by Renard, Loki
He’s still capable of overpowering me.
He’s still able to turn my body against me.
He’s still in control.
“When will you go?”
“What?” He looks at me, confused. The question seems to come from nowhere, but it comes from my deepest fear.
“When are you going to go and leave me? When are you going to find someone else?”
“Someone else? What are you talking about?”
“There’s always someone else for you, Stavros. I know. You sell girls. You get a girl, you turn her into something new, you save her from herself, and then you sell her and you find someone else.”
He lays down with me, cuddling me close, reassuring me with his touch even before telling me what I need to hear.
“There’s nobody else. I’m going to be here for you, Siri,” he murmurs in my ear. “You’re my girl. Whether you want me to be or not. Whether I’m near, or far. And you can make up your own mind what you want me to be for you, but I promise, as long as I’m breathing, you’re going to have me.”
“Right…”
Why can’t I believe him? Will I ever be able to trust anyone? Am I so broken that even now, after everything, I still think I’m inherently alone?
“Siri…” he fists his hand in my hair and pulls me toward him. It would be a rough way of handling me if I didn’t love it. He holds me there, that grip still strong in my hair, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re always going to be mine. Whether you’re right here with me, or across the other side of the world. I am never, ever letting you go.”
“But you said, if I don’t want you…”
“I’m not going to be like your father was, or that sick fuck who got what was coming to him. I want you to feel like you have a choice with me.”
“I don’t want a choice with you.” I whisper. “I already chose you.”
His expression softens. “You haven’t had a chance to choose, Siri. But you know what? You choose me today, and that’s enough.” His mouth descends on mine in a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss I can lose myself in because this is the closest thing to love I have ever felt in my life. He’s dark, he’s twisted, his care comes with a natural dominance he will never shed, and I don’t want him to. As for me, I don’t know what my love means. I’ve never been loved before. And that means I’ve never really given love before either. I am more lost and confused now than I was in his basement. I was comfortable with the lies between us. I knew how to be a pretend person, but now Stavros is forcing me to be real, and that reality is more powerful and more terrifying than anything.
“I need you inside me.”
Again.
I have to have him again. Not in my ass. In my pussy. The place where a man and a woman connect completely.
Stavros leaves me just long enough to get up and clean himself off from the anal ravaging he just unleashed on me. Then he is back, cock hard, eyes intense with desire and he is over me, claiming me. When he finally sinks himself inside my sex I let out a cry of pure relief.
This is what I needed, to be joined with this ruthless man, whose past cannot ever be forgiven but might maybe be transformed by what we both do in the future. He kisses me over and over, lets me feel the force of his love, his hips rolling sinuously to make his cock find every part of my pussy. I am full of him. I am taken. I am loved. I am home. I might never understand what it is that binds us, but when we are together, we ignite.
Our lovemaking becomes rougher, more aggressive, and it’s not just Stavros who pushes the limits of physicality. He can pin me down and fuck me, but I can reach out for him and draw my nails down his shoulders and chest. I can mark him. I can put my ownership on him just as he does in me, his cock surging with powerful strokes inside the wet channel of my fucking core, taking me with that practiced prowess which comes from decades of sin.
He is not a good man. I am not a nice girl. I am damaged, and I am cold. I am terrified of closeness and connection, but I relish antagonism and the rough play of our intense sexual connection. Stavros and I fit in that way, two broken edges which become whole when pressed together.
“You’re fucking mine,” he growls.
“And you’re mine,” I snarl right back. “I’ll own you every bit as much as you own me.”
“More,” he says grazing his teeth over the sensitive side of my neck. “You’ve changed everything, Siri. You’ve broken me.”
“Good,” I moan, arching my hips to take him deeper. “I want to see the scars I leave on you.”
“Sick little fucker,” he chuckles lovingly as I find his earlobe and bite down just hard enough to make him smack my ass.
I am every bit as ruthless as he is, maybe more, because I know more what it means to be desperate, the kind of desperate which makes anything possible. I know what it is to be broken. I know how it feels to lose hope, to become victim to paralysis, and to be saved. Stavros killed for me, and I have no doubt he would kill again if it meant protecting me. I no longer have to fear the world at large. He is my world.
He starts thrusting inside me again. I cling to his shoulders. I fall into his love. I trust him to catch me, and I know even if I fall, the abyss is something I can survive. I am no longer a prisoner in my own life.
I am Siri, the girl who could not be sold.
He is my hero.
This is my happily ever after.
And that means this must be…
The End
Thank You!
Thank you for reading this book. I truly hope you’ve enjoyed Siri and Stavros’ journey. As dark as it was at times, as unredeemable as he was, as shut down as she was, I loved seeing them find their version of the light. People are never perfect, but love can be.
- Loki
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About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author of more than sixty titles, Loki Renard lives in the remote South Island of New Zealand. She writes sizzling hot, action packed stories of dominance, submission and discipline.
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Ready for something different?
Read the fully completed Vicious Series!
Kitty
I had one rule: Don't. Get. Caught.
I've just broken it.
And I've been more than just caught. I've been taken.
Maybe that's not big news. A hundred girls get taken every damn day.
But not by this guy.
Vicious is an English master criminal with a dominance complex.
He doesn't take 'no' well.
He doesn't take it at all.
He's going to make me say yes.
He's going to make me damn well scream it.
Vicious
Kitty's crossed the wrong people, and now her life is in danger.
I can save her, but I'm no hero.
She'll pay her dues.
Obey my rules.
If she's a good Kitty, she'll be well compensated.
If she's a bad Kitty, my bed awaits.
This city rewards the strong, punishes the weak, and destroys the innocent.
So do I.
And many, many, many (really, many) more! Check out my Amazon author page for my complete backlist!
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Check out my FB reader group, Loki's Vixens (fun, prizes, and the occasional goat) here!
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A Vicious Teaser
Kitty
“He’s hot.” My best friend in the world is drooling over a mugshot, shoving her phone under my nose so I can appreciate the chiseled jaw, cheekbones to die for, piercing green eyes, and of course, the height indicator s
howing he’s all of six foot three. The man she’s showing me is famous in our circles. No, famous is the wrong word. Infamous. Legendary. But not my cup of tea.
“He’s a criminal. And a murderer,” I point out.
“Lots of men are,” Blaze shrugs. “At least he looks sexy doing it.”
I roll my eyes. “You have got to develop better taste in men, or we’re going to find bits of you in a dumpster one of these days.”
“Not a dumpster, Kitty,” she says. “The rich ones never use dumpsters.”
“What do they do?”
“Roll you up in a Persian rug,” she smirks. “Pure wool, so it’s okay.”
“It’s okay to be dead in a rug as long as it’s a nice rug?”
“Sure,” she shrugs. “Gotta go sometime, right?”
Nobody looking at us would guess this is our topic of conversation. We’re two average looking girls in our early twenties. Blaze has one side of her short, dark hair shaved in an undercut. She looks rebellious and stylish. She’s both. In contrast, my hair is blonde and long. I worked it with a flat iron for half an hour this morning, got rid of all the wave and curl. Now it’s shiny and glossy and probably being ruined by my efforts to make myself look as basic as possible. I wear contacts so nobody remembers the girl with the glasses. My makeup is generic. Winged eyeliner is in right now, so I have little wings. My lips are glossy. I’m wearing leggings as pants, even though they’re definitely not pants, and a long shirt over the top. My feet are clad in fuzzy boots. I look like every sorority girl ever, even though I’ve never been to college. My attire is wishful thinking on my part, I guess. Blaze is dressed similarly, though she’s gone for a short skirt with tights instead of leggings.
We’re sitting outside a cafe with a couple of iced latte monstrosities, having conversations that most young women don’t have. Like this one. How we want to die, and who we want to kill us. It’s almost inevitable that someone will take us out one day unless we get out of this line of work.
Blaze is my best friend in the world. I don’t know her real name and she doesn’t know mine. It doesn’t pay to know names in our line of work. When we get caught, we have a bunch of identities to choose from. Right now, I have a driver’s license which says my name is Caroline Carter. Blaze is Dorothy Rose. Tomorrow we’ll both be somebody else. Only one thing stays the same: the work. We’re delivery specialists. Black Market Couriers.
“Seriously, I worry about you.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she laughs. “Worry about yourself.”
“What do I have to worry about?”
“You have the worst case of DVS I’ve ever seen.”
“And what’s that supposed to be?”
“Dried Vagi…” she trails off and makes a gesture toward her nethers, “syndrome, because you never get laid. You’re like a virgin…”
“Okay, I have a delivery to make,” I say, ending that line of conversation abruptly. I love Blaze, but I cannot deal with another ‘just sleep with someone already’ lecture. “I’ll see you later.”
“See ya.” She waves me off and resumes scrolling through her creep shots of bad guys. That girl uses the FBI most wanted list like Tinder.
I said I had a delivery, but it’s a lie. Today is actually my day off. I’ve had a lot of them lately. I’m losing my taste for this business. I don’t have Blaze’s temperament or capacity for chaos. At heart, I like to play it safe. That’s made me exceptional when it comes to being discreet and successful, but it also means it’s taking its toll on me.
I’ve made enough money this month to pay my rent for years. I’m seriously thinking about retiring and going to college. Getting a degree. Going legit. Real legit, like, into law. This latest conversation with Blaze has only increased that urge. Unlike her, I don’t want to end up dead before my thirtieth birthday.
I’m walking without really thinking. I usually change my routes every other day. Never go the same way twice. You never know who is watching. I have a habit of not keeping habits. Sometimes I make mistakes. I just made one.
I didn’t pay nearly enough attention to the contents of the alley to my left. I don’t notice the van sitting with the door open. I do notice the men, but by the time their hands are on me, it’s too late.
It happens so quickly, I almost don’t know it has happened until it is all over. I am hauled into the back of the blacked out van. My hands are pulled behind my back and cuffed with a plastic zip tie. My mouth is gagged with a cloth. Professionals are doing this to me. I can tell instantly by the way they handle me. Smooth, quiet, calm. There’s no shouting. It happens almost silently. I don’t have a chance to scream or to resist.
In broad daylight, in the middle of the city, I am taken off the street. This shouldn’t be happening. This is a good area of town. I’m three feet away from one of the best eateries in the city. There are people everywhere, but when I look out the tinted window to try to see the commotion that must have ensued when I was grabbed, there’s none. Nobody is doing a thing. Either nobody saw what happened, or nobody cared.
“People in New York just don’t give a damn, do they?” A male voice drawls the question. He has been sitting quite calmly in the back of the van the whole time while his henchmen wrestle me into submission.
The first thing I notice about him is the fact that he has an English accent. Some women might find that sexy. It makes my blood run cold. This is almost too much of a coincidence. I’m reluctant to look at him, but I force myself. I lift my eyes to a man wearing a neat, crisp, black suit. He has handsome features. Features I’ve seen very, very recently.
“You want to say something, don’t you,” he says sympathetically leaning down to pull the cloth from my mouth. “Just don’t scream. Nobody will take any notice, but I’d rather not hear it just the same.”
“It’s you,” I splutter.
“It is,” he agrees. “I am certainly me.”
“W… why are you doing this? I don’t have any business with you…”
“Now that is where you’re wrong.” His smirk widens as he leans down and gives me the full benefit of his green gaze. “We have business, Kitty. A whole lot of business.”
“I…”
“Shh. We’ll talk later,” he says, his tone gentling me as if I am some errant child. He puts the cloth to the side, undoes his tie and uses that to silence me, wrapping the length of it around the back of my head and slipping it into my mouth. I could fight. I could squirm. I could bite for the brief moment his fingers are between my teeth, but I don’t. Fear is my constant companion in this line of work. It keeps me alive. Right now, it is telling me not to resist. He snugs a knot behind my head and the moment is gone. I bite down on his tie, trying not to drool. It feels like silk and tastes like man.
A blindfold follows the gag.
A little whimper escapes me as I lie on the floor at his feet. It’s barely audible above the rumbling of the tires over New York streets, the occasional pot hole jolting me, the van swaying and sending me sliding across the floor when we go around corners. Large hands steady me. Are they his? Or are the people who work for him keeping me from slamming my head into the sides of the van? Why does it matter? My mind is searching for some context. Why is this happening to me? I can’t think of anything specific, but almost anything is possible.
Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.
Right now, my breath is all I have control over. I try to slow it, stop it from being panicky and fast. I try to make it deep, from the belly. I need to be calm. Calm is the only way to survive.
I’m also trying to time how long the trip takes. It’s hard to keep a sense of it, but I still have my phone on me. It’s tucked into a little band inside the waist of my leggings. That could make all the difference later on. Even if I don’t know where I am in the end, I may be able to tell people how far I’ve been taken.
About twenty minutes after being taken, we stop. I’m dragged out of the van and carried somewhere. They don’t say a
word, but I can hear gravel crunching beneath their feet, then going silent as they step onto firmer surface.
I’m put into a chair. The zip ties come off, but new bindings are wrapped around my wrists and ankles.
The gag is unwound from my mouth. Then the blindfold is tugged free. I find myself looking into Vicious’ face. He’s close for a moment, and I see every hard line, every dimple, the scimitar curve of his smile. The breath goes out of me. He is stunning.
He steps back and the rest of the room rushes in. High ceilings. Plain white walls. Nothing about it gives me any clues as to where I am. The windows are covered with Japanese style paper which lets in a little light, but cuts out the world behind.
This is bad. Very bad.
I am trying to not be so frightened that my brain shuts down, but I can’t help it. I’m terrified. This is not the man to be taken by. His reputation is legend, and his methods are as brutal as they are original.
I know him by one name: Vicious.
He’s in his late thirties. He has those green eyes which are infamous among the female members of our community, that dark hair which looks like it curls when it's wet, a bit like mine. Right now it’s slicked back. He likes control, and every inch of his body reflects that.
Handsome is a word for models and television stars. He’s more than handsome. He’s enigmatic. Magnetic. Every inch of his body is worthy of attention, and I can’t stop staring.
Beneath that suit of his, I can only imagine the state of his body. Blaze says he’s tattooed and scarred. If she were here right now, she’d be drooling for him, because he’s every bit as impressive in person as he is in pictures.
