by Lana Sky
The ways I let him violate me.
Fifteen million dollars wasted on one senseless night.
He must be insane.
Dreading what I’ll find, I hunt the floor for my dress but find nothing, not even my panties. Facing him naked isn’t even a remote option, so I cut my losses and snatch a white shirt from his color-coded closet. On me, it’s long enough to reach my knees, providing enough cover to give me the strength to leave the room. Before I do, I notice another alarming detail: My purse is missing, along with the bank documents stowed inside it.
Insane, yes, but even Blake Lorenz wouldn’t be so bold as to brazenly search through my belongings. Right? I feed myself that lie, even as the truth becomes clearer with every step I creep from the bedroom on my way to the upstairs hall. I can sense him radiating frustration and rage from the lower level.
He’s standing before his desk, facing the doorway. Shadows beneath his eyes reveal he hasn’t slept. In days. Unsurprisingly, my bank documents are spread before him. I suspect he’s spent hours poring over every one, reconciling the pure folly of my deception.
“Well played,” he says coldly. “The pauper’s become a princess again.” He snatches up one of the pages and throws it so hard that it slides across the desk. “A very wealthy princess. Tell me, did you intend to milk me for so much or did you get caught up in the moment?”
I flinch at the vitriol flung my way. He’s furious, but for once, I don’t think it’s all directed at me. He glares down at his hands, flexing them against the wood. A fifteen-million-dollar fuck, he mused, according to my hazy memories. Last night, he deemed that amount of money well spent.
“You weren’t supposed to win me at all,” I say, alarmed to find my voice a rasp. My throat feels rubbed raw. No wonder—he bit it. Stroked it. Coaxed a million dollars’ worth of screams from it. “I… You weren’t supposed to win.”
He frowns at the idea, as if I’d suggested he stop breathing on a whim. “You thought I’d sit there and let some other bastard buy you? Own you? Jesus Christ.” He throws his head back for a long, disturbing laugh that never goes beyond the surface. When he meets my gaze again, all I find in his eyes is pain, raw and exposed. “There’s no fucking amount I wouldn’t pay. I’d scrape together every goddamn cent. You remember that the next time you get the urge to play your little game. Though I suggest you consider the welfare of others first.”
I suck in a breath at the thinly veiled threat. I’ve outed Andrew as my accomplice, and the monster before me didn’t miss a damn thing. Suddenly, I know his motive for confronting me like this in the first place: to catch me off guard and learn just who nearly outbid him.
His hands curl into fists over the desk’s surface. “Who was he?”
“No one,” I croak. He must hear the truth in my voice, because his jaw relaxes by a fraction. “I asked him to help me. That’s all—”
“You know I had it all fucking planned,” he admits, shaking his head. “How I’d make you stay. Make you earn every fucking cent. I’d lock you away. I’d make you crave my cock as badly as I crave you. I’d make…I’d make you need me.”
He sounds deranged. No, even worse. He sounds one hundred percent truthful.
“How?” I find myself asking. “By manipulating me again? By lying?”
He shrugs, his eyes narrowing. “By fucking. It’s the only goddamn way you seem to hear me. Listen to me. Understand me. When I’m so deep inside you, there’s nothing fucking else.”
I turn away, my cheeks flaming. The view from the window offers no reprieve. The water looms below, as gray as the storm clouds rolling in over the horizon. It’s as if the entire world is trying to warn me in visual clues: Run. He’s dangerous. He’s fucking mad, Snow.
“And, now, I don’t need you anymore,” I say, voicing what he seems unwilling to.
“You don’t,” he admits. “You’re a free woman. Congratulations—”
“So, now, maybe you’ll stop treating me like a goddamn object and listen to me for once!” My fingers knot into fists. I could hit him if I were close enough, and it takes everything I have to stay back. “All I wanted—all I asked—was that you talk to me on equal terms. Trust me. Open up to me! All you’ve done is lie, and cheat, and steal—”
“You want to talk?” He cuts his gaze toward me, his features contorted by shadow. “Fine. Let’s talk. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t say a fucking word to you that doesn’t make me want to bash my fucking skull in. None of it means a goddamn thing. But then all of it means everything. I can’t feel a fucking shred of anything real unless I’m around you.”
He’s closer, invading my space without care. His fingers capture one of my curls, grinding it into a wild tangle. I stiffen at the deliberate act, but I can’t move. My body won’t obey any of the frantic commands my brain issues.
“I want to tell you every-fucking-thing. God, I do…” He swallows hard, his expression constricted, as if something is squeezing him from within, causing unimaginable pain. “But at the same time, I’d rather hurt you. Lie to you. Cheat. Steal from you. I’d rather fucking break you than give you an ounce of myself. Because…because if you turn against me again, there won’t be anything left. I won’t have a damn thing.”
Tears spill from my eyes, impossible to stop. It’s the first time he’s ever directly addressed his past as Brandt. Without mocking. Without taunting. It’s the pain I’ve feared facing for ten damn years, and my heart is no match for it now.
“I’m sorry—”
“I know.” His other hand encircles my throat, tightening just enough to render me silent. “And I want to believe that. I do. But, fuck, I can’t.” He moves, using his bulk to steer me back. Back.
It’s a shock when my shoulder blades strike cold, unyielding glass. And the look in his eyes makes me suck in a startled breath—a pained stage between determination and recklessness. The same way he was when he set my home on fire from the inside. The same look he was wearing when he bid for me. When he swore while buried inside me that I was his alone.
“There are times when I look at you and all I see is that girl again,” he admits, hissing the words into my hair, his breath igniting the sweat gathering along my scalp. “So sweet. So innocent. And all I fucking want to do is…” His fingers form a fist with a chunk of my curls trapped between them. “Crush her.”
“Talk to her,” I croak, aware of his touch still pressed against my throat. “Just talk to me. Tell me what you feel. Just talk to me, please.”
“Feel?” His mouth flattens into a hard line. It’s as if he’s never heard the word before—or at least not in so long; he’s forgotten its meaning. “All I feel is need. I need you in a way I can’t fucking stand. Like I’ve never needed anything. It drives me fucking insane.”
“So talk to me,” I murmur, though I don’t know how I found the sense to speak. I should run. Every instinct in my body is urging me to—but I can’t seem to move an inch. “Keep talking to me. Tell me—”
“I need to let the world know you’re mine. I had you first. I will always have you first.” His eyes glaze over, unfocused.
Suddenly, I’m spun around, forced face-first against the glass. I turn my head, putting one eye to the view while keeping the other trained solely on him.
He looks beautiful like this. A tempest. A raw, violent thunderstorm about to descend. Groaning, he smooths his hands up my bare thighs. A shudder runs through me, an electric current lacing from his fingertips. The higher he goes, the harsher it feels, until my teeth chatter with the force of it.
“I need to hear you,” he adds, sounding dazed, even as his fingers find me without hesitation. “How it feels when I’m inside you so fucking deep.” He slides a digit inside me and my lips part on cue.
“Hurts,” I whisper. “Like…like you’re splitting me open. Every time.”
He growls, satisfied with the answer. Another finger slides home to join the first, extending the burn. “It should,” he a
grees. “Because that’s what you do to me, every fucking time. You split me open. You make me into a fucking…fuck. Do you know what you taste like?” He laughs, stretching me from the inside out, drawing a moan with every deliberate stroke. “Snow. How fucking pathetic is that? Snowy tastes like snow… But you do.” He lunges, encasing me from behind. His pelvis presses against my ass, revealing a teasing brush of the erection stiffening against the front of his slacks. “Pure. Clean. Like fucking snow.”
He bats a tangle of hair from my neck and lathes the exposed area with his tongue. A groan escapes my clenched teeth, melding with his weary sigh.
“Like this,” he rasps as if struggling to remember something, put it into words. “Only like this. Feel…better. Only like this.”
There’s no explanation. He removes his hands from me to tug at the front of his pants and yank them down. One hand captures my thigh while his hips buck, guiding his cock between my legs. Inside.
“Talk to me,” he begs as he builds a slow, torturous rhythm. “Need you. Talk to me.”
“You’re breaking me,” I tell him, my voice cracking into jagged syllables and panting breaths. “Breaking me.”
“Yes.” He grasps a fistful of my hair, drawing my face toward his. His lips nudge mine and he licks them open, shameless and ruthless. “And look. The whole fucking world can see it. How good it is when I fuck you. Say it.”
“So good.” Sensations overwhelm me. I squeeze my eyes shut against them, but he growls, nipping my lower lip. Jawline. Any part of me he can reach.
“You watch,” he warns. “Watch what you do to me.”
I open my eyes to madness. It consumes his entire being, darkening the hue of his gaze, dragging me down with him.
He swivels his hips, deepening his entry. More. More. Too much. “I’m drowning,” he croaks. “So wet. Drowning me. Drowning.”
The sounds of slapping flesh dominate. He said that this is the only way we can speak: in frantic, driving motions. Whispered curses. Heat. And sin. And skin on skin. All of it swelters, wrapping me in a terrifying, claustrophobic cocoon of fire, and lust, and Blake.
“Shit, I feel you coming,” he gasps out.
And I come undone. Literally. I’m a puppet with loosened strings, grasping at the window glass with sweat-slick fingers that don’t have a chance in hell of finding traction. He falls with me, to his knees, somehow still inside me. Still moving. Weakly, I fall forward, presenting my ass to him as the world looms below, watching as he claims me. The sky observes unfeelingly as the water churns, laughing at my destruction.
Far too soon, I hear him groan and I’m flooded with fire.
“Like this,” he bites out, collapsing against my back. “Only feel like this.”
The intensity of the moment flickers and dies like a candle being blown out. Minutes later, we disentangle our limbs, scrambling to find a safe distance apart. I crawl to the farthest corner of the room while he approaches the desk. Then I notice an incessant buzzing sound: a phone ringing.
“What is it?” he snaps, his back to me. Suddenly, his shoulders slump and he braces his free hand against the desk. “What? She’s awake? Keep her in bed until I get there.”
A sudden urgency stiffens his spine. He grabs his pants from the floor, wrenching them up. Only one person could spur him into action like this.
“Is she all right?” Without sex or rage to distract, the full depth of my selfishness sinks in. Poor Masha. Her brother should have been by her side last night. Not chasing after me. Though something tells me that the other day’s events were not an out-of-the-blue occurrence.
“She’s fine.” He sounds as though he had to spit out every word, aware of the promise he made. Talk to me. After doing up his zipper, he rakes his fingers through his hair and curses. His clothes are crumpled, damp with sweat. Sighing, he peels them off while stumbling for the door.
“I’m coming with you.” I don’t know where the desire comes from. Maybe it’s pathetic self-preservation. I can’t face myself alone. I can’t face the marks, and the aftermath, without him to consume my attention. Not yet.
He looks back sharply, still tugging his pants off. I picture him heading for the shower. He’ll barge into Bolles wearing a day-old suit and a crazed expression, but he can’t reveal that part of himself to her. He’ll clean and scrape the broken pieces of himself together. He’ll put his mask on. Pretend.
In the end, he says nothing, but I sense rather than feel the unspoken command. Hurry up.
I lurch to my feet, using the window for balance. Then I follow him up the stairs. He enters the room I woke up in, while I creep into the navy one. I snatch items of clothing at random from the closet and shower, scrubbing at my skin without surveying the damage. Sore. Burning. Bleeding.
I dry quickly and reenter the hall minutes later wearing a black dress and a pair of flats. I find him waiting for me at the base of the steps, his damp hair dripping onto the shoulders of a black suit. Watching me, he adjusts a gray tie, looking no less exhausted than he did before.
“Are you ready?”
I swallow at the grating tone in his voice. “Yes.”
Together, we take the elevator down to the lower level. A car is already waiting in the garage, a stern-faced driver at the helm. We have no choice but to share the back seat. Gritting his teeth, Blake holds the door open for me. I swear I hear him inhale as I settle onto the seat. Then he climbs in beside me, slamming the door behind us.
Minutes tick by in silence as the driver maneuvers the car onto the main street. Glaring daylight leaves nothing to hide behind. I still feel him in my skin. Taste him on my lips. Our damp hair drips steadily, creating a pulsing soundtrack. Too loud.
“Masha,” I say, breaking the silence. “Is she…all right?” I’m not talking physically.
“I…” He breaks off and swallows. Lightning quick, his hand shoots out, grasping mine.
My eyes widen at the contact. There’s no rage in his grip. If anything, his fingers shake, demanding whatever strength I have left to give.
“Her father never saw her for the first five years of her life. Her mother and he divorced. She took Masha away. Kept her isolated. Then she remarried. A monster.”
Oh no. A part of me suspects the direction this tale will take. In a sad, ironic way, Masha has the look for it: the tragic princess in a brutal fairytale.
“What happened?” I force myself to ask when he doesn’t continue.
I gasp. His grip tightens as he glares out of his window. “The bastard controlled her. Manipulated her. Warped her mind. When she was barely seventeen, he forced her to marry a man just as twisted as he was.”
“Oh God.” Like a punch to the chest—that’s how perspective shifts around me.
Forrest Hollings was no saint, but even he had lines he never crossed. Perhaps he thought he could save me for the highest bidder. Luckily, he died before ever getting the chance.
“Her husband was…cruel,” Blake says simply. “It was fucking hell to get her away from him. Her father—our father—made me promise to keep her from the motherfucker. And I did. I paid him off. Threatened him. Blackmailed. Nothing ever worked for long. Six months ago, he managed to contact her again, and he hasn’t stopped since. I offered him more money. Hired thugs to teach him a lesson. In the end, I brought her here, to the States. A week ago, he found her again.”
Raw pain enhances his features, exaggerating the small nuances I missed before. The black stubble growing in along his chin. The overgrown length to his hair. The bruises beneath his eyes, far darker than they first seemed. How long has it been since he’s slept?
Maybe not since that night in Hollings Manor.
“She’ll be fine in a few days,” he adds, though I think he’s speaking more to himself than to me. “And if he comes near her again, I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Have you gone to the police?” I ask, marveling at the fact that he still has my hand. Tension radiates through his skin, as if he’s deliber
ately avoiding squeezing too hard. Crushing me.
“The police don’t mean shit to a man with money.” He lets me go, and my hand cools without his heat. “If I pay him off, he’ll just come back again.”
We say nothing else during the rest of the trip to the hospital. Rather than a normal room on a medical floor, Masha has a private suite in a locked unit. A realm I know all too well. Some of the nurses call me by name as we enter, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“How many times?” Blake asks as we cross the quiet unit with its soothing, light-blue walls and gentle atmosphere. His expression is strained as we pass a patient, thin as a rail, trailing an IV pole as she wanders the wing.
How many times have I been in Masha’s place? “Too many times,” I reply.
His sister is in bed when we finally reach her room. Pale sunlight streams in through a large window, illuminating a vase of yellow roses on her bedside table.
“Son of a bitch.” Blake crosses the room and snatches the blossoms from the table, tossing them into the trash. Then he sinks to his knees beside Masha’s bed and smooths his hand over her hair, coaxing her awake. A worn smile makes him look like a different man—someone capable of joy.
They converse in German, their voices hushed, and I step into the hall rather than intrude.
Not long after, he returns to my side. “I… She’s asking to speak to you.”
“Really?” I look over, surprised to find slightly less exhaustion weighing his features down than before.
“If you don’t want to, I could—”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, I’ll see her.”
I slip past him and warily enter the hospital room. Masha is upright, propped against a wall of pillows. She looks pale in the faint light drifting in through one of the wide windows, but a fragile smile shapes her mouth.
“Hello,” she says, her voice faint and lilting.
I do my best to match her grin, praying that none of my concern shows. She’s just a waif beneath white sheets, almost the same color as the linens. Her hair forms a golden halo, which adds some definition to her pale form. Dark circles enhance her hollow gaze, making it seem endless. Penetrating.
