Claimed by the Beast (Dark Twisted Love Book 2)

by Logan Fox

  Finn came closer. She backed up, her shoulders hitting a brick wall. He’d backed her into a corner of the building butting against the sidewalk. Leaving her escape route. Trapping her.

  “Please,” she whispered, biting back a sob. “You’ve done enough.”

  “It’ll never be enough.”

  At least, that’s what she thought he said. Which made no sense. But his eyes had darkened to the midnight blue of deep twilight, and the shadows falling on his face made his nose seem sharper, his jaw harder.

  He wasn’t a man anymore, but some kind of humanoid beast.

  She gripped the pendant around her neck, but he surged forward before she could utter even a syllable of a prayer to Santa Muerte.

  Where she expected pain—a punch, a kick, being driven into the wall—there was only a flicker of surprise.

  Finn smoothed her hair away from her cheeks and tipped her face up. “I don’t know if I can leave you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she managed, voice thick with the threat of more tears. “Please, just—”

  “I don’t know if I could ever leave you.”

  Ice pumped through her veins instead of blood. Her fingertips prickled as Finn bent down, his breath warming her lips. “What…what do you—”

  “I can’t stop thinking about how you taste,” Finn murmured. “About how fucking good it feels to be inside you.”

  She trembled at his words, putting a hand up to stop him as he crowded her against the cool bricks. “You don’t even know me.”

  “But I want to,” Finn said. “I want to know what makes you happy. What makes you sad. What makes you pissed off enough to throw something.” He slid his hand between her thighs, cupping her hard with a meaty palm. “I want to know how long I can lick you before you come.”

  Heat surged onto her cheeks. She let out a quiet moan, bucking her hips forward so the base of Finn’s wrist ground into her clit. “But…you’ll never be safe around me.”

  “I don’t crave safety.” Finn’s teeth found her earlobe, toyed with it. “I crave you. I’m addicted to you. I don’t care if—”

  “Jesus, you two both take track in high school or something,” came Lars’s hoarse voice.

  Finn jerked away from her. Cold air washed her body, no longer shielded by Finn’s. She blinked, the world coming into focus as if she’d just been struck sober. Lars jogged to a halt, hands on his hips, and watched them with a frown for a few seconds as he tried to catch his breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he panted. “Am I interrupting something?” Finn shoved him aside and headed back for the SUV.

  Lars gave her a suspicious glare. “What the fuck’s going on?”

  Cora ran shaking hands over her head, putting her hair into a ponytail as she walked around Lars, following Finn. “Nothing. I was being an idiot.”

  “Nothing new there,” came a disgruntled response. “Jesus, I haven’t had this much exercise in years. I could eat half a cow.”

  Lars came up beside her, and then slid an arm around her shoulder. She stiffened, almost coming to a halt before the man urged her forward again.

  “Listen, bunny—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “—You gotta stop making him run after you.”

  She pulled away from Lars with a spluttered, “What?”

  Lars shrugged, walking on ahead without her. “It’s just cruel.”

  “I…I never…” But Lars was almost out of earshot. She hurried up to him. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you or anyone else to look after me. I told him that—”

  Lars lifted a hand, and clicked his fingers at her. Her jaw clamped shut out of sheer astonishment.

  “Good girl,” Lars said, giving her an unreadable look over his shoulder. Then he turned, walking backwards as he gave her a slow, wide smile. “We wouldn’t have minded adopting a stray,” he said. “But only if she knew how to behave. Sorry, bunny.” Lars shrugged. “Looks like Texas is your new home.”

  “I’ll book under King. You get rid of the car,” Lars said as Cora came up to them a few minutes later. She’d fallen back after Lars’s snarky comment, trying her best to blink away embarrassed, confused tears.

  Finn got into the driver’s seat as Lars headed for the block of a building they’d parked in front of. A hotel?

  When Lars happened to see her as he pulled open the hotel’s door, his eyebrows twitched as if surprised that she was still following him.

  “Great,” he said, brow crinkling. “Thought you’d be with Milo.” Then Lars turned his attention to the empty lot behind her. Scanning everything in sight.

  The hair on Cora’s arms stood up.

  She’d thought it might have just been standard protocol or something, them switching cars the whole time. Since neither of them seemed willing to explain, she hadn’t asked either.

  “Is someone following us?” she asked, spinning around to hunt through the darkness.

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  When she faced Lars again, he was holding the door open for her. She swallowed her surprise and murmured, “Thanks,” as she passed him into the lobby.

  Cora hung back as Lars checked them into the hotel. She heard mention of room ‘305’ before Lars swung away from the desk and headed for the elevator.

  She considered waiting for the next one, but then he beckoned her with a slim hand, one eyebrow arching. “Any time today, bunny.”

  Lars stood in the middle of the elevator, so she turned in a tight circle, facing the doors as she waited for them to close. Licked her lips, gripped herself in a fierce hug.

  We’d adopt another stray…

  We?

  She was too tired to handle this shit.

  “Why are we getting a room?”

  “We gotta sleep,” came Lars’s voice. “Fuck knows when you’re being collected.”

  Had he moved closer?

  The doors stayed open forever. Cora drew tighter into herself, trying to push away the feel of Lars with her mind.

  He was an asshole. A misogynistic pig. It was obvious he thought she was the worst thing to happen since the invention of the h-bomb.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. It beat so hard that she could feel her pulse thrumming in her neck. She could hear Lars breathing. Not because he was doing it loudly, but because her senses had gone into overdrive ever since Finn had grabbed her so rudely out there in the street. Since he’d told her he was addicted to her.

  The air moved when Lars stepped forward. As it swirled around her, she caught the scent of him. Something fresh, like turned soil, but with a hint of sweetness. The bruised petals of a flower. Her skin broke out in goosebumps.

  She saw movement from the corner of her eyes. Lars’s hands, one to either side of her. Was he going to grab her? Turn her around?

  Cora swallowed hard, her body starting to tremble. He drew his hands up, an inch of air between them and her arms, but she could still feel their progress. It was as if he was stroking her aura. In front of her, the light for the first floor glowed bright green. She could hear nothing except his breathing and the thump-thump-thump of her heart.

  A finger caressed the curve of her ear. She shuddered violently, pressing her eyes closed.

  “What makes you so fucking special?” Lars murmured.

  She wanted so desperately to turn her head, but she was frozen in place. “What?”

  “I can’t figure you out,” he said, sounding frustrated. The word sent a flurry of warm air over her ear. His mouth was right against her earlobe. The skin there tingled as if he was already touching his lips to her.

  For a moment, it felt like she turned to him. The feeling was so intense that she swayed. Tingles spread in a warm wave through her body. He stood so close that she could feel his heat. His breath caressed the side of her neck, as if he was inhaling her scent. Was he going to kiss her? Touch her? Unbutton her jeans and slide a hand between her legs.

  Why in the hell did she want him to?

  T
he elevator chimed. It was like an electric shock coursed through her.

  Behind her, Lars laughed quietly and cold air slid between them as he stepped back. The elevator doors opened to a long hallway. Straight ahead, the numbers 305 glared at them like a reprimand.

  Lars slid around her, somehow managing not to touch her, and headed for the room. The frantic beat of her heart propelled her forward, but her legs moved slowly, like in a dream. A now familiar ache sat in her belly. It made her feel alive, frantic, irritated. She wanted that feeling gone, and the spectacular ending that came with it.

  Lars opened the hotel door and stepped inside. Cora ground to a stop, staring after him with syrup-thick anticipation clinging to her. He paused, as if sensing she wasn’t following, and glanced at her over his shoulder.

  “Come inside, bunny.” His lips slowly lifted into a smile. “I don’t bite.”

  18

  Last chance

  Zachary studied the wound across his abdomen. After applying antiseptic and ensuring the gash was dry and clean, it had healed well. It still brought pain, of course, but it had scabbed over and was starting to turn pink around the edges.

  His eyes moved to the burn marks over the left side of his body. He traced a finger over a ridge of pale flesh just above the place where his nipple had been, and forced himself not to shudder. It had happened more than a decade ago, but the skin was still tender. It was as if his body retained the memory of that excruciating pain, keeping it just below the surface.

  Some days, clothes would chafe him so that he’d have oatmeal baths drawn for him. It could have been easier, of course. He could have smoked cannabis, or taken pain killers, or even drowned himself in scotch…but he would never again allow himself to become inebriated. For he knew, just a taste of that bliss would bring back his cravings. His addiction. That shadow that clung to his back, tugging his arms and working his mouth like a puppet master.

  It had made him do things he never wanted to think about. And, sometimes, when it felt as if the cravings would come back unbidden, he forced himself to recall those memories. A particular one, in fact. The one that had been the cause of his scars.

  There was a peremptory knock on the door. “Come,” Zachary called out, his attention turning back to the healing gash in his side.

  Large, calloused hands that could only have belonged to Ailin—those course red hairs on the back were a dead giveaway—ushered Angel through the door. His lieutenant had seen his scars many times, but Ailin seemed more appalled by them each time he laid eyes on Zachary. The man hurried out, closing the door quickly behind him.

  Zachary studied Angel in the mirror before turning to the young man. Angel wore a bandage around his left hand. That hand looked a little swollen, too, but reports from the woman who’d attended to Angel’s injuries had told Zachary that he’d be fine with some rest.

  Of course, she wasn’t just talking about the knife wound in the young man’s palm. When Ailin had found out what had happened to Angel, he’d come to Zachary on his knees, begging to pummel some respect into Angel. To make him pay for the boy’s grave show of dishonor.

  At the time, the wound on his stomach had been aching quite fiercely, so he allowed it. But only if Ailin didn’t bruise Angel’s face, or leave him incapable of walking. Ailin hadn’t seemed too happy with the instruction, but had kept his word.

  Angel’s skin was sallow, his eyes shadowed.

  “Have a seat,” Zachary said, sweeping the room with his arm. Angel turned stiffly, and then frowned at him.

  There was no place to sit other than the bed. “I stand.”

  “No. You sit.” Zachary ran the pad of his thumb over the wound Angel had inflicted and, as if it were a sign, the young man thinned his mouth and went to perch on the edge of the bed. “I feel terrible about what happened, Angel,” Zachary said.

  The man’s eyes darkened as if he could hear the lie. Zachary shrugged. “I do. I lost my temper, and that’s inexcusable.”

  Angel’s eyes flashed to his burn wounds, to the gash along his abdomen. If he was pleased with his attempt at gutting Zachary, he didn’t show it.

  “It’s better to use a carrot than a stick.”

  Angel’s eyes crinkled with confusion, and Zachary said, “A fuerza, ni los zapatos entran.”

  The young man immediately straightened, his jaw jutting out as he clenched it. “Give me back Marco. We go over border.”

  “Now that you know where I live?” Zachary made as if to think, and then gave his head a slow shake. “No. You must know that is not an option.”

  Angel’s shoulders slumped. “Then kill me.” His voice was so empty, so lifeless, it was like he was already a corpse.

  “No, my dear Angel,” Zachary said as he stepped forward. “That would be a terrible, terrible waste.”

  He laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Angel wore a gingham shirt, freshly laundered and still stiff with starch. He’d rolled up the sleeves, but one of them was higher than the other, sitting a few inches above his wrist where the other was almost to his elbow.

  Zachary slid his hand down Angel’s arm and began rolling down the sleeve until both sides matched. Angel let him, but the young man’s breathing hitched every time his fingertips brushed skin.

  “No, it would be a waste,” Zachary murmured. “But, perhaps, if I were to sweeten my offer, you’d reconsider. Something to show you that, for my most loyal, the rewards can be great.”

  “No,” Angel said, but his voice quavered something terrible. “You kill me, or you let me go. I—”

  “Enough,” Zachary said quietly. Then, raising his voice, he called out, “Ailin?”

  The door opened. Ailin walked inside, and immediately glanced away from Zachary. Fixing instead on Angel. With his hand back on the young man’s shoulder, Zachary could feel how Angel tensed.

  What was the boy expecting? He almost wanted to laugh, but then remembered when he’d once been approached by a man like Ailin—tall and broad, face as blank as his was now. That had been the first of many violent rapes he’d experienced in his early twenties.

  Perhaps he and Angel had that in common. Abuse at an age when the world should have been as shiny and new as a freshly minted quarter. But, instead, he’d come to expect a penny green with age, smelling like copper and the gutter where he’d found it.

  “Bring her in.”

  Angel flinched. Ailin gave him a nod—still not looking in his direction—and leaned out the door to let out a low whistle. Zachary shuddered. Ailin was as rough as they came, and nothing he’d done had been able to break the man from some of his more vulgar habits.

  A young girl stepped into the room, eyes as skittish as her hands. He’d seen her around a few times, cleaning pots or hanging laundry. She might have been one of his sicarios daughters, or a niece. He didn’t keep track of everyone living on the property—that was a task delegated to Ailin and Rodrigo.

  So when he’d asked Ailin to find him the youngest, prettiest, unmarried woman on his land, Ailin hadn’t even hesitated. He’d left straight away and returned a few minutes with this same diminutive girl trailing in his wake.

  Her wide, bright eyes were wet with fright above a trembling mouth.

  Zachary smiled, and he could see her throat move how hard she swallowed.

  Perfect.

  “Leave us,” Zachary said, tipping his chin in Ailin’s direction, but leaving his eyes on the girl. The man left with a duck of his head, and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Silence filtered down in the room.

  The only light came from the stand lamp in one corner. It cast a warm, orange glow over the sparsely furnished room. On his ranch, he didn’t allow for gratuitous shows of wealth. Everything was plain and functional. The bed had a thick, rustic frame of cheap, unpolished wood, if neatly made. The colorful Zapotec rug under it could have graced the floor of any middle-class Mexican home.

  The only luxury he allowed himself were his clothes. Plain looking a
s they were, they’d been hand-tailored from Egyptian cotton. They wore like silk, breathed like a sieve.

  Yet even that fine cloth would chafe his wounds like sand paper.

  “Undress her,” Zachary said.

  Angel seemed incapable of taking his eyes off the girl. Confusion, curiosity, anguish—they swirled in those eyes like water making its way down a drain.

  “No. Por favor, Senor,” Angel murmured, holding up trembling hands.

  Zachary liked the way that phrase rhymed. He’d heard it often. People pleading for him to stop the pain. Others begging him for more pleasure.

  “Either I do it, or you do it,” Zachary said. He could hear the coldness in his own voice, and so had Angel.

  The young man reached up almost apologetically, and began unbuttoning the girl’s blouse.

  She wore her finest—a pale satin blouse with frills down the front. A knee-length, cotton skirt; black. Her hair had been done up in an elaborate knot that glistened as if she’d had her hair washed and treated. But she wore no make up, no jewelery. Too poor to afford it? Perhaps word had spread just how Zachary enjoyed his women…and men.

  Had her mother or caretaker dressed her like this? If word had spread about his preferences, so would his compensation for whoever he chose to share his bed.

  A fuck was one thing that should never, ever be taken without compensation.

  Angel finished with her buttons. His hands had stopped shaking, but his mouth was still set in a thin, pale line. His eyes flashed to Zachary’s as if waiting for his next instruction. Or begging Zachary to stop.

  He said nothing, waiting for Angel to continue on his own. When he didn’t do anything, Zachary touched the wound along his stomach again. It was starting to itch—a sign it was healing—but Angel must have taken it as a threat.

  The young man reached up and slid the girl’s blouse from her shoulders. She shivered at his touch, and then glanced over her shoulder at Zachary. He stood by the full-length mirror, a few feet away from them, but almost hidden in the shadows.