by Lana Sky
I shiver, turning away to face the wall as I continue to wash myself. “You seem sure of that.”
“Because I am,” he replies. “Your boyfriend videotaped nearly every time he fucked in that penthouse of his—you, along with the many other women he was toying with. If it makes you feel any better, you were by far the sexiest. The bastard came faster with you than any other.”
I stiffen, horrified by how callously he can reveal such intimate acts. Is he telling the truth? Only God knows. Tristan, the bastard, wasn’t known for his faithful nature. I’d suspected his affair with Alexi early on, but am I surprised if she wasn’t the only one?
But therein lies another secret revealed by Domino’s admission—you were by far the sexiest. Is he including Alexi in that assessment?
God, I shouldn’t care…
“The second I heard you moan for real, I realized how damn good of an actress you are,” he continues, his voice loud and booming. Gone is the gruff undertone he took on with Jaguar in earshot. He’s shameless now, uncaring of who might overhear.
Perhaps, because he tired out Alexi well enough to know she’s dead to the world.
“I am a good actress,” I agree, dropping the washcloth. “So good I made you think you actually got me off, Domino—”
“Your fake moans are pretty,” he continues as if I never spoke. “The real ones? Goddamn, Ada-Maria. You could drive a man insane with those cries. Whether you’re in pain or in pleasure, it’s the same damn tune.”
My next breath sticks in my chest as my heart hammers like mad. Is he joking? I can’t tell, and this time I’m not inclined to look for myself.
“Enjoy your shower.” I start for the door, scrambling to slide it open.
“Tristan,” he practically snarls the name, “never went down on you—at least not in any of the recordings. He never spread those legs and tasted that pussy for himself. I used to imagine how you’d taste.”
The intensity of his voice takes my breath away. I hate that he almost sounds genuine, like he truly did just that—dwell on the taste of me.
“How did Alexi taste?” I demand, turning to face him.
He raises an eyebrow. “How do you think she tasted? Like fucking roses. Why don’t you ask her?”
I flinch, gritting my teeth, desperate to disguise just how deeply that taunt cuts. So deep it hurts, outshining my general aches and pains. I hate the thought of him lying with her. Kissing her.
Tasting her with the same tongue I used to fantasize about tasting me.
Spotting my rag on the floor, I cross over to it, leaving the shower door partially ajar. Grabbing it, I turn to face him. “You want to know what I taste like, Domino?” My voice is a low, husky purr.
But I’m struck dumb by his reaction. He sits forward, his head cocked, eyes obscured by strands of black hair plastered to his forehead by the shower spray. They slice his face into slivers, each one more unreadable than the last.
His eyes track every step I take toward him, blazing and burning.
“Here—” I throw the rag at him so hard it rebounds off his chest and lands at his feet. “That’s the only taste of me you’ll ever get. Savor it.”
My words ring hollow, of course. He’s too strong to overpower on my own—and there’s nothing stopping him from lurching to his feet and pinning me down, taking from me whatever he damn well pleases.
To my shock, he grabs the rag and brings it to his mouth. Slowly, he extends his tongue, dragging it across a section of the rag in a way that makes my cheeks flame, my body heating. Licking his lips, he sits back again.
“Like milk and honey,” he says raggedly.
And I sway. He’s tasting the flavor of the soap I used. Not me. Getting ahold of myself, I once again stagger for the exit.
“That shitty camera of his never showed your back in detail,” he says with a certainty that makes me stop short, my horror returning in full. “I couldn’t see your scars from the footage. Tell me who hurt you.”
“Why? So you can get pointers?” I toss back, eyeing the sliver of the bathroom lurking beyond this fragile pane of glass. Freedom. All I have to do is take the necessary few steps to reach it.
One…
“No,” he says so coldly I’m frozen again. “So, I can kill them.”
It’s a strange boast to come from a man who hates me so. He whips me. Collars me. Lies to me.
Then confesses that he mused about what I taste like and vows to kill the man he thinks hurt me.
Though, it’s an empty threat.
We both know who whipped me and what happened to him.
“Luckily for you, he’s already dead, Domino,” I rasp, taking another step. I’m close enough to grip the edge of the sliding glass door—and I do, for dear life, rattling it on the metal rail keeping it in place.
The sound of him rising to his feet is loud enough to overpower that delicate clinging noise. There’s the thud of the rag hitting the ground a second time, followed by the patter of water dripping from his body, and his slow, heavy footsteps as he advances toward me.
All I can do is watch as he grips the door above where my hand is, easily wrenching it shut. I barely manage to pull my fingers out of the way.
“I want you to tell me why he did it,” he demands, his breath fanning the space between my shoulder blades, though I don’t dare turn around to see him there behind me. “And you will, Ada-Maria. You’ll tell me every fucking detail. Why? I’ll do what I know you’ve been dreaming about since the day I first met you in your father’s office.”
“Leave?” I croak hopefully.
He laughs. At the same time, he takes his hand from the door and uses it to grip my chin, whirling me around to face him. The glass rattles again as he pins me against the cool surface.
I have no choice but to see his face—to see the eyes ruthlessly raking over my body as if he truly does own it. Every inch, long before he had me brought here.
“I’ll taste you,” he declares, his voice rippling with lust. “And I’ll have you wishing that I put a bullet in that bastard’s brain sooner.”
Tristan? Or my father?
He doesn’t clarify, and I’m too unnerved to ask. I don’t want to know the answer.
“I’d rather die,” I hiss, “than feel any part of you on me anywhere!”
“You should be dead.” He traces my jawline with the pad of his thumb, roughly as if he’s trying to memorize every inch by feel alone. When he nears my ear, he leans in, bringing his mouth against the lobe. “If it weren’t for me, you would be. That bullet was meant for you.”
Chapter Five
That bullet was meant for you…
I gasp, overwhelmed by the implications of that statement. Then I recoil, shoving at his chest with both hands.
“You’re sick! Get the fuck away from me—”
“Think, Ada-Maria,” he demands, not budging an inch. “Ask yourself who had everything to gain if his daughter, keeper of his secrets, happened to die a horrific death the night before his impending arraignment.”
His tone is different. Too persistent. Too cold. Too…believable.
“No!” I wrench away and yank the door open enough to squeeze from the stall. Tripping over the threshold, I stumble, losing my balance so that I wind up on my knees, gripping the edge of a counter for balance. “You’re lying. Playing with my head. You’re lying!”
“I’m not.” God, he sounds so calm. So gentle?
No. No. No. I slap my hands over my ears and hum.
But nothing short of screaming could drown him out. “You were always a liability to him, but I wasn’t sure until I saw those scars. A man who would beat his own daughter like that? He didn’t give a damn whether you lived or died. He was only ever out for himself.”
“That sounds like you.” I whirl on him, hauling myself to my feet, utilizing the counter for balance.
He’s still technically inside the shower stall, watching me from beyond the gap in the glass partition.
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“You were the one who only ever gave a damn about himself. After what you claimed to have done to my father, don’t you dare bring him into this.”
“So he did whip you.”
I groan in exasperation, feeling as though my brain is being manipulated and twisted, all for his amusement. “No. You did—”
“I didn’t hurt you,” he claims, still in that aggravatingly level tone.
“Oh really?” I hiss out a vicious excuse for a laugh. “You could have fooled me!”
“I merely punished you,” he adds, taking a step to bridge the gap between the shower and the main bathroom. Behind him, the water continues to fall, creating steam that billows around him like smoke. He looks like a literal demon waltzing out of hell, and my pulse surges to a painful, pulsating rhythm.
“If I wanted to hurt you, Ada… Trust me, there are a million ways I could do so.” He takes another step, exiting the shower completely, dripping water onto the floor. “And believe me when I say I’ve considered them all.”
“You want to know something funny?” I rasp.
Though it isn’t funny in the slightest. It’s pathetic, a painful reality stabbing at the back of my mind, threatening to reduce me to tears if I think on it long enough.
“I’m used to men not living up to their hype. Tristan was a dick, but he never disappointed me. I never expected better from him. Not good sex, not real commitment, not even loyalty. I’m sure you know better than anyone that I only gave him the time of day because the relationship benefited my father. In fact, most of the men I’ve dated and fucked were just that—peons my father wanted to control, so he used me.”
It sounds horrifying when said out loud; I can admit that. Internally, I’ve always processed it differently than I figure anyone outside of the family would. My father used me—but he trusted me, too. He relied on me. He needed me.
We had a bond forged by blood and family, strong enough to outlast everything.
Always.
But if one man ever came close to earning a glimmer of that same amount of loyalty from me, it certainly wasn’t Tristan Lucas or any of my other conquests.
“Every man I ever met or interacted with, I never had any high hopes for,” I admit hoarsely, staring down at the floor. “Why? I was always mentally comparing them to someone else. Someone who always won out. Always. And who was that?” My voice thickens as the threat of tears burns my eyes. I start to blink, hoping to keep them at bay.
It’s too late. They fall, but in this instance, I jut my chin to brandish them like war paint. I’m not ashamed of them. They, better than anything I could say, prove how sincerely I mean the words leaving my throat. He can’t deny them.
“It was you. Always, it was you. No one could ever measure up to the fictional version of Domino Valenciaga I built up in my head.”
Not even the real man, as it turns out.
“Do you realize how pathetic that makes you? Tristan never had a chance in hell of measuring up, but you? You can’t even match the man I thought you were.”
That gets a rise out of him. His eyes darken, his head dipping low, and my heart stutters fearfully. With three heavy strides, he advances on me before I can even regain my balance fully.
His hand captures my chin, weighing it against his palm as though he’s considering how easy it would be to crush it. I feel his fingers twitch excitedly—God, he wants to.
“I would watch you,” he tells me. “Over and over, I’d watch those fucking videos of you with him.”
Tristan?
“And not only that dumb son of a bitch.” He brings his other hand up to stroke the damp hair from my face, dragging me closer until I’m straining on tiptoe. “Most of the men you’ve ever fucked within the past five years, I caught a glimpse, Ada. Of you, riding their dicks in the back of a fancy sports car or in that private cabana your father owns at the country club. I’ve heard you moan; I’ve seen that perky little ass bounce. I came up with the impression that you were a dumb slut, so easy that a fancy gift and a glass of wine could get you wet.”
He trails off, giving me plenty of time to picture the twisted ways he’s tried to emulate that. With his “gift” of a whip, and the imported vintage, he claimed to know I love.
“I see now that I was wrong, Ada. You failed to live up to even that rather generous impression of you. I thought you were too stupid to know better. That you enjoyed the lifeless sex and cheap affection. Why else subject yourself to man after man, after man who only saw you as an object? But now I see the truth about you.”
He cradles my jaw in both hands, lowering his mouth enough to baste my lips in the warmth of his breath.
“You were never stupid, Ada-Maria. You were calculating, doing whatever your papa told you to, without even taking your own pleasure into account. I worked for the man to get close to him. To learn how best to overpower the sick bastard. But you? What did you get out of being his daughter other than shitty sex and learning how to best fake an orgasm? Oh, and don’t let me forget—being beaten and whipped—”
Thwack! The unmistakable smack of flesh on flesh leaves me stunned. All I can do is brace myself for the pain I should feel—and I do, throbbing like hell, but not on my face or any other part of my body within his reach.
My hand hurts. I eye the reddening, trembling fingers and realize that I’m the one who struck him.
“I’ll let you have that one hit,” he says, running his hand across his mouth. He eyes his fingers, and even from here, I can see the streak of red painting them. He’s bleeding from his bottom lip. “You can savor this, Ada,” he adds. “I gave you one more thing that he couldn’t.”
And what might that be?
I’m not brave enough to ask.
“Stay away from me.” I lunge toward the balcony and into the bedroom, entering it on my own, free from any assault on his part. With my eyes on the door to the hall, I keep moving.
“You never asked me why.”
I glance back to find Domino still standing in the doorway, his hands braced against the wall on either side as if he’s physically stopping himself from lunging for me.
“Why I watched you,” he clarifies. “Why I know the most intimate details of your little rendezvouses. You could assume it was because I sought to satisfy my own twisted obsession—” He laughs, proving the folly of that suspicion. Ice cold, he cuts his eyes up to mine, drilling in the fact that everything he’s about to say is the brutal, honest truth. “Or I was only doing my job. What my boss commanded of me. You see, he never trusted you. No matter how many times you fucked for him. Lied for him. It was never enough. He never saw you as anything more than a tool. You meant nothing to him.”
I don’t let myself process the hatefulness in those words. I just run, wrenching open the door and entering the hallway without another word from him. He doesn’t follow me, either. I’m allowed to tear through the house, unbothered by anyone.
For the first time, I take notice of my surroundings beyond the confines of Domino’s room. It’s later in the evening, with the sunset visible beyond the windows, painting everything in a bloody red glow. If I were to run out of the front door and take my chances in the desert, at least I could do so without running the risk of getting heatstroke. Already, the air feels cooler, aided by the fact that I’m still naked, dripping wet.
Rather than forge ahead with another escape attempt, I find myself padding down the hallway before the white room I’ve subconsciously come to think of as my own—but when I throw open the door, I realize just how foolish I’ve been.
Nothing in this house is mine. He’s already taken great pains to prove that.
By giving this room to someone else, he’s merely reinforcing my status as his captive.
“Domino?” The voice identifies the blond woman lying sprawled across the white bed, her ass up, legs kicking at the air. She’s wearing a black dress that I can tell was taken from the closet, her cleavage spilling out onto the sheets beneath her. Before
her is a plate of ripe strawberries that she’s picking at with her fingers.
“Took you long enough.” She rolls over, her coy smile falling flat the second she sees me.
And I know instantly that I interrupted something. She was waiting for him.
“G-Get the fuck out,” I rasp. It’s all I can say. The thought of retreading my steps is too painful to bear. I can’t leave this room. So I stumble across it, aiming for the only sanctuary I can spy at the moment—the closet.
“You look like you’ve been having fun,” Alexi taunts, her tone just as bitchy as I remember. I can tell without having to look that she hasn’t budged. She won’t.
Not unless I give her a good enough reason to get her perky ass in motion.
“He’s all warmed up for you,” I tell her as I feel alongside the mirror for the latch to activate the door beneath. I can’t even look at my reflection. I just close my eyes to everything, this room, this reality.
Even without the aid of drugs, I’m determined to float away. Refuse to exist in this space anymore.
“What the hell is your problem?” I hear Alexi snipe, her presence clashing with my attempts to fade. Zone out. Become numb.
The two of us were never as close to each other as we both were to Pia. She was the glue holding our impromptu group together, but looking back, I can’t deny that I had fun moments with Alexi, too. She was the silly girl, always cracking jokes—the balancing force between Pia’s aloof confidence and my shyness.
In her own way, she was a decent enough friend. She taught me how to wear lipstick, and tried to teach me how to flirt.
And, after Pia disappeared, she taught me what true loneliness could feel like.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Her voice startles me back to the present, as icy as ever.
“I told you I got his cock hard enough,” I snap. “So why don’t you do what you do best and go fuck my leftovers.”
I don’t wait to see if she heeds the offer this time. I peel my eyes open long enough to lunge inside the closet and slam the door behind me. Then I make my way into the furthest corner I can and curl into a ball small enough to wedge my body in between two shelves.
