree, trying not to laugh as he wriggles down the bed and turns me over so that he's spooning me. Or … forking me as the case is. "Weston," I groan, feeling his hard length pressed against my butt, but the only response I get is his soft snores as the sleeping pills do their job.
Well shit. I peer over my shoulder at his sleeping face. Maybe I used too much …
For a few minutes, I simply lie there and watch him. But when all seems normal, and he doesn't start foaming at the mouth or anything, I relax. He must have just been really tired.
Unable to stop myself, I trail a light finger over his face, brushing a peacock green lock of hair behind his ear and then tracing over his many piercings. My breath catches, and I remember his face isn't the only place Weston is pierced.
Damn it, Natty. Pull it together, he's injured and sleeping for God’s sake.
Agreeing with my chatty subconscious, I peel myself away from his warm body and slip out of the bed. On soft feet, I tiptoe out of Weston's room and carefully close the door behind me, before turning and almost screaming.
"Arsen!" I hiss, clutching a hand to my chest in an attempt to calm my racing heart. "What the fuck are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack."
"What am I doing?" he repeats, stepping closer into my personal space and boxing me against Weston's door. "What are you doing? Playing Florence Nightingale, are we? Pretty sure you need to be in a nun's habit for that role, Miss Petrova."
My cheeks flush with heat, and I drop my eyes away from his intense gaze. "I was just bringing him a drink. He needs rest."
Arsen grabs my chin in a bruising grip, forcing my gaze back up to meet his. For a long moment he just stares back at me, his breath harsh and a small frown creasing his forehead, like he's confused or something.
"And do you, Miss Petrova?" he whispers in a harsh tone. "Do you need … rest?"
My breath catches, and I have no doubt what he's referring to, so I shake my head just the tiniest bit that his grip will allow. "No. I'm rested just fine." My own voice is drenched in sex and blatant desire. What was it about this psychopath that turns me on so hard, every damn time?
"So I see," he smirks, and his other hand snakes down
the front of my sweatpants to push inside my tight pussy. His hand shifts from my chin down to my throat, and he uses it to hold me pinned to Weston's door while his fingers thrust into me a couple of times. "Well-rested."
He withdraws his hand and slowly licks his fingers. I shiver with arousal, and a small whimper escapes my throat. This seems to trigger something in him, because in a flash, he's pulled a gleaming sharp dagger and it's pressing against my throat where his fingers had rested just moments before.
"Arsen," I gasp, but he shushes me with a finger to my lips.
"I could slit your throat, you know," he tells me, like I’m not already aware of the danger. "Just one little slice, and Princess Petrova is no more. Tell me, darling, what do you think your Daddy would do if I had your pretty head delivered to him in a gift box?"
Something dark and sick inside me is responding to his threats like a damn cat in heat, and I moan softly, letting my lashes flutter.
Arsen keeps the knife to my throat, but his other hand shoves my sweats down roughly, and I kick them off my feet. "You're almost as fucked-up as me, aren't you?" he snickers as he frees his thick cock from his pants. "You want me to fuck you right here, with this knife against your throat, don't you?"
As if he needs my response. I hitch my leg up around his waist and drag him closer to me so that he can feel how turned-on I am. "Yes," I pant, feeling the cold steel against my neck and trying not to move too much, "Please, Arsen. Fuck me."
He chuckles a dark sound, and lines his cock up to my core. "Don't move, Miss Petrova. Or do … I've never been against a little blood with my sex."
With this, he thrusts deep inside me, and I feel the blade nick my skin as I jolt with his entry. Whether it’s deliberate or not, I don't give a shit. The sharp sting of the cut, followed by the drip of blood down my throat has me shuddering into a spontaneous orgasm before he’s even completed one thrust.
"You sick, twisted bitch," Arsen pants, his eyes glued to the blood running down my neck while his thick cock pounds me into Weston's door. His breath is coming fast, and I know he'll be quick, so I tighten my Kegels and squeeze him with all I've got.
With a growl, he withdraws his blade from my throat and slams it into the door beside my head so hard that it probably protrudes from the other side. I don't get a second to consider it though, as Arsen dips his head low and licks a slow line up my neck, catching the falling blood and swallowing it.
Holy fucking shit. That's next level crazy, and one of the sexiest things I've ever seen.
My hand snakes between us, giving my clit the couple of quick tweaks that it needs to skyrocket me into another orgasm, and Arsen joins me. His hot load spills inside me with a few hard pumps and then … he's gone.
By the time the stars fade from my eyes, and I pry my eyelids open, Arsen is nowhere to be seen. The only evidence that I haven't imagined the whole damn thing is the semen sliding down my thighs and the blood soaking into my t-shirt.
What the fuck was that?
I wince as I touch a hand to my neck, then bend to pull my sweats back on.
That was just a taste of what that psycho has to offer, and you damn well know it, Natty.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm playing with fire, but I fucking love it …
* * *
After cleaning up in the little shared bathroom, I drag the first aid kit out and patch up my neck as best I can. It's not a bad cut, but it is enough to need a bandage, so I swab on some iodine and then tape a gauze pad over the top. By the time I'm done, the bleeding has pretty much stopped; it just stings like a bitch.
Sighing to myself, I stash the medical box back where I found it and then hunt the kitchen for some booze. I'm no idiot, and am well aware that alcohol thins the blood. But like I said, it wasn't a bad cut. It certainly wouldn't kill me to have a few glasses of that Russian vodka Colt pulled out the other night.
Ah.
There it is.
I pull the bottle out of the cabinet and unscrew the top. There's a reason the Russian word for water is applied to this alcohol; it's so damn easy to drink. Each sip feels like it satisfies me in some way, settling deep in my belly, burning my throat. I take pride in being able to hold my alcohol; my father would accept nothing less.
I start tiptoeing across the floor before I realize how stupid that is. These men are badass, and they sure as hell aren't going to be fooled by me keeping my heels off the floor. With a roll of eyes, I start walking normally, letting myself into the church with its vaulted ceilings, beams, and stained-glass windows.
It's all beautiful, meant to intimidate the masses, show them the true power of the church.
And I wanted to be a nun, I think as I move over to one of the pews in the front and sit down, taking another swig of vodka and staring up at a statue of the Virgin Mary. It made sense in the moment, when I was dripping wet from the ice-cold rain, nowhere to go, no one I could count on. After getting fucked on the altar of this church, it doesn't make any sense to me now.
Clearly, I'm not … suited for the life of a nun. That, and I'm pretty sure I don't believe in God either. Maybe I don't believe in anything? How can I, after the life I've led? What higher power could I possibly look to after the things I've seen?
After a while, the massive room begins to blur at the edges, and I realize I've downed the entire bottle. Chucking it aside, I stand up and start to explore the huge building and all its hidden nooks and crannies. There are little rooms that look like they should house gargoyles, elaborate murals and stonework, and smaller altars along the right and left sides of the building that belong to saints.
There are small boxes with little slots to put money in. Leave a Donation, Take a Candle the sign says. There are tiny white tea lights scattered across a table and jars full of matches. I don't have any money to donate, but when I stumble upon a painting that grabs me, I stop, and light one anyway.
Saint Rita, patron saint of the impossible.
Something about the painting of her in her nun's habit calls to me. As I light candles—because one just isn't enough for the impossible—I read the little metal placard describing her life, how her husband was abusive and how she won him over with kindness and faith. Gag. Thinking about my father, about Dmitri … well, no amount of kindness or faith would ever change the monsters inside them.
After all the candles are lit, I sway with the flames for a few moments and then debate crawling into bed with one of the guys. You could very well be a sex addict, I tell myself. But it's not like it matters. Really, that's the least of my issues.
I turn and head back down the aisle, stumbling slightly and catching myself on the edge of a nearby pew. Yep, definitely time to head back upstairs. If not for sex, then at least for sleep. As I'm moving back toward the door that leads to the living area, I spot a tall candle with a glass holder that has a picture of Saint Rita on it.
Mine.
With vodka sloshing around inside my brain, I stumble over and pick it up, spotting another door to the right of the altar, hidden by the unique shape of the architecture in a little nook. It's locked, but I also know who has the keys.
Not Hawke, as to be expected, but Weston.
Chewing my lower lip, I make up my mind and head back into the boys' 'house', up the stairs, and into the room that Colt and West share. They're pretty adorable together to be honest, lots of bro love between the two of them.
And they feel so good when they're inside of me together, too.
Sneaking into the room, I bend down and start searching through the pockets of discarded clothes for the keys.
"What are you up to, Miss Petrova?" Weston grumbles, rolling over to crack sleepy eyes in my direction. Since I'm already on the floor, I crawl toward him on hands and knees, and then up and onto the bed.
The mattress creaks beneath me as I push his blankets aside and find his bare cock, half-erect and tantalizing in the moonlight. Tucking some brunette hair behind my ear, I lick my lower lip and stare d
own at Weston, nude and sleepy and disoriented. It's sexy as hell. I wrap the fingers of my left hand around his shaft, and even though I'm sore as fuck and in desperate need of a nap, I'm also in the mood to uncover a little mystery.
I'm a real proper sleuth, a member of the A-team now! A small giggle threatens to escape my throat, but I don't want West to know I'm drunk. Instead, I stare into his eyes and work his shaft with my hand, using slow, strong strokes to bring a lazy groan tumbling from his lips.
Hanging from the bedpost near his head … are the fucking keys.
It's no chore to spend time with West, so I lean down and tease the pierced tip of his cock with my tongue, playing with the metal for just a moment before I take him deep, putting my palms on either of his hips to keep him from bucking upward. But I'm experienced enough that I can take him all the way to the base, leaning down and putting my ass up in the air. It's tempting to wake Colt, too, but then I'll never get those keys.
Weston tastes fresh, clean, a little bit like soap. He must've freshly showered. That turns me on for whatever reason, and I end up moving faster, running my palm up West's belly, my nails teasing his muscles. Just before he's about to finish, he throws his head back and closes his eyes. I pull away, reaching up and grabbing the keys in my palm to keep them from jingling. At the same time, I flick my tongue over the head of his shaft and take his cum all over my face and breasts.
"Shit, I'm sorry," he murmurs as I stuff the keys in the pockets of my sweats. Weston hands me a rag, and I wipe up, giving him a mysterious smile and tossing the dirty fabric back at his face. "Natalia …" he growls, but I'm already slipping out the door and heading back down the stairs.
For a second there, I just wait to see if he might follow me, but I guess the gunshot wound's got the better of him because the house stays quiet. Good. I sneak back into the church, unlock the door, and let myself into a dark little chamber with stairs leading down. Looks like it goes to the basement.
