by Lana Sky
Or cruel voyeurism. For once, I get to see him tormented, but the sensation constricting my heart isn’t anything close to pleasure. I’m not happy as he cries out wordlessly to no one. I’m numb.
He excels so well at turning his pain into rage that it’s easy to forget what it stems from. Pain. An agony few can fathom. It marks those who suffer from it like scars.
My feet inch closer to that bed of their own accord, while my heart beats frantically as if protesting every step of the way.
Go back.
Go back!
Too late. I’m near enough to see the sweat glistening on his forehead and the sheets tangled around his frame. My bare foot strikes something soft, and I look down, making out the vague outlines of clothing. His suit jacket, shirt, and finally his pants. As my gaze flits back to the bed, my cheeks flame as I register the bold outline of his body.
He’s naked except for a pair of boxers. His bare chest heaves as he claws at the sheets tangled around him, and I have my clearest view ever of the tattoo.
The name blazes as if on fire, the letters bold enough to make out in the dark. I don’t know what possesses me to reach out, brushing the end of the final A.
He groans, his eyelids fluttering, lips moving wordlessly. A silly thought strikes me—braiding his hair won’t soothe him.
But I don’t know any other methods.
I should leave. Avoid him. Run. The same way I should have stayed in Stepanov manor the night I heard about Vin. The same way I should have avoided him at all costs from day one.
Where this man is concerned, I do nothing at all that I should.
So, instead, I sit on the end of the mattress with my back to him. Before long, my fingers shoot out as if of their own accord, landing over that telltale jagged strip of flesh so different from the rest of him. It’s like I’ve already mapped it inside my head without meaning to, able to navigate every ridge and curve without having to see what the shapes form.
Her name.
Absently, I trace the letters over and over the way I would the notes printed on a sheet of music. And as if his body is my instrument, it plays along. His groans lessen while his heavy breaths paint the air in a twisted, unstable melody…
One so beautiful and so haunting it deafens me to everything else.
Even the part of my soul warning me to run.
22
Don
This fucking house is a prison—both hers and mine. The calculus of bringing her here was that the environment would give me the edge, but now?
I couldn’t give a damn about exerting my influence over the little Stepanova. I’m too tired. The kind of bone-melting exhaustion sleep can’t fix. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to experience it. Or to dream, for that matter. Whenever I close my eyes, I do neither.
Instead, I get a taste of what true hell is. Emptiness. Loneliness. Nothing. A darkness where the loss of everything and everyone ever stolen from me looms, and I’m powerless to run from it anymore.
Who needs hellfire? Guilt is searing enough, blazing through my chest, impossible to douse.
For Vin. Olivia. Safiya…
I still see them, lurking just beyond reach. I can hear them calling for me. Condemning me. Dooming me. Their cries tease me on the edge of consciousness, impossible to escape.
Screw Fabio’s praise of sobriety; I’d kill for a bottle. Booze would be enough to dull the clamor and let me sink into oblivion. It’s gotten me through the past seven years, after all.
Damn, it’s been so long since I’ve laid in this room. Fuck, this might even be the same bed I shared with Olivia, feeling her soft, warm body against mine, her voice in my ear. The memory feels more real than ever. I can hear her, “Wake up, baby. It’s late. I told you that another round would exhaust you, old man…”
Her warmth breaches time and space, heating my skin. I swear I feel her hand on my shoulder…
But it’s not.
I jolt awake, fully aware that the warm fingers grazing my chest are too small. Too textured. Olivia kept her hands manicured, but these…
They’ve been used. Worked, but in a delicate manner different from the callouses that harden mine. Music, a part of me suspects, even before I open my eyes.
Pale moonlight drifts through the singular window, adding vague definition to the master bedroom, though now emptied of everything but the bed. Bathed in the glow is a lone figure perched on the end of the mattress, her back to me even as her fingers trace the expanse of my bare chest. She could be a twisted figment of my imagination if it weren’t for her smell.
Roses.
I sigh, eyeing the ceiling, too tired to mull over her motives this time. She could be a masochist, driven to find me always at my fucking lowest. Her mind is a landmine I’d rather not maneuver. Instead, I remember…
How it felt to have a body next to mine. A feminine scent flooding my nose. With Liv, I only felt a constant current of love. Trust. Obedience.
With her?
There is no warmth, just a cruel need to test her presence. Exploit it. In the absence of liquor, she’s all I have—so I take it. She doesn’t expect the second I snatch her hand, lifting it for inspection. There’s always the possibility that she’s not here. Experimentally, I flick my thumb across her palm, sensing the shudder that runs through her. She’s real, all right. To her credit, she doesn’t pull away.
Or to her detriment.
I’ve changed my mind. Fuck sobriety. Her fear is a fitting substitute for liquor, and I’m too weak to resist.
So, I tug, dragging her closer until she’s almost lying on her side. Those eyes flit up to mine, but if I expect to find a motive in them, she denies me that much.
Her gaze is unreadable.
But I’ve already learned how to make her react. With a shift of my weight, she’s beneath me, and I get my wish—her slender throat jerks around a hard swallow. Inhaling, I savor the slight tinge to her scent. How those eyes widen and her teeth seize her lower lip in alarm.
Finally, she gives me something to interpret—fear. I crave the shiver that wracks her spine as I deliberately run my finger across her chest, copying the same path she traced over mine. Her heat distracts me from everything. So warm.
But her scent is a gut-punch, so sharp I find myself leaning down, inhaling as much as I can. It’s the wrong move. Intoxicated, I close my eyes, extending this dangerous position a second longer. Another.
Nothing compares to feeling her body against mine. For a moment, I can pretend I’m back there, with the weight of the world on my shoulders but a loving woman in my bed.
It’s funny how that intangible concept can change every fucking thing. Love. One kiss can soothe the blood-soaked memories. The act of it can even make a new life.
And one fucking second can rip it all away.
When I open my eyes, the figure staring up at me isn’t my sweet Liv. She’s a different creature entirely, with dark eyes so huge they swallow me whole. Pink curved lips. A gaze that doesn’t flinch.
Not from me, or the open hostility I don’t bother to hide. She takes me in as though it’s all entertainment just for her. She won’t admit it out loud, but this is why she’s here. Why she’s always been here.
My descent into madness amuses her. Why wouldn’t it? It’s guaranteed vengeance, and she doesn’t even have to wield a blade or pull the trigger to carry it out.
My own brain will destroy me in the end, and her presence is the catalyst.
I choke out a laugh, eyeing that pretty mouth. The least I can do is give her a good show.
“Do you enjoy your taste of power, little wife?” I’m surprised by how calm I sound. Inside? My heart is ramming against my ribcage, my breathing heavy.
Oh yes, she’s enjoying this.
Instead of a verbal answer, she inclines her head, sending that hair fanning out around her. Her eyes flicker, processing the question, but she’s unsure. Unprepared. Damn, there’s something irresistible about catching her off guar
d. Making her squirm.
“You like to exert control over me?” I ask her, letting my gaze travel down her face and lower, glimpsing the flesh bared below the neckline of her dress. It’s wrong. But what the fuck do I care?
This moment is a thin, fragile barrier keeping the past at bay. I’ll deal with the consequences later...
When her breasts aren’t separated from me by a thin layer of fabric. When I can’t feel her heartbeat hammering away. Or every twitch and jolt of her muscles as she fights her body’s own instincts to lie still.
My brain does what it does best and conjures up dangerous images—like of her splayed in her bed back in that perfect Stepanov manor, naked and alone. It brings up a very good question…
“Have you ever touched yourself, hellcat?”
That lone question has the same effect as gasoline dangled over an open flame.
Her skin ignites, flushing red in the silvery lighting, her lips twitching as she swallows again. Her fear is one thing, but this is the real addicting aspect of her—this supposed innocence. A girl who grew up in the heart of the mafiya but never saw a man’s dick in person. Yet, she dangles her sexuality when it suits her.
Which brings up an irritating point—it suits her. Stripping naked when it gives her an advantage. Playing coy when it doesn’t. Insisting on her own stipulations and most egregious of all…
Seeming offended by my insistence on one point—I don’t want her.
Not this body. Not those eyes watching me grip her wrist, pressing the slender limb against the sheets. She stiffens, her breaths coming faster. Good. I should only want to push her this far.
Nothing more.
Until I do. It’s like another part of me takes over, bypassing all logic, driven only by curiosity. How far can I make her go?
Her eyes track every movement of my head as I bring it near hers. Letting my lips brush her earlobe, I test that theory with a simple statement. “You don’t know the first damn thing about what really happens between a man and a woman. You’ve never fucked…and I’m assuming the answer to my question is no. You’ve never touched yourself, either.”
Her body always betrays her. That slender throat quivers as her heart beats so rapidly I can hear it. I could dance to the melody if I wanted—fitting given her music background. She may be silent, but terror makes her sing. A symphony of physical tells, too beautiful to resist.
I feel my grip on her arm tighten. Before I know it, I’m dragging that hand across the sheets, down to her waist. Then lower.
Sensing my intention, she starts to struggle, kicking with her legs. The pressure of one knee is enough to pin her down. She tries clawing at me with those hellcat nails, but if she pierces the skin, I don’t feel it. I don’t feel a damn thing. My entire focus centers on the thin wrist in my grasp, manipulating it against her will until her fingers brush her hip.
She goes still, her lip between her teeth, her cheeks flushing a deeper scarlet even in the dark. Beautiful. And dangerous.
I’m fully aware of the line I’m toeing. The risk I’m taking by playing this game. In another time, and another place, I’d heed the warnings blaring through my veins.
But I’m already addicted to this…
Her defiance. Even now, she doesn’t shy from my gaze. She holds it, daring me to push her harder. Test her. Break her.
So I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, damn the risk. “Do you want me to teach you?”
Bingo. She sucks in a breath, though I realize I’ve done the same. Her fingers twitch, inching between us as I goad her on. My cock twitches, but I drag her hand right past it, urging her lower.
Lower.
Her eyes stare resolutely past me, up at the ceiling—but her body is an inferno. A rigid mass of twitching muscle. I close my eyes again, breathing her in. Her legs twitch, fighting to resist the pressure of her own hand inching between them. The air wheezes from her lungs, her pulse a fucking symphony.
My thoughts flash back to how she reacted as we stood before the Saleris. How she looked at me then. It wasn’t her audacity to kiss me that irritated me. Still does... It was the way she did it. Her expression, so quick I doubt she was even aware of it.
The same brief glimpse of terror I saw in the study when I tried to strike a match, and again in the hospital with Mischa. I don’t care that she’s the catalyst for my impending war with the mafiya—that’s not what condemns her.
This one look has always been her original sin.
Concern for me.
“You still care about me, hellcat?” I croak, hating the raw pain in my voice. Because it’s a lie. It has to be… But like any addict, I chase the illusion.
Even when it stings.
“Then show me what I’m missing,” I rasp. “This is how you can hurt me. Show me what I’ll never have.”
I open my eyes just in time to see her eyelids lower as she registers that statement. Does it empower her? No, I decide. It annoys her. I’m giving her permission to torture me.
She hates being controlled, so fucking stubborn she’ll do anything to defy any attempt to. Like stop fighting me, letting her hand settle exactly where I aim it.
Fire washes through my abdomen, heralding a volatile reaction. Fabio’s warning echoes faintly through my skull, but I’m inclined to ignore him. If I pretend this is a dream, nothing that happens fucking matters. There are no consequences if I’m imagining all of this.
And I have to be.
Because otherwise, the little hellcat wouldn’t look so…eager? Her nostrils flare, her eyes darting back up to mine.
I slide my fingers over hers, painfully aware of the searing heat building between us. Sweat slicks her soft skin, enhancing every little tremor to shoot through the tender muscles and fragile bones. If I weren’t sure before, I am now—she’s never done this.
So I bear down harder.
At the same time, our gazes meet again, but it’s different. I’m inside her head, clearly seeing every thought to cross her mind. Confusion. Sweet, fucking confusion.
How could something so debasing feel so fucking good? It’s a question I’m wrestling with myself. Finally, she takes over, resisting my grip.
“Do it.”
Her eyes blaze, accepting the challenge.
And she does. Her lips flutter, pursed over gritting teeth, and it’s all the proof I need. Damn. I’d kill to see her fingers make contact for the first time—but nothing comes close to watching the realization spark within her. The pleasure that can come from a simple touch. A sensation sharp enough to blind her to everything else. The world. Shame. Me…
“Look at me,” I goad before she completely goes vacant. I’m here with her.
And, fuck, it’s hell. It’s heaven.
“Keep going,” I grate through clenched teeth.
Her eyes narrow, but I sense her hips arch. Buck.
“More.”
Her eyelids flutter as her head rears back against the pillow. Her teeth seize her lower lip, her breaths feathering.
I rock against her, torturing myself with the feel of her moving hand and twitching limbs.
I make the mistake of watching her again as those eyes go to my chest. Her throat jerks around a swallow, her hand moving faster as she traces the letters tattooed there.
I know the second she comes. She can’t disguise it.
Her entire body radiates pleasure, her lips parting, body glistening with sweat.
It’s incredible.
Terrifying. I’m struck through, mortally wounded the second she goes limp. Her scent teases the air, sharp with pleasure, and I’m dying a slow, vengeful death.
The little witch has won another round.
And she found a weapon better than a knife.
“Wake up!”
I startle to awareness, groaning as my head pounds. A cool, wet sensation hits me full in the face, snapping me awake. Water? I sputter, wrenching my eyes open to find Fabio standing over me, an empty glass in hand.
&nbs
p; “What the fuck?” I croak, spotting the dampness coloring the sheets around me. He spilled something on me, alright.
“Considering the fact that your entire fucking life depends on you making this meeting with Mischa, I assume you don’t want to be late. You wouldn’t wake up.” He leans over me and sniffs. “What? Did you drink an entire fucking bottle?”
“You’re cursing,” I point out—a rarer occurrence than even his smoking.
“Fuck you,” he bites back.
“Fuck me,” I rasp. My head pounds violently enough to be explained by a hangover—but even that can’t explain the erection threatening to rip through the front of my goddamn boxers. It’s an almost painful state of lust. Beyond blue balls.
I grapple for a handful of sheets to haul myself upright, and I remember the source of the discomfort…
Fuck, the sheets are still warm. Like she slept here afterward—my innocent little fiancée who fingered herself beneath me for the first time. Climaxed, her dark eyes so wide with the newfound sensation it’s like taking an entire cask of whiskey straight into the vein.
“Jesus, Don!” Fabio’s tone drips with disapproval, and he crosses to the window. With his gaze on the view, he fishes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it up in the same breath. “Just tell me—how drunk are you?”
“Not drunk,” I admit, hauling myself into a sitting position.
“You sound like it,” Fabio snipes. “You sound like hell.”
“What time is it? How is Vin?”
“Vin is fine,” he says, his tone softer. “He’s recovering well. No complications. You can see him later. Now, I need you dressed, along with your pretty fiancée, and across town within the hour to meet Mischa on time.”
“Fuck.” I swipe my hand across my bare chest. The skin there burns as if ignited—all because a little minx wanted to see my scars as she came.
I groan, swiping my hand along my face as if I can physically wipe the memories away.
“Are you sick?” Fabio asks, a hint of sympathy leeching into his tone.
