by Evelyn Glass
He laughs loudly, and then his bright blue eyes settle on me like a predator. “You have no idea how badly I want to throw you into bed right now. You look so sexy in that dress.”
“I’m not supposed to look sexy,” I say, while I lift up the hem to flash more and more of my leg, all the way up to my white silk underwear. “I’m supposed to look angelic.”
“Who said angels can’t be sexy, eh?” Killian says, reaching forward and touching my bare leg.
I shiver at his touch, warm whispers of pleasure moving up my thigh to my pussy, making it ache.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice hushed. “You’re making me wet.”
“And you think that will stop me?”
He moves up, up, all the way to my pussy
Then, when I’m a heartbeat away from collapsing into the pleasure, he pulls his hand away.
“Sorry, pretty lady,” he says. “I’m a man of morals and I don’t believe in sex before marriage.”
I slap him lightly across the face. “You make me so mad.”
“That’s why you love me,” he says, jumping forward and pressing his lips against mine.
We must kiss for a long time, because before we’re finished Patrick clears his throat from the door. “Sorry, lovebirds,” he says, “it’s time to get married.”
Killian steps away. “I have to listen to him,” he tells me. “Don’t you know who this man is? He’s the leader of the Satan’s Martyrs.”
“Not half the leader you were, brother,” Patrick says, his voice serious.
Killian looks me up and down one last time, and then turns around. “See you soon, sexy,” he calls over his shoulder.
Patrick steps into the room, past his brother, patting him on the back as he walks by him.
“Thanks for doing this,” I say, as Patrick takes my arm.
Outside, the music has started. I know that around one hundred people—all the members of the Satan’s Martyrs, a few of the waitresses from Berelli’s Gourmet, and Alex—will have their heads turned toward the cabin door, waiting for me to emerge.
“It’s a pleasure,” Patrick says, tapping my hand. “In a few minutes, you’ll be my sister. And round here, we take care of family.”
That thought settling warmly in my mind, we leave the room.
During the ceremony, I can’t stop smiling. It’s like my lips are being twisted by hands made of wind. An archway has been erected, leading from the cabin to the lectern, behind which Dawn stands. Everything is white: the archway, the petals, the chairs. Snow-like confetti continuously floats down from slits in the archway, slowly gliding to the aisle. Lily and Alex smile up at me from my side of the aisle; from Killian’s side, every member of the Satan’s Martyrs, all dressed in pristine suits, do the same. Declan stands off to the side, a camera in his hand, snapping photographs. The old man moves fast with the camera, faster than I would’ve thought.
Then Dawn, in a clear, high voice, speaks out over the scene: “Ladies and gentleman, esteemed guests, we are gathered here today to witness the marriage of Hope Warren and Killian O’Connor, two people who have come together in true love and true commitment.”
Dawn speaks with a confidence she never could have mustered last year. But, in truth, I barely hear her. My eyes are locked on Killian, and his are locked on mine. He can’t stop smiling, either. Not his smirk, but a full-on smile. A happier-than-ever-before smile.
“ . . . If anyone has reasons why these two should not wed, please, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Birds tweet in the woods; everyone is silent.
Dawn nods and turns to Killian. “Killian O’Connor, repeat after me. I, Killian, take you, Hope, for my lawful wife.”
Killian’s smile spreads even wider, somehow. And when his smile gets wider, mine can’t help but get wider in response. “I, Killian, take you, Hope, for my lawful wife.”
“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”
“To have and to hold, from this day forward.”
“For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer . . .”
We speak the vows, both of us smiling like fools, smiling like people in love. And then Alex comes forward with the rings. Killian holds my hand in his, his hand as strong as ever, making me feel safe, secure, making me think: This is my man. This is my husband!
Dawn turns to me. “Do you, Hope Warren, take Killian O’Connor to be your lawful husband?”
I can’t help it. Emotions rush into me, assail me. I begin to cry, tears so happy, so overjoyed, that I can’t contain them.
“I do,” I say. Killian slides the solid silver wedding band onto my finger, where it rests above my engagement ring.
Then Alex hands me Killian’s ring, and I take his hand. When I look into his eyes, I’m shocked to see that he’s crying, too. Tears slide silently down his cheeks, slide down and into his smile.
“Do you, Killian O’Connor, take Hope Warren to be your lawful wife?”
Sniffing back a tear, Killian says, “I do!”
I slide the ring onto his finger.
“You may now kiss the—”
But Killian doesn’t wait. He cradles my face and brings me close to him, so close that his tears are warm on my cheeks.
He kisses me deeply, passionately, as Declan snaps the camera and dozens of bikers let out a roaring cheer.
THE END
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The Devil You Love: A Mob Romance
By Claire St. Rose
I bought the daughter of the man I came to kill.
I’m a devil with a lifetime of sins behind me.
She’s an angel in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But that won’t stop me from buying her.
And it won’t stop me from making her mine.
ROMA
I’m a hitman.
I’m used to taking what I want.
But paying for it?
Out of the f**king question.
Until her.
Felicity was a jewel I could not pass up.
She was never supposed to be here, at this flesh auction.
Especially not on stage.
Under the spotlight.
Bare for all to see.
But that just made it hotter.
I wanted her for myself.
And for my mission:
Killing her father.
But the longer she’s in my grasp…
The more I start to realize…
I might have gotten more than I bargained for.
FELICITY
They sold me.
Like a piece of f**king meat.
This can’t be happening.
I keep expecting to wake up from this nightmare.
But every time I open my eyes, it’s the same thing:
HIM.
The hitman.
The killer.
The beast who bought me.
Staring back at me with those steely, unblinking eyes.
His hands by his side, capable of breaking me as soon as he decides he wants to.
I don’t know what he plans to do with me.
What sick and twisted game he intends to play.
But the tension between us is becoming unbearable.
I’m his slave.
Utterly at his mercy.
And the truth is…
Deep, deep down…
That’s exactly how I want it.
Chapter One
Roma
The hitman game is a strange one. One moment, you’re hunting down the American ambassador to Russia. The next, you’re on a yacht off the coast of France searching for that same man’s daughter. Pain in the ass, really, the daughter being missing . . . the security on Greg Fellows’ house is beefed up now like a cow on steroids. As luck would have it (or unluck, depending on how you look at it) Felicity Fellows was recently kidnapped by Russian gangsters, sex-traders, all-around general scumbags. I don
’t think about what it says about me that I blend in with these scumbags so well.
I stand in the massive ballroom, the ceiling so high it’s difficult to believe that we’re really below deck. I imagine the bottom of the yacht brushing the floor of the ocean, scraping up the starfish and whatever-the-hell-else. I lean back against the wall, watching with killer’s eyes.
Part of my business is watching people, and these people provide ample opportunity for reading. There’s the fat man—fat men, really. There are about twenty of them and though they’re all different in age and occupation and histories, in this environment they’re all the same. They gawp at the lingerie-clad women who circulate the ballroom serving drinks. Their fat fingers rub together and their sweaty jowls tremble at the sight of them. And then there are the lean men, the self-respecting men, who stand straight-backed and stern-lipped as though they’re above it all, when in fact they’re just as captivated as their fat friends. And then there are the in-betweens, the men who don’t know whether to be disgusted or exhilarated. There are no women except for the servers which move like cattle between groups of men.
I’m looking for Felicity Fellows, bright blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, tall and thin with high cheekbones. She has a penchant for wearing her hair in a high ponytail, I’m told, but I doubt she’ll have much choice about it now. I scan the crowd, flickering my gaze over the faces of the women. If I had a heart, I reckon it would break a little at the sight of these dead-eyed women. They don’t seem dead-eyed. No, they’ve been trained well. They smile at their captors and giggle and make all the right noises. But when you’ve killed people, you get to know something about what dead eyes are. And these women are dead in the eyes. There’s nothing behind them but the faint glimmer that maybe, one day, they’ll be free. Well, I won’t be able to make that happen, except for one lucky lady, if she ever shows herself.
I’m pondering these not-very-philosophical thoughts when one of the fat men approaches me. He is seedy and he approaches me seedily because the character I am currently playing is a corrupt diplomat. My assumed name is not Roma, but Alexander Smith, an American politician more corrupt than a dying flower.
The man who approaches me is short with a rotund belly that bulges out of his suit jacket. His forehead glistens under the light of the chandeliers and he licks perspiration from his upper lip. His name is Barinov Yegorovrich, which is about as hard to pronounce as it sounds. He’s drunk as sin and wobbles on his fat feet. I hate the man for no other reason than he looks at me exactly like I am the man I’m pretending to be. Not because of the corruption. I don’t give a damn if people think I’m corrupt. No, but a politician. A lazy, weak, weeping politician.
“Greetings, Alexander,” he says.
“Hello,” I grunt. But not as rudely as I would like to. I have to keep up my performance.
“Look at all these bitches,” he says, his eyes roving over the crowd. “Don’t you like what you see, eh?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “This is a real treat.”
But where is the woman I’m looking for? Where is Felicity Fellows? How am I supposed to take out her dad if she’s missing and his security has gone from a poodle to a German shepherd?
“A real treat,” the man nods. “Yes, that is the way I would say it, too.”
I look over Barinov’s shoulder and spot Zherkov, the leader of this merry band. He’s the anomaly of the beloved folk on this boat. He’s neither fat nor thin, neither stern-lipped nor drooping. He’s muscular and holds himself like I hold myself when I’m on a job, which is to say like a man ready to deal massive damage at the first sight of trouble. His arms are at his sides and his hands are clenched into tight fists, which form into hammers ready to smack, pound, crush. His eyebrows are low and his eyes, beads set deep in his head, searching. Mr. Black has told me a bit about Zherkov, enough for me to know he’s been involved in things that’d make war criminals blanch. He navigates through the crowd, stopping here and there to casually slap a woman across the ass, and then stands at the opposite end of the room, smoking a cigar.
“The auction will start soon.” Barinov grins. “Have you got your eyes on anybody?”
“Just browsing,” I say. “What about you?”
He wipes a hand across his forehead; the hand comes away slick and shiny. “Too many to count. I am scared I will be bankrupt by the end of the night. Yes, I will be bankrupt, but my prick will be wet and my balls empty, so there’s that.”
Worms crawl over my skin at the image his words force into my mind. But I’m not a sentimental man and I don’t show any sign of my reaction on my face.
“Good for you,” I say, as amiably as I can.
Then, weaving through the crowd with eyes which are markedly less dead than her colleagues, I see Felicity Fellows. She’s wearing green lingerie to match her eyes. Her breasts are squashed tight in her bra and her underwear leaves very little to the imagination. Her hair is not in a ponytail, but flows around her shoulders. Mr. Black was right about her cheekbones. They are high, giving her a dignified appearance. I am here to save you, my damsel, I think. It’s quite romantic, if you ignore the fact the only reason I’m saving her is to draw her father out of hiding.
I need to bid on her, but there’s a problem. I only have sixty thousand dollars with which to do so. I know that some of these men will bid more, much more, but Mr. Black wouldn’t give me any more and there’s no way I was dipping into my own funds for this. So I only have sixty thousand and if I’m outbid, I’m screwed.
I know what I have to do. I have to be seen with her. I have to make the other men notice me with her and let her be.
Barinov is prattling on but I barely hear him. When he is done, I hold my hand up as politely as a killer-cum-politician can. “Excuse me,” I say. “I need to have a word with Zherkov.”
“You are a braver man than I, that is for certain, eh?” Barinov squirms away and joins another group.
I walk across the ballroom, keeping Felicity in the corner of my eye. To anyone else—anyone who hadn’t spent most of their twenty-eight years scanning crowds and people—Felicity would look just the same as the other women. But I see a fight in her eyes and I know they have yet to break her yet. I don’t know if that will work for or against me.
Zherkov looks up as I approach. “Ah,” the owner of the yacht grins, “the politician.”
I incline my head. “The lord of the castle.”
Zherkov watches me for a long moment and two men from a neighboring huddle look up with terrified expressions. Nobody, it is accepted, talks to Zherkov with anything but the utmost respect, fear, and deference. But I know men like Zherkov and I know that the only way to win their respect and talk to them man to man is to be unafraid.
I see his hand twitch. He’s thinking about swinging at me. That’d be bad. I’d have to kill him—easily done, but inconvenient—and then fight off his cronies and save Felicity in the midst of the mayhem. That part would be decidedly less easy.
Then a smile spreads across his face.
“You are a brave man, my American friend!” Zherkov cackles, clapping his hands together. He takes a long drag on his cigar. Smoke rolls out of his mouth and nose and shrouds his face. “Yes, a very brave man. What is it the Spanish say? I believe they have a word for it. Ah, yes, cojones. You have very big cojones, Mr. American.”
“Sometimes I can’t walk for them.” I smile.
Zherkov throws his head back and laughs. “Yes, they are so big!” He wipes a tear from his eye. His bloodshot eye, I note. Almost everybody aboard this ship is under the influence of some drug or other. Weed, pills, coke, and good old alcohol. “Did you come here to make jokes or do you have something to say?”
“A little of both,” I say. “But I have a request of you.”
Zherkov tilts his head at me. As far as he knows—thanks to Mr. Black’s deft identity-making skills—I am a politician of incredible importance. He’s not being nice to me out of the goodness of his dr
ug-addled heart, I know that. No, he’s making an investment. A bit of niceness here and later on, months or years down the line, some gruff Russian thug will show up on my doorstep asking for a favor. Little does he know that the address I have given him is actually a crack house. I’d like to be there when he finds out.
“A request? You know the auction starts in fifteen minutes, do you not?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, wondering how casual I can take it. I’ve been around men like Zherkov my whole life and I know how quick they can snap. One second they’re laughing, the next . . . well, they’re still laughing but now they’re flecked with blood.
