Bad

by LP Lovell

  Her legs fall shamelessly open. Now this, this is dangerous because it beckons my depravity in a way I've never experienced. Fear is one thing...this is much more intoxicating, because I can almost imagine cutting her while I fuck her. My dick swells, and I drop my chin to my chest fighting to maintain myself.

  "I will kill you, Russian," she says before her teeth rake the side of my throat. I can't help but fight a groan at her sweet promise.

  "And I will hurt you, Krasivaya..." I pull back and nip at her bottom lip before skirting my tongue along its curve. I'm so tempted to bite harder and draw blood. "In ways you can't possibly imagine," I whisper.

  "Promises, promises." She smiles against my mouth.

  "Well, I do always make good on my promises." I press the blade into her thigh, piercing her skin as I slowly drag it over her leg. She gasps and bites her lip on a moan. Oh, dear god... A trickle of warm blood rolls over my knuckles, and I have to close my eyes to control myself because if I see that blood... Inhaling, I shove against her and push away from the table with the knife still clutched in my hand.

  I snap my fingers as I walk out of the room, and two men immediately brush past me. I hear her swear at them. Dishes break. My cock strains against my pants as I storm down the hallway to the living room and slam the door closed behind me. I assumed she would be a challenge, but I never believed she would be without fear. She is worthy prey, for what greater thrill is there than that of the hunt? The kill is merely a result.

  I glance down at the knife. The specks of blood on the blade cause my pulse to hammer in my chest. My mind jumbles with thoughts of her lips, of how volatile it would be to fuck her, cut her...I pace the room, dragging my hand down my face.

  She is one, I know, will be so beautiful when she bleeds.

  Chapter 6

  Ronan

  "Shameless"- Massive Metal Covers

  "The Bank of China is scheduled to call at noon," Olga says, reading over a printout of today's calendar. "After that, the British National; the branch in Prague will be sending reports over at one. And at four Mr. Voytanoksy is scheduled to go over the international departments."

  Closing my eyes, I take a breath. I don't really want to be bothered with this nonsense, but this is how I blend in with society—under the ruse of an accomplished businessman. After all, every criminal needs their front, and the World Bank is mine.

  "Thank you, Olga." I take the report from her and step inside my office. The door barely shuts before I pull my phone from my pocket. I dial a number in Mexico; the foreign ringtone beeps as I walk to the blinds and peek through. It’s terribly sad how the people outside run about only to make ends meet. Would be such a pity to be poor. Powerless...

  The line clicks. "You have my sister, you Russian fuck!" Gabriel shouts over the phone before I hear him spit.

  "Such a temper," I tut as I take a seat behind my desk. "Must run in the family."

  "Fuck you and your pale ass!"

  "Is that any way to talk to the man you're a slave to?" I smile even though he can't see me. "Yes, I have your dear Mila—isn't that what you call her? So, I assume you'll do whatever I ask to ensure her safety?"

  He remains silent, because while Gabriel Estrada may be ruthless, he is not heartless. Threaten a man and you force his loyalty for merely a second, buy a man, and he'll forever be indebted to you. And this is where I pat myself on the back because what better way to purchase a man's soul than through his very heart?

  "You do wish her to remain alive?" I ask, and again I'm met by silence. I can only imagine his face is red with anger. "Marvelous!" I say.

  "I want to talk to her."

  "Understandable. I'll have her call you and fill you in on what a wonderful time she's having when I get home."

  "Fuck you!"

  There's no point in meaningless insults, so I get to business. "There will be a shipment of guns coming into Juarez, you'll make sure they make it across the American border."

  There's a long pause. I hear him swallow. I face the computer screen, tapping my fingers over my keyboard as I pull up the cameras to Camilla's room. She's pacing like a caged lioness, roughly dragging her hands through her hair.

  "Come, come, Gabriel, I'd hate to let my men have their way with your sister. And might I add, she has a very tempting figure."

  A string of profanities come across the line. "Do not hurt her, you—"

  "So... we have an agreement?"

  He sighs, defeat lacing that sound. "Yes."

  "Very well. Pleasure doing business with you and your family, Estrada." I disconnect the call and stare at the screen, watching Camilla. I can only imagine she's swearing in Spanish.

  The office phone buzzes and I close the browser before I press the button. "Yes?"

  "Ms. Derevechi is here."

  "Ah, yes, to go over President Derevichi's account. Fantastic," I say with a grin. "Send her in." I stand from my chair and cross the room, ensuring the blinds are open just enough for the photographer across the street to get a good shot. After all, I'm paying him good money, and I wouldn't want to waste it...

  The secretary escorts Anastasia in, and my, she is every bit the President's wife in that knee-length, emerald dress. "Let me know if I can get you anything," Olga says before closing the door behind her.

  Sexual frustration brims off Ana. Lust. I bite my lip and stare at her like I want nothing more in this life than to make her come. She takes a step toward me, and I grab her long hair, fisting it and yanking her head back. I pin her body between me and the wall as I trail my nose along the curve of her neck. "Is this what you want?" I ask, grabbing the hem of her dress and hitching it up her thighs.

  She claws at my suit jacket. "Yes," she whispers.

  Every breath I take is planned and measured, and this is no different. Nikoli Derevichi will know I've had his wife, and I can only hope he'll threaten me.

  Chapter 7

  Camilla

  “Run for Cover” – The Killers

  The man with the scarred face smiles at me when I'm shoved into the chair. My eyes focus on the laptop on the table. Pain ricochets through every inch of my body. Everything around me sounds muted. My wrists are pulled behind me and cable tied to the chair.

  A window pops up on the laptop screen, and my papa's face comes into view.

  "Ah, Emanuel Estrada," the man with the scarred face says, smiling at my father. "I've had your pretty little daughter for three days now. Are you ready to trade yourself for her yet?" My papa's jaw clenches as he looks at me. I duck my head, unable to look at him. "I have had such fun with her." He strokes my face and bile rises in my stomach. "So sweet. So virginal. She bled all over my cock." He laughs.

  "You want me to offer myself so what?" Papa says. "You can kill me and take my business?"

  The man sighs. "Yes."

  I fight back tears under the wave of shame that washes over me because my papa knows. He knows that I'm dirty. "Mila." I slowly lift my gaze to the laptop, and Papa looks back at me. "We don't negotiate. You know this."

  I squeeze my eyes shut and nod. "I know, Papa." The first rule of business; we do not negotiate, no matter what. Weakness gives our enemies power.

  "Stay strong, baby girl. Make me proud." The screen goes black, and I break down into tears.

  The man growls and launches the laptop across the room before grabbing my face. "Ah, sweetheart, you and I will have such fun. By the time I send your body back to your daddy, he'll know that you died slowly." He brushes his lips over my cheek. "Painfully."

  He moves to the fireplace on the far side of the room, and I whimper because I know what's coming. One of the men in the room cuts the cable ties loose, and I'm thrown to the floor. The material of my shirt is torn from me. The bandages covering my back are peeled away, pulling at my burned skin. I bite down on my lip, fighting the urge to scream.

  The scarred man straddles my back, his weight making it hard for me to breathe. A sick laugh slips from his lips. "I do so lo
ve desecrating your perfect skin." The red-hot poker sears my back, the skin bubbling underneath it. He presses the poker against my skin over and over until the pain is all I feel. I refuse to scream aloud because I want to make my papa proud, but in my head...in my head I scream until my throat bleeds. I scream for the little girl I was only four days ago, now broken and rocking in a small corner of my mind. I scream...

  I wake up screaming, my body drenched in sweat. Dragging desperate breaths into my lungs, I climb out of bed and pace the length of the room as I try to purge myself of the weak thoughts. It's this place, the captivity... It's been weeks, I think. Weeks in the same room. Weeks of searching every inch of the place for an escape, but there is none. There's a single window, and doors that lead onto a balcony, but it's a three-story drop. There's a guard patrol every few minutes—not to mention the cameras in the room. I'd never make the fence in time, and if I did somehow make it through all that, the trek through the frigid, Russian forest would surely kill me.

  And so, I'm stuck in this room. Imprisoned with my own nightmares.

  This is how it starts—holding me. And when this isn't enough for whatever it is he wants, then comes the rape, the pain, the torture. I clench my jaw and close my eyes. I can survive it, I always do. Abuse is simply a contrived attempt at gaining power, but power is all in perception. A man may gain the upper hand by raping a woman, but he loses that advantage when a woman becomes willing. Men think sex is a weapon and it is, but not one to be wielded by a man. A woman must know where her power lies and use it shamelessly. I will use whatever means necessary to succeed, and I will never lose, even if I have to sacrifice every fragmented, blackened shard of my soul to win.

  My father was right; we don't negotiate and we don't lie down. We fight. In any way we can.

  The little red dot to the camera blinks, mocking me. I wonder if Ronan's sitting somewhere watching me slowly fray and splinter, witnessing my weakness. I can picture the smug grin on his face, the air of supremacy floating around him, and it makes my blood boil. Taking the dressing table stool, I storm over to the corner of the room and swing it above my head. I let out a growl and smash that stupid camera off the wall. The wires tear away from the sheetrock, and the device now dangles uselessly from its cords. Fuck Ronan Cole and his fancy jail cell!

  There's a knock at the door and Igor walks in, a frown set on his face. "The boss wants to see you," he says.

  "Oh, I bet he does." It's fine. Let him be angry.

  Igor leads me out of the room and down the stairwell to a set of double doors. He pushes open one door and walks ahead of me. Towering bookshelves crammed with antique books cover the walls. A shiny grand piano sits in the center of the room, the flames from the fireplace reflecting off its pristine surface. And there's Ronan in one of his suits, sitting on a Victorian sofa with one arm resting along the back. Igor walks over to him and bends at the waist, whispering something in his ear. Ronan's gaze drifts to me, and a wry smile tugs at his lips. "I see," he says as Igor straightens. "Just have another camera installed."

  Igor shoots an angry look at me before he turns and walks through the door, leaving me alone with Ronan.

  "So nice to see you again, Camilla." Ronan pats the spot next to him as his gaze drops to the low neckline of my dress. "Do sit."

  I watch him carefully as I cross the room. And when I sit, I sit as far away from him as possible. He slips his hand inside his coat pocket, pulls out a cigar, and lights it, his eyes locked on me. The smoke swirls around his face. The embers catch in his eyes, and I can't help but think he looks like Satan himself.

  "You will not coax a reaction from me," he says, "although I do find it rather distasteful that you would destroy such nice accommodations." He takes another puff from his cigar.

  My teeth clench so hard my jaw aches. "Why bother keeping me? You have my brother running around like your errand boy, so kill me already. Threats do not evoke fear, Russian, action does."

  His eyes go cold, and he leans toward me. "I want control. Power." He studies me before reaching across the sofa and stroking a single finger over my cheek.

  "Fear is power."

  "Fear is powerless unless there is hope."

  "And I thought you were heartless. Careful," I glare at him and lift a brow. "You might disappoint me."

  "I'm merciless, Krasivaya, there is a difference." He takes another puff. "Enough chit-chat, I've spoken with your brother."

  My heart skips a beat, and I grit my teeth. "I can only imagine how thrilled he was to hear your voice."

  "I promised him I would not kill you." His lips quirk up.

  "Just kill me already. Gabe won't bend over for you, either way."

  "But, he already has."

  "Bullshit. A Russian will never run Juarez." I spit on the ground.

  He glances at the floor with a snarl of disgust. "Not the most refined, are we?"

  "My brother hates Russians even more than I do. He'd sooner watch you slit my throat than work for you." I know Gabe. He loves me and I love him, but Papa always instilled in us that the cartel— the business— must come first. We do not negotiate.

  "So certain, little kitty." He laughs.

  "You're full of shit!"

  "I understand. I do." He nods. "It must be so hard for the leader of the Juarez cartel to come to terms that she is now in the presence of the man who dethroned her." He taps a finger over his lips.

  He knows who I am, what I am. He thinks he can take my cartel from me? Deep breaths. Deep, deep breaths. I clench my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms. "I am Camilla Estrada. I will never be dethroned, Russian! Enjoy your moment of victory. It will be short lived, I assure you." I force a smile. If Gabe actually sold out my cartel to this Russian fuck, I'm going to kill him myself!

  "Moment of victory?" Ronan tosses his head back on a laugh before taking another puff from his stupid cigar.

  "You manipulated my brother. He's merely a pawn." Gabriel may be the face of the Juarez cartel but I created it and I control it. Always.

  "I prefer the term puppet."

  "He's an idiot," I huff. "He has no true power."

  "Ah, ah, ah." Ronan's blue eyes dance with some sick form of pleasure. "But you and I are the only people who know he is powerless. You've allowed everyone in Mexico to believe he is the king, and so they shall bow to him, and in essence, me." He grins. "Why do you think I took you, Camilla?" I glare at him, and his smile widens. He reaches up and grabs my jaw, stroking his thumb over my skin. "You're right, your brother is a pawn. You are the queen. I have taken the queen off the board. Game over, Krasivaya."

  I blink. If I weren't so angry I'd probably see the genius in it. He's played it to perfection, manipulated and orchestrated every single play until I couldn't even see it coming. Leading people to believe Gabriel was in charge when it was actually me, is the very thing that has fucked me. "Well played," I whisper.

  A cloud of smoke puffs through Ronan’s lips. "I would like to tell you how very clever it was to play the wounded little fawn instead of the bloodthirsty lion."

  "Fine. You have the cartel, so what do you want from me?" I'm fast losing patience, and my temper is wrapping around me like a vine.

  "Everything." A sadistic smirk sets on his face, his eyes filled with promises of exactly that...everything.

  He shifts and his jacket parts, revealing a white dress shirt pulled tightly over his muscular chest. Beneath that refined exterior there's something lethal and feral. I remember how dangerous his hard body felt pressed against mine, the blade digging into my thigh. The threat. The promise. Few men can make such promises, but this one.... I know he'd deliver. It shouldn't be exciting, but it is. I should be so enraged that he's taken what's mine, but I'm not.

  Ronan Cole has presented a challenge: a worthy opponent.

  This is not Jésus Garcia following me around with his dick out and dancing to whatever tune my manicured nails tap out. Suddenly everything that came before this feels inconsequent
ial and insignificant. If I can win this, I will win it all. My gaze drifts over his savagely beautiful, chiseled features. What fun I could have playing his twisted game of power. My mind wanders through all the wild and dangerous possibilities. "Well, I look forward to you trying to take it," I say. It's a challenge, a threat, a plea. I don't even know anymore, but I'd love nothing more than to go to war with this bastard.

  He leans across the sofa, placing his lips next to my neck. "And that everything includes you." Before I can react, he laughs right in my ear and moves back across the sofa. "Call your brother," he says, pulling a phone from his pocket and handing it to me.

  "Why?"

  "Don't you want to speak to him?"

  "Not on your beckoning."

  He thrusts the phone into my hand. "It wasn't a request."

  "You want my brother to run around like your bitch, you call him." I shove the phone against his chest.

  An animalistic growl rumbles from his chest. His hand strikes out like a snake, and he grabs my throat in a bruising grip, but I still smile at him. A small voice in the back of my head tells me to tread carefully, but I've always given that voice the middle finger. His grip tightens and I relish in the pain, the challenge in his hold.

  "I won't dance for you, Russian."

  He releases me and falls back on the sofa with a laugh. "You will, or your precious cartel will pay the price. I will pull it apart, piece by piece, ending it with your brother's headless corpse."