Black Sheep

by Zara Cox

  I never called it home because it was never my home. It was a place of depravity, of misery and humiliation. A demeaning arena where brother was pitted against brother and blood was forced on unsuspecting hands.

  I could end it all tonight. Walk into his den or bedroom in the east wing and wipe the man who sired me from the face of the earth.

  But taking a life, no matter how necessary or secretly relished the act, is a burden that would drag my damned soul deeper into hell. I accepted that burden a long time ago but I’m not ready to make my move yet.

  Not when the game is getting interesting.

  Is that just an excuse?

  Perhaps I want to make him suffer a little more? It could be this is the only thing that anchors me to this world. I haven’t decided yet one way or the other. So I turn my attention to the south wing, where she sleeps.

  Cleo.

  Her name explodes in my mind like the deadliest IED. Beneath my hand, a dog whimpers, sensing my altered mood. I soften my caress and take a breath.

  I linger for another ten minutes before making my move. And it’s not back where my Spider is parked two streets over. The dogs accompany me, along with the devil that’s been riding me for two long fucking weeks, as I head for the house.

  The pool house where my false bliss started and ended is shrouded behind box-cut mulberry hedges to my far left. I don’t spare it a glance. My focus is fixed on the kitchen doors located beneath the south wing terrace. To my knowledge, Finnan has never used that particular room in his house, believing it to be a woman’s domain. It’s the easiest point of ingress, the half a dozen or so bodyguards tasked to protect the property currently playing cards in the carriage house above the five-car garage, past one garden and a tennis court over to my right. With the abundance of cameras, guns and four-legged guard dogs surrounding them, they’ve grown soft.

  I let myself inside and stop. I tell myself I’m acclimatizing to my surroundings, but despite the clinical purpose to my visit, I can’t stop the influx of familiar scents that hit me. Tulips and orchids from the flower room adjoining the kitchen where Ma spent hours cutting and arranging flowers and prepping bulbs. I’m surprised the smell still lingers considering she’s been gone for nine years. The scent of polished leather from the mudroom next to the flower room. Kippers and cured ham from the butler’s pantry. The remnants of carbonara sauce. Bolton’s favorite.

  My favorite.

  Jaw clenched, I shrug off the memories.

  “Sit,” I murmur to the dogs. They sag onto the checkered tile, heads on front paws, eyes on me as I cross the room. Quick, silent strides take me to the north hall. I stop and listen for signs of life. Nothing. I head for the security panel set into the wall. The screen shows empty galleries on all three floors.

  I’m neither excited nor agitated as I climb the stairs to the second floor. Even the idea of discovery doesn’t escalate my heartbeat as I make my way to the master suite.

  Confronted with the huge double doors that once symbolized fear and oppression to me, I slow my steps, savor the moment. Reaching into my pocket I take out the pouch and the two items I need.

  Wealth grants me access to gluttony and excess. Occasionally, it also grants me access to unsanctioned gadgets available only on the dark web, like the small tool in my hand that gives me a clear image of what lies behind the doors.

  I pick up the outline easily.

  One body. Not two. She’s not with him.

  The breath I didn’t realize I held punches out of me, and I take a moment to ground myself.

  He is prone and warm, and the steady beat of his heart is a bright outline on the screen attached to the gadget. It’s almost nauseatingly heady, the power I hold in my hand right now. Even if I lose my own life pursuing this, this moment alone will make it worth it.

  But I don’t intend to die today. So I let myself in on silent feet, the doors he didn’t bother to lock opening soundlessly. In the near darkness, I pick out the leopard-skin rug laid before the yawning stone fireplace and the moose heads mounted on either side of the giant scroll-edged mirror above it.

  Reflection from a security light outside penetrates the partially shut drapes and casts shadowed outlines in the room.

  I move forward until I’m standing over him.

  My father.

  The last old-school mob boss standing after an unscrupulous eradication campaign that saw his opponents fall one by one. But power and prestige weren’t enough for Finnan Rutherford. Like all greedy men, the old dog always wanted more, whether more was available for the taking or not.

  Unfortunately for him, he took it a step too far, and by drawing me into his thirst for power, he’s unwittingly handed me the tools to destroy him.

  I flip the gadget to camera mode, and I record for exactly ten seconds. Any longer in this room and I risk being overwhelmed by memories I can’t adequately contain.

  Even now, as I back away from the bed, the knife tucked into my sock burns against my skin. I ignore the sensation and set the camera down on top of the mantel where it’ll be in his direct eyeline. I retreat as silently as I came. I should leave, but my feet take me up another flight of stairs to the opposite end of the house.

  I shouldn’t go in. I shouldn’t. But my fingers find Cleo’s door anyway. The cool wood does nothing to calm me.

  Hell, it does the opposite. As I stand there like a motherfucking idiot, the useless organ in my chest dares to shake off its impending demise and flog itself back to life. Right along with my traitorous cock that twitches back to life. Before I can talk myself out of it, my hand reaches for the doorknob.

  I turn it and push. Nothing happens.

  Relief that she’s barred to me, and therefore to him, quickly turns to disappointment. Both emotions fall away, and I’m left with the bitter taste of prey denied. Like the knife in my boot, the tools I used to break in burn a hole in my back pocket as I stand there, my hand on the door.

  The effort it takes to pry my fingers off resonates like a long-forgotten pain inside me.

  Almost on automatic, I reach for my tools. One minute later, I’m inside. Her perfume hits me first. Light and alluring, just like the one she used to wear. My breath stills when she sits up suddenly, her eyes searching the room. They zero in on me, and I smell her fear.

  I deliberately step into the pool of soft light left by the illuminated vanity mirror in her bathroom. She sees me, and her eyes go wider. More shock, less fear. A little part of me breathes easier while the other part continues to question what the fuck I’m doing. Her gaze darts to the door, and mine narrows.

  Before she can think about making a sound, I step toward the bed. “How this goes depends entirely on whether you do something stupid or not, sweetheart. So think carefully.”

  Her gaze returns to me, her hands gripping the bedcover. “What do you want?” she asks.

  The sweetly sexy voice I knew as a teenager has grown huskier, draped with a wealth of womanly knowledge. It whispers over me, and I clench my gut at the effect as I move closer. “What do I want? Since you people seem to have no qualms about invading my life, I thought I’d return the favor.”

  “By breaking and entering?”

  I allow myself a little smile. “That’s what you’re worried about? Not why I’m in your room? Not that I could be wondering what you’re wearing underneath those covers besides that flimsy piece of silk?”

  Her fingers tighten on the cover, but a second later, her chin lifts a fraction, exposing more of her sleek throat. “What makes you think I’m worried? There are guards outside.”

  “All of whom were too busy playing cards and watching porn to hear me when I waltzed in fifteen minutes ago. I guess standards around here aren’t what they once were.”

  Something shifts on her face, a hard look she tries to hide as her eyelids descend. When I shift to close the bathroom door, her gaze flies back to me. I sense her renewed agitation. “Still afraid of the dark, sweetheart?”

  �
�No,” she replies, but her voice echoes with the tiniest tremble.

  The sick bastard in me revels in the sound. Perhaps I want a little payback for the weakness I succumbed to in my shower. Or perhaps I like finding her behind a locked door, the possible result of trouble in paradise owing to my machinations. Either way, that little notch of gratification intensifies as I walk toward her. Beams of light slant in through the open curtains, bathing the room and her body in moonlight.

  The sheets rustle as she attempts to scramble away from me. “Stop. Stay the fuck still. If you make me come after you, you’ll regret it.”

  She stops. I prowl closer, prop one knee on the bed, and slowly tug off my leather gloves. She watches my every move.

  “What…what are you doing?” Again I hear the shakiness in her voice. The sound transmits straight to my groin, and my cock hardens.

  I tuck the gloves into my back pocket and crawl onto the bed. Bunching one fist into the sheet, I yank it off her.

  The thin material of the silk or satin or whatever the fuck she’s wearing glimmers as she attempts to move away again. I crouch over her, planting my hands on either side of her shoulders.

  “What the fuck did I say?” I mutter. My voice is low, harsh and rough, probably owing to the effect of the long, smooth legs rubbing together in the anxiety she’s fighting. Probably owing to the fact that I’ve lost my goddamn mind. But the vulnerability she’s trying to hide is turning me on more than I anticipated. And I’m in no mood to stop. “Take that nightgown off,” I growl.

  She stops moving, but the eyes that find mine in the dark spark with pure defiance. “No.”

  I smile. “Okay.” I push back and rest my knees on either side of her hips. Then I reach for the neckline of her flimsy gown and rip it apart.

  Her gasp echoes around the room before wrapping itself tight around my cock. Her hands fly up to cover herself.

  “Stop.” My command is deadlier than before.

  Her face tells me she’s thinking about disobeying, but slowly her hands return to her sides. Her submission makes me harder as my gaze travels over her supple body. Lush breasts, heavier than I remember, flat smooth stomach, the faintest shadow of a bush behind the covering of her panties.

  I take all of that in, twice, my cock throbbing behind the prison of my fly. I want to grip myself, ease the ache, but I don’t.

  After a full minute of withstanding my scrutiny, she begins to squirm. “I…I don’t know what you think you’re doing but I’m not going to let you—”

  “I’m not going to rape you. Hell, I don’t even want to fuck you.” Fucking liar.

  Puzzlement drifts over her face. “Then what—?”

  “Have you been fucked tonight?” My voice is rougher. Harsher.

  She inhales sharply, and then her hair slides on the pillow as she shakes her head. Hers is the only scent I smell in the room. But she could’ve changed the sheets. Showered.

  “Were you fucked last night?” I press.

  Again, a negative answer. A third question hovers on my tongue. When was the last time he fucked you? “Why should I believe you?” I ask instead.

  “What makes you think I care whether you do or not?” she throws back.

  I look down her body then back up. “You think this is a good time to test me?”

  She fidgets. The movement draws my gaze to her full, luscious breasts, and my breath truncates.

  “You’re not going to rape me, and you don’t want to fuck me so I’m assuming you just want to humiliate me with a Peeping Tom moment before you go on your way.”

  “Is the thought of humiliation the reason your nipples are hard, sweetheart?” I mock, ignoring the saliva that fills my mouth at the sight of the tight peaks.

  “I’m cold,” she responds cuttingly.

  “Sure you are.” The room is ambient, the air-conditioning on a low setting. “I guess that’s also the reason you’re breathing faster?”

  She squirms a little more, her legs twitching beneath me. “Is there a time scale on this creepy interrogation?”

  “Your beauty sleep can wait a little longer,” I murmur, my mind tripping over everything I shouldn’t do. Everything I want to do. I move lower on the bed, past her tightly held-together knees. The view is even more spectacular. “Take off your panties.”

  Her breath shudders out. She doesn’t move.

  “You want me to help you?” I’d rather not. I don’t trust myself to touch her. Ripping the nightgown off her was enough.

  “I want you to leave me alone,” she says, a little more breathlessly.

  A trail of fire lights my blood. “I asked to be left alone too, remember? But nobody seems inclined to listen. Why should I listen to you?”

  She swallows, perhaps realizing, for the first time, the depth of my cold fury. “You want me to beg?”

  “I want you to take the panties off. I prefer not to ask again.”

  Her torso trembles as she takes another breath. Then, excruciatingly slowly, her thumbs hook into the sides of her panties. A bolt of lightning shoots through me as I track the material sliding down her hips, exposing her pussy to my gaze. The sight of the trimmed bush makes me bite the inside of my cheek, killing the unwanted groan that threatens to erupt.

  I’m angry that she’s even more beautiful than I imagined, that her perfect body now belongs to my father. Her panties tangle at her knees, and I resist the urge to rip them the fuck off her. “Hurry it up, baby. I don’t have all fucking night.”

  She raises her legs and shoves the panties off. They drop to her ankles. I hook my fingers through them and toss the scrap of lace over my shoulder. We go back to staring at each other. A shiver courses through her, her breath held as she awaits what comes next.

  “Open your legs.”

  Her mouth parts on a gasp. “Ax—”

  “Don’t fucking say my name. Open your legs.”

  Her legs slowly part. In the moonlight, the folds of her pussy gape to my gaze—the perfect hood of her clit, the teardrop shape of her labia, the tiny hole of her cunt. The damp, tiny hole of her cunt.

  I tell myself, had I not seen that dampness, had I not smelled her arousal a second later, I would’ve ended this fucked-up madness and left. But I see it. I smell it. The succulent scent powers from my nostrils to my groin, and I feel a touch of fluid stain the head of my cock.

  My fists ball on my thighs. “Touch yourself,” I instruct roughly.

  Her whole body trembles. “Wh-what?”

  “You want me to leave? Touch. Your. Pussy.” I grit out the words, the red haze washing over my eyes convincing me I’m on the edge of my control.

  She starts to shake her head. Her eyes meet mine, and she stills. Her right hand twitches for a second before it slides over her hip toward her mound. Long, manicured fingers drift through her silky bush, and her breath catches as she hesitates.

  “Do it.” I barely recognize my own voice, a savage hunger pounding through me.

  Her middle finger grazes her clit, and she jerks, biting her lower lip to stop herself from making a sound. But I want her sounds. I want her exposed in every way.

  “I know this is turning you on. I can smell you. Don’t fucking fight it. Stroke yourself harder.”

  Her fingers glide downward, forming a V on either side of her pussy. On the upward stroke, one finger presses down on her clit. A shudder rolls through her, a jagged pant hard on its heels. She repeats the move a few more times, her body writhing on the bed.

  “Faster,” I instruct after a few minutes.

  Her fingers circle her pussy, expertly strumming her clit on each pass. Making herself wetter. Moonlight gleams on her dripping cunt, driving me even more insane as the intoxicating scent of her pussy pummels me.

  Her hips begin to undulate. Tiny little rolls at first, then more pronounced as she starts to lose herself in the rhythm. I drag my gaze up her body, to the tight nubs cresting her breasts. “Tug on your nipples, make them stiffer for me.”

&n
bsp; This time she doesn’t hesitate. Her free hand cups one breast, squeezes, before she catches the nipple between her thumb and forefinger. One tug, and her back arches. “Oh.”

  I watch for a few seconds before my attention is drawn back down between her legs. She’s even wetter, her fingers making decadent sounds as they move over her drenched sex.

  “Slide one finger inside, fuck that filthy little cunt,” I rasp.

  Her mouth drops open. Sweet Jesus, those full, fucking lips, with their perfect Cupid’s bow shape. She’s possibly scandalized by my uncouth language, possibly even more turned on by my instruction. Either way, her middle finger caresses her hole before it sinks deep, the suction telling me how snug she is.

  “Ah!” Her hips jerk off the bed, another shudder wracking her frame as her eyes squeeze shut.

  Fuck. My cock throbs, furious at the punishment I’m putting it through. My fist ball harder as more pre-cum soaks my boxers. “Open your eyes. Look at me as you fuck yourself.”

  Her drunken gaze stumbles to mine as her finger thrusts in and out, and the heel of her hand grinds into her clit.

  “Slide another finger in.”

  She complies. Her rim of her pussy stretches, and I see the resistance, see how tight she is.

  Jesus.

  Her breathing quickens, her pants choppier. “Oh. Oh God.”

  “You’re about to come, aren’t you?” My tongue is so thick that I can barely move it to speak.

  Her head rolls on the pillow, her eyes at half-mast as she continues to ruthlessly torture her nipple. “Yes,” she moans through clenched teeth. Her fingers move faster, the sound of her fucking filling the room.

  I’m a heartbeat from blowing my own load when her back bows and an agonized moan rips from her throat. Her fingers stay in her cunt, mindlessly fucking herself as a powerful orgasm plows through her.

  I can’t look away, can’t do anything except curl my hand over my cock, stroking myself as I absorb her every shudder and moan.

  When her convulsions die down, she slides her fingers out. Her gaze doesn’t meet mine, and when she turns her head away from me, I allow it, content with the residual tremors that shake her body every few seconds.