Charming Savage (Cinder Crew: Mafia Fairytale Retellings)

7. Seven Chris

Seven: Chris

I kicked the door open, bucket in one hand, black dress slung over my shoulder. The sound of that heavy swing was the only damn introduction I needed. Ella's eyes shot up, that fucking glimmer of defiance still dancing in them.

"Strip," I barked, dropping the bucket with a clang that echoed off the bare walls. Water sloshed over the rim, rippling on the concrete floor.

Her lips parted, no doubt ready to spit some annoying-ass retort, but she clamped them shut. She took a deep breath instead, chest rising under the thin fabric of her shirt. Her fingers trembled as they reached for the hem, pulling it up inch by torturous inch, pale skin revealing itself.

"Everything," I growled, stepping closer, feeling the heat radiating off her. My hand flexed at my side, aching to touch, to claim. Shit, this wasn't just a job anymore.

She hesitated again, hands skimming the waistband of her jeans, and I could practically hear the gears turning in that pretty head. Calculating the play, the angle. Smart girl. But not smart enough to save herself.

"Fuck, do I need to help you?" My voice was rough, filled with an anger I didn't feel. I was a beast on the edge, barely leashed by my own damn will. "This isn't a fucking strip club."

Her jeans hit the floor softly, delicate feet stepping out of them. She stood there, a vision of vulnerability, all long hair and eyes that had seen too much shit. Covered in nothing but shadows and underwear that didn't hide a thing.

"Underwear."

"Chris, please."

"Now."

She whimpered but obeyed, turning to face the wall as she bent over, the gap between her legs allowing me a peek at what was hidden between them. Fucking perfect pussy. Just like I knew it would be.

"Good girl." I wasn't sure if it was praise or a curse. Maybe both.

"Turn around," I commanded next, watching as her body obeyed me even as her spirit rebelled. The sight of her back, the subtle strength in her muscles, did something to me. Made me want to protect and destroy in the same fucked-up breath.

"Chris," she started, a plea or maybe a challenge on her lips, but it died as she caught the look in my eyes.

"Quiet, Ella," I snapped, picking up the sponge. It dripped water onto the floor between us, a chasm that was both too wide and too close. "Come here. Now."

The sponge, heavy with lukewarm water, hovered a moment above her skin. My hand, all knuckles and inked stories, paused. She flinched before the first touch, a small jump of muscles, but no words spilled from those full lips. I pressed down, the sponge trailing a wet path along her collarbone.

I moved in slow circles, the grime of her captivity lifting away beneath the firm pressure. Water darkened with the sins of this place, sins that clung to both of us like shadows we couldn't shake. But her skin, it came back to life under my hands, flushing with a warmth that belied the chill of the room.

"Feels strange," she murmured.

"Strange how?"

"Being touched without... without it being a fight."

"Shit." The word slipped out, more curse than conversation. I struggled to keep my dick under control.

"Turn around," I said, voice stripped of emotion. A command, because that's what it had to be. I couldn't let her see the chaos she stirred in me.

She complied, movements fluid as her hair swept from her skin, revealing the expanse of her back. Scars, some old, some fresh, littered her skin. I traced the lines with the sponge, each stroke a silent vow of retribution for every mark not made by me.

"Chris..." It was a breath, her voice a threadbare sound against the weight of the air between us.

"Stay still." The rasp in my throat sounded foreign.

My fingers grazed lower and she tensed, a shiver running through her. The reaction, instinctive and raw, sent a jolt straight to my cock. I watched her struggle to relax, the subtle dance of her muscles beneath the thin layer of soap and water.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," I said, the offer feeling like a blade's edge—beautiful but dangerous.

"I won't."

"Brave little ember." I wasn't sure if I admired her or wanted to break that courage, bend it to my will. The sponge continued its descent, dipping into the curve of her waist, skirting the rise of her hips.

"Too brave for your own good." My breath ghosted over her skin as I leaned closer, suds clinging to my hands.

She clenched her legs, a telltale sign of her body reacting, betraying her just as mine betrayed me. My hands roamed with purpose now, a blend of roughness and something dangerously close to care. Shit, what was this pull she had on me?

"Chris..." The way she said my name, fuck, it was like a caress, a balm to the wounds etched deep within my psyche.

"Stop saying my name like that." My jaw clenched, muscles twitching with the effort to maintain control.

"Like what?" Innocence laced her question, but we both knew the power she had.

"Like you know me," I growled.

"Chris," she whispered again, a test, a challenge.

"Fuck! Shut the fuck up, Ella." I stepped away, my back to her, hands braced on the cold wall. The violence in my pulse didn't match the quiet of the room, the stillness of her waiting form. I turned back towards her and grabbed the black dress off the bed.

"We're gunna put this on."

I yanked the dress down over Ella's frame, watched it cling to her as I struggled to get it down her wet skin. Her pulse fluttered at her throat.

"Turn around," I growled, no room for argument. She obeyed, slow, each movement deliberate. My hands clenched at my sides, tattoos stretching with the tension. A raw need clawed at my gut—the primal urge to claim, to own.

"Chris..." Her voice was a whisper, but it might as well have been a scream in the silence of the room.

"Shut up," I snapped back, commanding the space between us. But my mind, goddamn it, my mind was a war zone—morals against monsters, right against ruin.

I traced the zipper up her back, fucking relishing the way her skin raised at my touch. Every inch I covered with the fabric felt like a mile of road I was putting between the man I was and the one I wanted to be. One without blood on his hands, without lies on his lips.

"Done." A lie. I wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

Her breath hitched, and she stepped away, a subtle defiance in her posture. The same defiance that had me wanting to break her, or worse, protect her.

"Chris, why—" She started, turning towards me, those brown eyes searching mine for something, anything.

"Enough!" I cut her off, the edge in my voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

There was a darkness in me, a pit so deep not even her light could shine through. Yet here she was, a flicker of warmth in my cold world. And fuck me if I didn't burn for more.

"Please, I—" she tried again, a crack in her composure.

"Stop." I towered over her, a statue chiseled from ice, all harsh lines and frigid intent. "Just stop." My chest heaved, every breath a battle.

"Okay." Her submission was a blade twisting in my ribs. Shit, since when did I care about hurting anyone?

"Good." I spat the word out, turning my back to her, needing distance. "Stay put until I come get you."

"Where are you going?" Desperation tinged her voice, a note that sang of fear.

"Doesn't concern you." Another lie. Everything about her concerned me now, haunted the edges of my conscience. What the fuck was happening to me?

I left the room, my steps heavy, my mind heavier. I wanted her. All of her. To strip away the innocence and see if she'd still look at me like I was someone worth seeing.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself, stalking down the corridor. Loyalty to the Cinder Crew, to Priscilla? That shit was getting harder to stomach. Ella was the wrench in the works, the flaw in the plan.

And God help me, I wanted to be flawed.