Bad

by LP Lovell

  I trail my bloodied hand along the inside of my thigh. As soon as my finger brushes over my pussy I throw my head back and close my eyes. I push my fingers inside, and imagine they’re Ronan’s. I remember the way he brutally slammed his hand into me, pushing his thumb into my ass like a conquistador wishing to soil every part of me. And oh, how I want him to.

  He's right. I like the depravity of it, the wrongness. I fuck myself, pulling my fingers out and swirling over my clit until my back arches off the bed. My mind conjures filthy, erotic images of Ronan owning me, taking what he wants. A moan slips from my lips as a shudder tears from my body. I imagine Ronan fucking me, cutting me and a wave of heat drowns me. I come with his name on my lips, letting it all loose, because I want him to hear. I want him to know what he missed, what his precious control is costing him. I lie here gasping and panting and hating myself a little bit, because I've always been drawn to the things I shouldn't. My father always said it would get me killed. Little did he know; it was coming close to death so many times that made me crave the danger. There’s a sense of invincibility that comes with surviving things that would break most men. Ronan Cole is a destroyer, and I want him to ruin me, but I want to be his mutual destruction. Our little game of power is nothing more than a battle of wills, and I'm not sure if I'm winning or losing.

  I don’t want to lose…

  I push off the bed, go to the bathroom, and turn the shower taps to hot. A small cloud of steam billows over the shower door, and I step under the spray. The hot water feels like lava on my newly branded neck. I cannot believe he branded me like a breeding cow. I wash the blood from my body, remaining under the water until the room is full of steam—until I know that any hidden cameras will be completely fogged in mist, then I get out. I dry myself off and slip into the thick robe hanging on the door before I go to the toilet and remove the lid, reaching inside. My fingers brush the edge of the phone placed on the pipe inside, and I take it out, tucking it into the folds of my robe. I quickly cross the bedroom and step onto the balcony. My entire body trembles against the cold as I press a shaking finger against the power button. The screen illuminates and I wait a few seconds. I’ve checked it every day, waiting for my ‘friend’ to tell me what they want, to give me a way out. This phone has become a warped form of hope. The screen flashes with a text message. My heart picks up as I read over it: In the office, there is a painting of the Khimki forest, behind it you will find a safe. The code is 030565. Inside you will find a small black USB drive. Replace it with the one you have. Await further instructions.

  The one I have? I don't have... I turn the phone off, snapping it shut. I tuck it into the folds of my robe again and take it back to the bathroom, placing it back in the tank, propped against the pipe so it doesn't get wet. I rush over to the chest of drawers, grabbing my clutch and glancing inside. Well, this is some James Bond shit. There, in the bottom of the bag, is a black USB stick. How do these people keep putting shit in my bag? How the hell do they know there's a safe, or the code? This must be Ronan. But then, it's almost so obvious that I don't think it is. Playing childish little games to catch me isn’t his style. It's beneath him. Whoever this is, they must have someone in Ronan's house. I can't help but smile at the idea that Ronan, lord of all he surveys, is being fucked over by one of his own. I just know how much that would burn him.

  I lie on my bed, thinking through all the ways this could possibly bite me in the ass. Even if I do manage to get into his office and to the safe to swap the sticks...what if I get caught with it? Ronan is going to kill me eventually, so what do I have to lose? The thought should bring a sense of recklessness with it, but it doesn’t. I'm not completely without sense, I fear Ronan. I fear his brutality just as much as I crave it, and I wonder, what would he do to me? There are worse fates than death—I’m aware of that—and I have no doubt that Ronan knows every one of them. I keep waiting for the moment when he snaps and unleashes the beast I know lingers just beneath all that refinery. I've pushed him, but none of that would compare to stealing from him, deceiving him. Helping an apparent enemy. But then, aren't I the enemy? His enemy is my friend. This is what I've wanted all along, to take him down from the inside.

  I'm going to do it. I'm going to risk everything on the word of a stranger I will likely never meet, all to destroy the man who took my power from me.

  ______

  It’s past eleven when I leave my room, quietly pulling the door closed behind me. I tiptoe down the stairs, and I quickly make my way through the dark house. The occasional hum of voices drifts down the hallway, and I pause outside one of the rooms when I hear Ronan’s voice. The door is barely cracked and I peek through. Ronan’s sitting on the sofa with his back to the hall, a cloud of smoke sifting through the air. Another man sits in the chair across from him in a three-piece suit looking every bit as rich as Ronan, but lacking the raw power that Ronan seems to physically breathe. There’s the distinct low rumble of his laugh. Good. Hopefully that will keep him occupied for a minute.

  I carry on to his office, my pulse drumming as I try the handle. The door isn't locked and I think that's stupid, but then again, who would be insane enough to break into Ronan Cole's office? Light from the hallway spills into the room, and I catch a glimpse of that painting right behind the desk when I step in and close the door behind me. The room plunges into darkness except for the moonlight shining through the windows. In two corners of the room, those little red lights blink. Of course, there would be cameras in here. I have no choice but to tuck my hair into the collar of my robe and hope they can't make out anything in the dark. If I tamper with those cameras, I'll have Ronan's men up my ass in a heartbeat. There’s just enough light coming from the window that I can safely cross the room, stopping in front of the painting. I hook my fingers under the frame, and it swings away from the wall revealing a metal safe. There's a keypad with a blinking green light. With shaking fingers, I type out the code: 030565. The safe beeps and the door clicks open. I can't believe that worked! Inside are folders, several stacks of Rubles, a phone, and a USB stick. I slip the other USB from my pocket and swap them over before slamming the safe shut. The lock clicks with a beep, and I move the painting back in place.

  My chest buzzes, my stomach knots, and I hurry out of the room and down the hall. I’m nearly to the foyer when Ronan steps out of the living room, and almost right into me. My heart leaps in my chest and adrenaline fires through my veins. Oh, god, he's caught me. The USB stick in my pocket feels like an atomic bomb ready to wipe me out. I force a smile on my face. "Ronan, I was just looking for you." His eyes study my face and fuck; I swear he can see the lie as clear as day.

  I'm so screwed.

  Chapter 26

  Ronan

  “Prisoner” – The Weeknd, Lana Del Ray

  My gaze trails over her pretty face, over the slight twitch of her lip. My little Krasivaya is up to something… "Aren't you supposed to be tied up?" I ask.

  She glares at me. "Takes more than rope to restrain me, Russian."

  "So, you’ve come to show off your pretend freedom?"

  "Of course." She cocks a brow and smiles. "And to steal your brandy." She slips past me into the sitting room where one of the servants is waiting with my brandy and the television remote.

  I take the glass from his hand and sit as he turns the television to the late-night news. Camilla pours herself a drink, downs it, and then makes another before coming to sit beside me.

  "You do know I only tied you up to annoy you?" I say. "I knew you'd get out, and I must say, I admire your determination." I eye the delicate scratches marring her perfect skin.

  "Oh, well, in that case..." Rolling her eyes, she tips her drink back.

  I direct my attention to the news. Murders, burglaries, another nuclear blast that rocked the Gobi Desert this week—my phone rings in my pocket and I pull it out. Anastasia's name flashes over the screen. "Yes?" I say.

  "How could you?" Anastasia gasps. "After everything I did
for you. After everything I have given you, and you've already replaced me?"

  "Ana," I say sweetly, "Your husband won't allow it, I'm only trying to mend my broken heart."

  "With some cheap whore?"

  Camilla places her drink on the end table and cocks a curious brow.

  "Ana, please don't do this," I whisper, my eyes locked with Camilla's. "Not now. The only reason I’m not with you is because of Nikoli."

  Camilla's hands glide over my chest as she leans in and presses her mouth against my neck. "Aw, so romantic," Camilla says, biting her bottom lip. She throws her leg over my thighs and straddles me. Her fingers trail along the side of my neck. I should shove her away from me, but there are many things in life that I've chosen not to do…

  "I told you I would leave him," Anastasia says. "I told you I would—"

  "You can't leave him, Ana," I say. Camilla leans in and nips my ear. "He won't let you and you know it."

  A low sob comes across the line followed by Anastasia mumbling something about love.

  I fist Camilla's thick hair, leaning my head back against the sofa as I close my eyes. Her nails dig into my face when she grabs my jaw and presses her lips to mine. The taste of brandy washes over my tongue, and I gently push her away. "Ana, come now... you know she could never compare to you," I say glancing at Camilla. There's a slight flicker in her eyes that gives me such a rise.

  She presses her mouth below my ear and her hand against my crotch. "If only that were true."

  "I don't believe you, Ronan," Anastasia whispers. "I think I was nothing more than a prize for you to win."

  Camilla slides away from me and drops to her knees. This is the most beautiful Camilla has ever looked—on her knees, like she's worshipping me. She reaches for my belt and tugs it open, quickly undoing my slacks.

  "Ana, you know that's not true." Your husband's death is the prize. Camilla's fingers wrap around my dick, and she swipes her warm tongue across the head. I fight a groan.

  "I thought you loved me," Ana cries.

  And this is the point where I flip the switch: "Ana, surely you know a man like me is incapable of such a trivial emotion?"

  Camilla's eyes lock with mine, a small smile touching her lips just before I watch my cock disappear inside her mouth. I fist her hair, my eyes glued to her as she works me over. Each flick of her tongue, each jerk of her hand threatens to send me over the edge. Camilla Estrada is the type of woman any man would pay money for to have on her knees, because this is power in every sense. I shove my cock down her throat, grinning as Camilla takes it without so much as a gag. "Fuck," I groan, tossing my head against the seat.

  "Ronan?" Ana whispers.

  My cock slips from Camilla’s mouth. She holds her hand out to me. Heat spreads through my chest, and I place the phone in her waiting palm. She presses the phone to her ear, her turquoise eyes holding mine as she strokes over my dick. "Ronan's busy right now, Anastasia." Camilla lightly kisses the head of my cock. "I'm going to have to put your desperation on hold." A smug smile graces her lips. "Unless you want to listen." And then she hangs up before swallowing me back in her throat again.

  This is where I should stop her. The conversation is done. This is no longer a game between Camilla and Anastasia, but now one between Camilla and I. Heat courses through my veins like boiling lava and just when I'm about to lose all control, I release her hair and shove her face away. I grab my cock and pump over it until I come with a groan, swearing underneath my breath. Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths before I look at her with a grin, because I took that power away from her right at the end.

  Camilla wipes the corners of her mouth as she pushes to her feet. She rounds the couch, leans over the back, and places a kiss to my neck. "Never is a man more beautiful than when he's at his weakest." She nips at my throat. "You really are magnificent when you come, Russian," she says before walking from the room.

  Round and round we go, dancing within each other’s depravity like a man gone mad. I fasten my slacks and drag my hand over my face before reaching for my brandy. Ding. I grab my phone, reading over the text: All the Devil's Dust has been mined. Clutching the phone in my hand, I swallow. So it seems little kitty's time is almost up, and what a travesty that is. She's such a pretty thing, a defiant thing, such a rare piece of work. It seems so cruel to extinguish the life of such a volatile creation, but in the end, business is business, and I'd be a fool not to acknowledge how dangerous my attraction to her is.

  I've worked too hard and too long to let a pretty little thing distract me from my course.

  Chapter 27

  Camilla

  “Heart Shaped Box” – Midnight String Quartet

  I haven't seen Ronan since last night. The USB stick is hidden in the back of one of the dresser drawers, and I'm waiting. Waiting for the penny to drop, for Ronan to realize its missing, to come storming in here and kill me for what I've done.

  I hurry to the bathroom and take out the phone, checking it for the hundredth time today. The screen lights up, and I wait impatiently for it to load. As soon as the screen blinks to life, I see the message: Tonight, you will go to Cole's nightclub. Go to the ground floor bathroom. Third stall from the door. Leave the USB in the sanitary bin. Frowning, I turn the phone off and shove it back inside the toilet tank. How do they know I even have it?

  The bedroom door creaks open and I panic, quickly sliding the top of the toilet back into place with a clink. I whirl around to find Igor standing in the bathroom door, scowling at me.

  "The boss wants you ready in an hour. There's a dress on the bed." And then he turns and walks away. I go back into the bedroom and glance at the tiny black dress on the bed. Short and tight. Something you would wear to a nightclub...

  ______

  Ronan's palm rests on the small of my back as we pass the line of people waiting to get into the club. My heart slams against my ribs and a sense of anxiety creeps through me. Whoever my little friend is...they're either imbedded deep in Ronan's organization and wielding a disturbing amount of power... or it is, in fact, Ronan and I'm playing right into his trap, walking to my death. Either way, here I am, in front of the very club they told me I'd be visiting with a USB stick stuffed in my bra.

  A few people in line glare in our direction when the bouncer hurries to let us into the warm club. Ronan's men fan around him in a well-practiced formation, each one tense and rigid as though they're prepared to take a bullet for him at any moment.

  Ronan leads me through the room littered with black, crystal chandeliers and red velvet chairs. There's a dark sensual feel to this club, and if I didn't already know Ronan owned it, I could have guessed. The dance music pounds through the building, causing the floor to pulse beneath my feet. Even though the music is hard, there's a sexy edge to it, especially when I watch the people on the dancefloor sway and grind against each other.

  The USB stick wedged between my breasts feels like it’s burning me. I'm convinced that at any moment Ronan will ask me for it, right before he puts a bullet between my eyes. Ronan’s men shove people away, clearing a path as though he’s royalty as he guides me farther into the club.

  I turn into him and bring my lips to his ear. "I need to use the bathroom," I say. My heart skitters.

  Sighing impatiently, he jerks his head toward a corridor, then leads me to the restroom. I go to step inside, but he stops me, pushing the door open himself and walking inside. Two girls are at the mirrors. Ronan glares at them and they quickly leave. "Go," he says, waving a hand towards the empty stalls.

  "You know I can pee on my own..."

  Crossing his arms, he leans against the sink. "The last time I trusted you in a women's room alone, you cut your throat open."

  "That's a little overdramatic," I say, walking into the third stall from the left and closing the door. I sit on the closed toilet for a second, my stomach bunching. Shit. I don’t need to go and if I shove that USB stick into an empty plastic bin, it's going to make a noise... at le
ast, I hope it's empty.

  "I have somewhere to be." Ronan says.

  "I can't go when you're listening.” I huff. “Turn on the hand dryer."

  The dryer starts. I quickly pull the USB stick out of my bra and deposit it in the bin. There's the muted thud of it hitting the bottom, but I'm certain Ronan wouldn't have heard that over the dryer. I wait a few seconds before I stand up and flush the toilet. When I open the door, Ronan is standing in the same place, his arms folded over his chest and his eyebrows pulled together in a frown. Those full lips of his press together in annoyance. I can't help but want to kiss them because I do so delight in his bad moods. I wash and dry my hands, then follow him outside, my pulse racing.

  I've done my part. Whoever my mysterious friend is—I only hope they truly are a friend. They can't possibly be worse than Ronan. He is, after all, the man who is going to kill me. Others may have tried, but he will succeed, and that makes any revenge I can get so damn sweet.

  Once we're back in the main club, Ronan wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me to his side. Such a showman. People watch as we pass by, their eyes drifting over the pair of us. One man in a suit stares a little too long. His gaze drags over my exposed thighs, and I watch the raging lust rip through his eyes. I used to love having men fall at my feet, but these days...I prefer something a little more challenging, a little more dangerous. The fact that I’ve been Ronan's captive for weeks—at his mercy—and yet he hasn't fucked me, well, that hasn't escaped me. I know he wants me, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him, too. The man has the restraint of a monk.