Charming Savage (Cinder Crew: Mafia Fairytale Retellings)

11. Eleven Chris

Eleven: Chris

Leaning against the cool metal of the door, I felt the weight of her presence behind it like a goddamn sledgehammer to my chest. Desire, thick and heavy, coiled in my gut, knotting with duty until I couldn't tell one from the other.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, fists clenched at my sides. The hallway was dim, the only bright light spilling from under her door. Today was the day shit got real.

Priscilla's words clawed through my thoughts, a reminder of the devil's bargain I'd struck. You gotta push her, Chris. Gustov's clock is ticking, and you're playing house with the merchandise.

"Harder," she had demanded, gripping my arm tightly. "Break her or Gustov will break us all."

"Understood," I’d responded, numbness seeping into my core.

Now, in the dim light of the dungeon, Ella waited for me. I pushed open the door and walked in. The air between us crackled with something fierce, something dark and twisted. I could taste it on my tongue.

"Take it off," I growled. She hesitated, and the beast in me snarled silently, impatient.

Piece by piece, fabric fell away from her skin, revealing soft curves and pale flesh. Each garment dropped to the floor was an unspoken apology from my lips to whatever gods watched over girls like her. My hands shook, but not from fear. From fucking need—the raw, primal kind that had no place in this godforsaken room. Every Goddamn time I saw her like this... every time I saw those doe brown eyes staring at me with trust that didn't belong there, I felt my connection to the Cinder Crew shatter, just a bit more. Eventually it would break. And there would be blood.

"What are we..." Her voice, hesitant, threaded with innocence that had no right to exist here.

"Shut it," I snapped, more to myself than to her. Because every fiber of me wanted to wrap her up, shield her from the ugliness that was about to unfold. But this was the game—her body the canvas, my hands the cruel artist's tools.

I stepped closer. The heat from her bare skin called to me. "Fucking perfect... and so damn wrong."

My fingers traced the line of her collarbone, down the valley of her breasts, and lower still. Each touch was a promise. Her breath caught, shivers dancing across her skin. Today, I'd scar this pretty canvas.

My hand found the knife at my belt, the cold steel feeling traitorous in my palm. My weapon of choice was one I'd be using against her. I pressed the blade lightly against her thigh, just enough to draw a bead of crimson. Her gasp filled the silence.

"Shit," I muttered. The edge kissed her flesh, again and again. Fear flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by something else.

I pressed the blade down again, another shallow trail on her arm, closer to the wrist. Blood welled up, a dark promise against her pale skin. "Gotta see you painted in the truth of this world."

Her gaze locked onto mine, stormy with emotions too tangled to unravel. I offered the blade, handle first. "Your turn, sunshine."

Her fingers trembled as she took it, the metal cold between us. A hesitation, then she drew it across my skin, a stinging bite that pulled a grunt from my lips.

"Fuck, yeah." I seized her hand, guiding the knife. "Like that."

I watched her face, searching for disgust, for revulsion. Yet I found none. Just that damn adoration that had no right to be there. It made heat coil in my gut, an animal thing, hungry and raw.

"Chris," she whispered, and it wasn't fear. It was something fiercer, something that clawed at the walls I'd built.

"Christ, you're beautiful." I snatched the blade back, licked the blood from her cut—a coppery tang mingling with the salt of her skin. Then our mouths crashed together, a savage kiss as I bit her lip hard enough to make her bleed.

"Fuck me. Please."

"No." The word was gravel, ground out between clenched teeth. "This is the foreplay, the fucking ritual."

The blood smeared under my hands, warm and slick. I painted symbols, a language only the damned could speak. Her body arched, seeking more, seeking anything.

"Chris, I—" She choked on words, on sensations.

"Shh." I coated her thighs in red, stark against her skin. "You're so perfect, all dolled up and nowhere to go."

"Oh..." she breathed, and fuck if it didn't sound like a prayer.

"Oh what, Ella? Please stop? Or please... more?" My gaze locked onto hers, searching for an answer.

Her eyes, wide and brown, held mine. It was need. Need for me, the very monster who'd brought her to this hell.

"More," she whispered, and the word shattered me.

"Christ, you are something else. Not just a pretty porcelain doll." With deft movements, I cut her again, deeper this time. Relishing in the hiss she let out as the rivulets of red immediately took residence on her skin.

"I... I kinda like it."

"Fuck, little ember," I cursed under my breath, each mark I left on her a brand on my soul. She wasn't supposed to enjoy this.

I dropped the knife, the clatter loud in the charged silence. My hands, now free, roamed her body with a hunger that bordered on reverence. Every inch of her skin, every curve and crevice, I committed to memory. This moment, this connection—it was fucked up and fragile, and I’d be damned if I didn’t savor it.

"Ready?" I asked, though it wasn't a question. It was a warning. I was a storm about to break upon her shores, and she was the lighthouse daring me to come closer.

"Yes," she whispered, and her bravery stoked the fire in my veins.

"Good girl," I praised her, the words tasting bitter and sweet.

Leather straps bit into her wrists, the clink of chains following soon after. I fixed her up on a hook, dangling from the ceiling like some kind of angel.

"Fuck, Chris. What are you doing?"

"Teaching you," I grunted, securing the last strap around her ankle. "School's in session, baby."

I stepped back, admiring the canvas of her body—flesh painted with blood, now strung up like the masterpiece it was. The flogger felt right in my grip, an extension of my own twisted desires.

"Scared yet?" I cocked my head, studying her. She’d repeatedly denied being scared. It was almost like she was a penchant for punishment and my God if I wasn’t going to cash in on that.

"Of you? Never," she shot back with that defiant spark. Shit, she was brave, or stupid, or both.

"You should be." A smirk tugged at my lips.

The first stroke landed across her thighs, a whisper of leather that drew out a soft gasp. Second one, harder, left a pink welt—a promise of what was to come. My arm swung in rhythm, each hit a crescendo of pain and pleasure intertwined.

"Fuck!" Her curse was music to my ears, mixed with the hiss of her breath.

"Like that, huh?" My voice, a growl of approval.

"More," she panted, the word a plea wrapped in velvet.

"Greedy girl."

The flogger danced across her skin, each hit harder than the last. She writhed, chains rattling, each movement a beg for more. I obliged, 'cause who the hell was I to deny such a sweet request?

"Fuck, please." Her voice broke.

"Please what, Ella?" I leaned close, my breath hot on her ear. "Tell me what you need."

"Need you... all of you."

"Shit, Ella." I pulled back, admiring the red patterns blooming on her skin. One was a deep purple. Broken blood vessels. "You get under my fucking skin."

"Then take me," she urged, hips bucking in their restraints.

"Patience, little ember. Every good thing takes time." I flicked the flogger again, eliciting a shudder that sent a jolt straight to my groin. "We're building something here, aren't we?"

"Chris..." Her voice faded, lost in the haze of heat and hurt.

Gaze locked on her; every fucking inch of my being screamed to claim her. The air thick with the scent of leather and lust, I reached for the chains and released Ella from her restraints. She slumped forward, her body a canvas of red welts and dried blood.

"Hurt..." Her voice was a ragged gasp, but I cut her off with a kiss, hard and hungry, devouring the plea on her lips.

"Stand up," I commanded, voice low and rough. She obeyed, legs trembling. My hands roamed over her, mapping the territory that was mine. Mine to scar. Mine to heal. Her pulse raced under my fingertips.

"Turn around." The order snapped like a whip. "Face the wall."

She spun, palms flat against the cold concrete, ass presented like a goddamn gift. A growl clawed up my throat, and I pressed myself against her, letting her feel the full weight of my need.

"Fuck, you're so damn beautiful like this," I muttered, hands gripping her hips.

"Please, Chris..." Her moan was muffled by the wall, her body pushing back against mine.

"Shh, doll. You'll get what's coming to you." I slid a hand between her thighs, finding her wet and wanting. "So fucking ready for me."

"Yes," she breathed out, and it was the sweetest fucking surrender.

My cock strained against my jeans, demanding release. In one swift move, I undid my belt, jeans hitting the floor with a thud. No more waiting. No more games.

"Need you," I lined myself up at her entrance. Her whimper sent a shiver down my spine.

"Christ..." I pushed inside, deep, filling her completely. Her cry echoed off the walls, the most perfect sound.

"Fuck, you're tight," I hissed, pulling back only to slam into her again, setting a brutal rhythm.

"Harder," she begged, and I obliged. Tracing my hand down her back, I felt the raised skin where the flogger impacted against her. Groaning, my cock twitched. I'd never thought myself an artist, but Goddamn if she didn't look pretty in red.

"Mine," I grunted, the word punctuated by the slap of skin on skin. "Say it!"

"Yours, Chris, always yours!" Her words fractured, cracked by the force of my possession.

"Good girl." I leaned over her, teeth grazing her shoulder, marking her with every bite.

I fucked her with everything I had, driven by a hunger that couldn't be tamed. Her moans grew louder, and I chased the sound, chased her climax, chased the fucking oblivion that only she could give me.

"Come for me, Ella," I ordered, a hand snaking around to circle her clit. "Now."

And she shattered, her body convulsing around me, dragging me over the edge. We rose the wave together, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat, the darkness swallowing us whole.

"Shit..." I panted, still buried inside her. The world narrowed down to her heartbeat against mine, to the rise and fall of our chests, to the undeniable truth that in this fucked-up game of power and possession, she owned me just as much as I owned her.

I picked her up and walked her to the bed, collapsing on top of her. I lay there, chest heaving, the inferno that had raged through my veins now cooling to embers. Ella was beneath me, her petite frame still shuddering with aftershocks, her breaths shallow and quick against my neck.

"Fuckin' hell," I murmured, the grit of my voice echoing the rawness that clung to every nerve ending. My flesh throbbed where it pressed into hers, a living brand of ownership.

Her hands, small and fierce, traced the contours of my back. They mapped territories she'd come to know—to own— in ways no one else ever had. I rolled off her, my body protesting the loss of contact, but I needed to see her—to witness the aftermath painted on her skin.

"Look at you." My eyes devoured the sight: the flush of her cheeks, the way her lips were swollen from my kisses, the red marks where my fingers had gripped too tight. The cuts that would soon become small scars. "Every inch of you screams mine."

Satisfaction curled inside me like smoke, dark and heady. I reached out, tracing the lines of blood I’d drawn earlier, the crimson stark against her milky skin. It was art, primal and intimate—us etched in flesh and blood.

"Does it hurt?" My finger paused over a particularly deep cut.

"Only in the best ways," she breathed, and the love in her gaze was a fucking punch to the gut—a blow no fight had ever prepared me for. Truthfully, it probably needed stitches.

I leaned in, capturing her mouth once more, a kiss that was all teeth and need.

"Again," she gasped when I finally broke away, her brown eyes alight with something wild, something that matched the darkness in me.

"Patience, little ember. I pushed you today and now you need to rest. Recovery's part of the game."

"Then make it quick." Defiance sparked in her tone, and fuck if it didn't make me want her all over again.

"Bossy little thing, aren't you?" I grinned, though the edge to my smile promised retribution. Pleasure and punishment—they blended seamlessly between us, two sides of the same tarnished coin.

"Learned from the best."

"Damn right." I pulled back, our gazes locked. In the dim light of the dungeon, her bruises and the marks I'd left glowed like war paint. "Next time, I won't be so gentle."

"Promise?" The word hung between us, a vow drenched in desire and danger.

"Swear on my fuckin' life." And I meant it—every crude word, every unspoken oath.

This moment, these sensations, they were the calm in the storm, the eye of the hurricane that had become us. We were destruction and salvation entwined; a mad dance of power and surrender. And as I watched her drift into sleep, her breath evening out, her face softening, I knew there was no coming back from this.

She was my ruin. My retribution. My redemption.

A couple of hours later, Ella was still sprawled before me. I leaned back, watching her, and caught her gaze drifting over the ink that laced my flesh.

"Tell me about these," she breathed, fingertips inching towards the black lines swirling on my arm, skirting the edges of the Cinder Crew's legacy.

"Each one's got a story, a scar, or a soul behind it," I muttered, eyes darkening at memories best left buried. "Marks of brotherhood, marks of the lost."

"Brotherhood?"

"Men I've fought beside, some six feet under now." My jaw clenched, locking away the faces that ghosted behind my lids every fucking night. "Blood bonds thicker than the filth we waded through."

She traced a dragon, its scales a dance of shadows and fire, an epitaph for a brother who had been snuffed out too soon. "He loved myths, believed in honor among thieves. Shit got him killed."

Her touch withdrew, a fleeting warmth against the cold history etched into my skin. Eyes wide, she lingered on a brand low on my forearm, the Cinder Crew's emblem seared into my flesh.

"What about this one?" She pointed, but didn't touch, sensing sacred ground.

"Off-limits," I growled, the words a barricade around the part of me that belonged to Priscilla, to a promise carved in pain and sealed in blood. Fucking Priscilla.

"So... the longer we keep doing this, the more I feel—" she started, but I cut her off, my hand firm on her jaw, angling her face up to mine.

"Enough," I rasped. "That world ain't for you. This is what we got, right here, right now."

"I... I'm just trying to understand what is happening here."

"I'm training you for Gustov. Nothing more, nothing less." Even as the words were forced from my lips, I wanted to reel them back in. The look that crossed her face almost shattered me.

"Okay. Do... do you want to be with me? Or is this because you are loyal to Cinder Crew?"

"Maybe both." I didn't flinch from the truth of it. This life, it was all about duality.

"Let me go then. Be my savior, Chris." A challenge thrown down between us.

"Can't do that." I stiffened.

"Because of her?"

"Because of everything." I gestured around the room, encompassing the darkness, the sins, the blood. I got up and paced the room.

"Because you're a coward." Her eyes followed me, piercing through the bullshit.

"Fuck." I all but spat the word out. It wasn't a confession or an excuse. Just a fact.

"Fuck indeed." She echoed, a mirror of my own turmoil.

"Time to take you back to your own room."

"But..."

"Just stop, Ella. This is who I am. This is all you're ever going to get."