by V. F. Mason
We both know she can come just with my mouth on them alone, sucking those rosy nipples of hers so hard she wriggles underneath me.
The possessive beast inside me roars at the thought of other men admiring what belongs to me and how the hickeys I’ve left on her skin have become almost invisible.
I crave to throw her on the bed and fuck her so hard she won’t remember anything other than chanting my name over and over again as I drive so deep into her we don’t know where she begins and I end.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
My woman who dared to run from me, and a part of me, the strict professor part who captured his student, wishes to punish her, slapping her ass cheeks until they become red so she won’t do anything so reckless again.
Priorities. Priorities.
My Estella is a delicate flower who requires the gentlest care before I can subject her to my twisted desires and remind her who this body belongs to, so no doubts exist in that pretty head of hers.
My thumb brushes against her pulse point, adding a bit of pressure that makes her jerk and snaps her out of her stupor.
She starts to struggle in my hold, trying to kick me away, but I push my knee between her legs, stopping her movements as she breathes heavily. “Shhh, darling. Is this the way to greet your man?” Anger flashes in her gaze, and she mumbles something, her lips grazing my palm while she tries to rip my hand away from her mouth, her muffled scream barely making any noise in the room.
Her nails dig so hard in my skin she’s probably leaving claw marks, but I don’t mind.
Let her mark me so everyone can see I’m taken.
I hiss through my teeth, “Nah ah, my love. I’ll let you go only if you promise to play nice.” She shakes her head, biting my palm, and my amused chuckle is met with another death stare from her. “We can do this all night long, darling.” I press my knee harder between her legs, and she gasps, her legs flexing around me and her nails cutting into me even harder, showing me how effected by my touch she still is. “What will it be, my love?”
She tugs on my hand again and finally sighs, nodding, although the calculative glint in her eyes is hard to miss, so I warn her, “If you so much as call for help, I will kill them all.” She freezes, fear reflecting at me now, and a sinister smile shapes my mouth.
Ah, my innocent creature is so easy to manipulate. Truth be told, no one can stop me from having my woman right now, but I don’t have to kill the staff for it.
I’m an asshole with no redeeming qualities, but even I draw the line at killing innocent people.
Not that she knows it; right now, I’m the monster who tricked the dragon and got to the princess in the ivory tower after all. “So carefully evaluate your risks before you do anything.”
A beat passes, and she nods.
I remove my hand form her mouth, and she instantly hisses, “Get out!” She pushes at my chest, and just to appease her, I step back, which allows her to rush to the other corner, her bare feet soundless on the carpet. A gust of wind sends her red hair flying, creating an almost fire-like halo around her. The fury pouring from her every cell fills the air, straining my dick against my zipper.
My beautiful yet confused woman.
“Get out,” she repeats, hooking her hair behind her ear while keeping her gaze trained on me and pointing at the balcony. “And never come back. Or else my brother will be the one to kill you.” She grits out the last part and huffs in annoyance when I laugh at her speech.
Because threatening me with the Dark Four is truly hilarious.
“Oh, I will. Trust me.” Her brows furrow at my answer, and she watches me in disbelief and then groans when I say, “You’re just gonna come with me.”
“Never! You’re a killer!” she whisper-screams at me, and I lean my shoulder on the wall, enjoying how the moonlight streaming through the windows gives me the perfect view of her tempting body and mile-long legs. “And you used me.” Her voice breaks on the last part, and despite having no soul to speak of for more than two decades, the last pieces of it inside me come alive at this accusation, wanting to soothe her.
“Not once have I done that. You belong to me. You’re mine. I already told you. I never harm what’s mine.”
A hollow chuckle escapes her as she covers her mouth with her hand before speaking up. “Right. Do you expect me to be so naïve and believe you?” She raises her splayed palm as if wanting to shut me up before I utter a single word. “You’re a MacAlister!” She throws it in as an accusation and glares at me when I laugh again at the irony of it all.
How could I not though?
For the first time, someone acknowledges me belonging to the notorious family, when most of my life I was denied that honor, and it’s a problem that stands between me and my greatest obsession.
“And you’re a Reed.” I push off the wall and take three steps toward her, which makes her move backward until the back of her knees hit the small, round table. “Don’t for a second think I don’t know what your brother and those friends of his do. In chaos do they thrive, darling.”
She straightens up, lifting her chin stubbornly. “My family has honor. And your siblings are criminals who should be behind bars.”
Honor.
Right.
Strangely, my woman is way more distressed over me being a MacAlister than a killer, and doesn’t it just show how fucked up our lives truly are?
Because our families and their deeds over the years have made us immune to the stuff most people consider insane, and we can find justification even for the crimes in the name of the greater good.
Which is a terrible excuse, of course, because no “greater good” exists; it’s a myth designed to make people believe in warped goodness, when in fact every greater good entails selfish desires.
A killer might kill bad fuckers, but at the end of the day, he is still a killer.
But then, you don’t choose family and all that jazz.
A knock on the door echoes through the space, pausing our argument, and Antonio speaks on the other side. “Estella? May I come in?” he asks after a dangling sound rings in the air. “I brought you hot chocolate.”
“Get out!” she hisses under her breath, and my brow lifts at the command before I stroll to the door, putting my hand on the handle. That’s enough for her to race to me, pushing me to the side. “Don’t you dare!” she whispers a bit too loudly.
“Estella?” Antonio asks again. “Is it a bad time?” An odd note coats his voice. “I thought I heard some voices.” He clears his throat. “Are you all right? I can call Octavius.” The message between the lines is clear. He wants to know if she is in any danger, and who the fuck brings hot chocolate to a nineteen-year-old to fix her distress?
Estella motions for me to stay quiet and then replies, “I’m fine, Antonio. I was about to take a shower.” She forces a loud yawn and then pushes me farther behind the door before opening it a little, enough for the bright light to slip in and blind her for a second. “I think I’m gonna pass on the chocolate, but thank you.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” he says and sighs. “You do need to get some rest. And remember, the new day…”
“Brings new perspective,” Estella finishes for him and plasters a smile on her face. “Goodnight.”
“If you need anything, call me. It’s nice to have you home again.” Through the small crack, I see him looking around and then narrowing his eyes like he is trying to see something in the dark, but Estella gives him no opportunity as she sends a smile his way and shuts the door in his face. “Just call anytime!” he says once again before his footsteps thud on the marble, indicating he’s walking away.
Maybe the old man should have shown all this concern to Octavius when his stepfather ripped him a new one every single day, instead of worrying about what’s mine right now.
Estella places her hand on the door and exhales in relief. She must love the old guy too, but why is beyond me. Or why Octavius keeps him in the house for that matter.
“It wasn’t his fault.” She looks at me. “I can hear the silent judgment. He was just a butler. No one would have believed him anyway. At least this way he helped us.” She spins around and presses her back to the door, still keeping her eyes trained on me. “Please leave, Ryder. I have nothing else to say to you. And I don’t want to hear your lies.”
Well too fucking bad.
“So a butler who did nothing when your brother was dying from his injuries is innocent, according to you, because he had no other choice. But I’m guilty, because MacAlister blood runs through my veins, and you’ve assumed something?” She opens her mouth to protest, but I clack my tongue. “You’ve said your piece, darling. I think it’s my turn.”
God help me, she will either come with me willingly or be kidnapped.
I’ve searched my whole life for her without knowing it.
And I will be damned if my family takes anything else from me ever again.
Especially not her.
* * *
Estella
I close my eyes at his words, my heartbeat speeding up inside my chest and galloping so fast it’s hard to breathe from the onslaught of emotions hitting me from every corner, pulling me in different directions, and tearing my soul in a million pieces as two strong desires sweep over me.
On one side is the need to protect my family and my heart from the disaster awaiting us all in the future if he stays a minute longer at my house. If Octavius finds him… if his family comes after him… the results will be catastrophic for me.
On the other side, my soul cries out at the deep need in his gaze when he drills his stare into me, my stomach fluttering at him still calling me his and how he said he didn’t use me. Combined with what I’ve learned about his past, it’s such a strong weapon that can be used against me and sway me toward him.
A devil who with his voice alone can seduce me or lure me into my downfall, although on some level I’m already there.
He wears all black from his sweater to jeans, merging with the darkness that becomes a salvation for the likes of him.
Even now, despite knowing all the truth, my body reacts to his presence, chills popping all over my skin while burning sensations awaken every nerve in my body, anticipating what he might do next.
“I know you want revenge for Cillian.” I cross my arms, giving myself a false sense of security, although the more I repeat this sentence, the less I believe in it. “The MacAlisters always stick together.”
His cold laughter, mixing with the owls hooting in the distance, sends chills down my spine for how much self-loathing it holds. All amusement is gone from him. He strolls toward the balcony, standing between the curtains that billow around him. He seems almost like an angel of death who came to claim my soul.
His back still faces me when he speaks up. “MacAlister. A simple family name that’s always brought me hell on earth.” My heart stops, and then he laces his fingers through his hair before spinning around, and I gasp at the raw look in his eyes. “My mother used to tuck me in bed before she would go to a client. That’s the only quality time I had with her. She either slept or cried in the shower, doing her best to wipe away any trace of them. And let’s not forget drugs. She loved those above all else, because with them, her life didn’t feel as shitty.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my heart breaking for his mom and the little boy who had to watch her suffer so much. No child deserves to see his mom subjected to such cruelty.
He ignores me, continuing. “She’d read me ancient Greek myths about men and women who had to sacrifice a lot for their stupidity. Or how gods used tricks to gain what they wanted. Each one of them had their own lessons. Mother loved it—or she pretended to. God knows, it was the only fucking book lying around.”
This explains his love for it as well, and how even after earning his first million in stocks, he still works as a professor and attends various conventions.
In a way, he’s nurtured the connection he had with his mom all these years.
“She used to tell me that my dad was Zeus reincarnated, and all the MacAlisters lived on Olympus as godlike creatures, while we were just merely humans, unworthy of their time and attention.” He tugs on his collar, exposing the faint scar on his neck. “My father gave me this when I asked him if he could take me to Olympus just once. As gods, their power fascinated me.” He removes his sweater, tosses it away, and then points at the deep scar on his chest. “And this one I got from his boot when he kicked me hard as I tried to stop him from raping my mother.”
Tears form in my eyes, and I whisper, “Stop,” too afraid what he might say next, but only a hollow chuckle meets my words.
“No. You’ll fucking listen.” He steps closer to me. “When Mom died, he finally granted me my wish. I guess your brother already told you what happened in those years. His wife’s hatred is public knowledge, after all.” Another step in my direction, and even though I want to run far away, I stay glued to my spot, listening to his horrible story.
Knowing someone suffered is one thing.
But hearing them relive their horrendous past is quite another.
“Alistair MacAlister sent me to hell so I could pay for the honor of wearing his family name.” He motions his palm up and down his form. “All these other souvenirs were delivered by the man who claimed to be my master and treated me worse than the dirt under his nails.” His fingers rub over the red, puckered slash. “This particular one was done with a knife when I refused to lick someone’s spit from the floor.”
I cover my ears, shaking my head as tears slide down my cheeks, begging, “Don’t.”
“Beaten, starved, used, and abused. The only thing they didn’t do to me was rape me. You see, the fuckers drew a line at touching children sexually. Even demons have their own moral code. That being said, they planned to sell me once I turned fifteen, so those morals weren’t that deep.”
My brows furrow, and despite my internal turmoil and the pain stabbing at me at the mere thought of what he experienced as a child, I remember my brother at his age and how much he hurt… but at least he had us.
Ryder was all alone.
Because the person who was supposed to love him the most failed him.
“But… they had to give you back to your father.”
Why would they try to sell him?
A smile that reminds me more of a grimace curves his lips. “Everyone knew that deal was bullshit. My father wanted me to die. And in a way, his wish was granted. A stupid idiot blew up the guy’s warehouse, and it was a miracle I survived.”
“That’s why everyone assumed you were dead.”
He shrugs. “I ran through the forest until my legs gave out. I camped by the river and even caught and ate raw fish and then ran some more until I fell down the cliff, and a man found me. His name was Dylan. Sound familiar?”
I gape at him in shock.
Professor Smith?
“He tended my injuries and then called the doctors. I spent a month in the hospital before they put me in the system. However, during that month, he came to the hospital every day, reading and telling me stories. He also spoke about the profession he loved so much. It was fascinating. The ability to be this passionate about something so old and mythical.”
Why would he go into the system?
He must read the question in my mind as he says, “I kept my mouth shut about my origins. I never wanted to see them again. Not that they missed me. Besides, the foster family was fine as long as they got their checks from the government. They didn’t meddle in my business, and they hired tutors to help me catch up with my age group in school. Dylan paid for it. He felt responsible for me. And I read. Read as many books as I could, because my mind was hungry for one thing. Knowledge. The rest is history.”
Right.
He comes closer until the tips of his boots connect wi
th my toes. He slaps his palms on the door, on either side of my head, caging me in his embrace.
“That’s why you took the job?” He was notorious for accepting jobs only in New York, never traveling abroad or to other states to teach.
Knowing his family history, now it makes sense. Giant middle finger to his father.
“Yes. His wife needs surgery, and he couldn’t finish the semester, so he called me. I said yes under one condition. He would still get all the salary. I could never convince this man to accept any money from me.” Unfamiliar warmth laces his tone, making me think he has some affection for our professor, or rather gratitude.
For showing kindness to a boy who never knew any.
“My foster family wanted nothing to do with me, but I kept in touch with the Smiths. We go fishing once a year.”
I suppose, for a man who forms no attachments, that means something.
“That’s how Hades was born, wasn’t it? He ruled the underworld and couldn’t care less what Zeus thought.” He saved all those children and women from his and his mother’s fate in his warped way. And every time he hurt this man, it was his own frustration he couldn’t take out on his father.
Because deep down, goodness resides in that black heart of his; otherwise, he would have killed his father for all the shit he subjected him to. And maybe his siblings for living in a privilege he could never have due to his upbringing.
But his mother managed to give her son so much love in the first five years of his life, despite her life circumstances, that it was enough to not make him a monster like the one who sired him.
“I’m so sorry for your pain,” I whisper, tilting my head back as he leans closer to me, and my heart flips. “But it doesn’t justify your lies, hideous crimes, and… and… the way you used me to get back at my brother.”
Maybe if I say this enough, it will cure me of the love in my heart.
Yet somehow with his nearness, his masculine scent twitching my nostrils, and the sinister energy wrapping tighter and tighter around me, it’s hard to remember why I ran from him in the first place.
