Chapter 18
I arrived in Chicago early in the morning. It was only a four-hour flight, but it felt like the longest of my life. I usually get a kick out of going on missions, especially with my brothers. It was the only thing that kept me going—until now.
My mind is back in my penthouse, and my feet are itching for the moment they walk through the door to see Serena .
Is this what true obsession feels like? Because I know it can't be love. I am incapable of such emotions, even though I am convinced that she is the one for me.
Maybe it's just madness. I am known for doing all sorts of stupid stuff; why would this time be any different?
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” That's my brother Surt’s way of saying hello the second he sees me getting out of the plane. There’s no brotherly hug, and I don't expect one. We function differently—we don't need emotions to solidify our bond. It's something more than blood that we share in our veins—the gift or the burden of eternal life. Sure, I lost some of my brothers along the way. Our bodies may live forever, and our wounds heal faster than any human's, but if they're fatal, we still meet our end .
I just let my gaze pierce through his, putting him in his corner, even if when it comes to physical power I stand no chance. He’s at least a head taller than me, and considering I’m 6'3'', that’s saying something. He’s built like the Rock Man from Fantastic Four , muscles popping from everywhere, making it impossible for him to wear a decent shirt without ripping it to pieces every time he sneezes or flexes a muscle. Like me, he used to be seen as the God of War in different mythologies. Mortals feared us, viewing us as harbingers of death, which was often true , mostly because we had other ways to have our fun back then. The civilizations back then usually depicted me as some sort of well-built muscular man with the head of an animal, similar to a monster, which was partially correct, except for the animal part, because when it came to the monster aspect I was as frightening as it got. Surt was described as the carrier of fire, a devil with long horns always burning in flames of anger, or sometimes, in some sort of human shape of a semi-giant in his sixties with long grizzled hair and a beard. My brothers and I used to make fun of him all the time because of that, especially since his real facial appearance is the opposite of that. He seems in his late twenties-early thirties, golden-green eyes, short messy dark hair, and no beard, except for the occasional stubble. We still call him Gramps from time to time just for amusement. Yet, no matter how close we are, I can’t bring myself to tell him about Serena. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me, or maybe I do, but I don't find it necessary to share it with him just yet. I don't want him to return the favor and make fun of me for all eternity if things don't pan out the way I expect them to.
He knows better than to question me again, so he quickly gets to the important part of the day—our mission. Someone is trying to overthrow us at our own game, thinking he can come around and take control of my brother’s town. That someone is Daniel Dalvacio—a wannabe, looking to impress the Sicilian Capos and carve out his slice of Chicago .
Surt had significant losses amongst his men while trying to put Dalvacio out of business. Still, he's sitting at the winner's table. We always are.
Dalvacio’s forces are destroyed, but he's still living and breathing somewhere in the city, and my brother just found his location. He’d usually go in alone, but he just lost his wingman in this street war, and now needs a couple of eyes and ears on the outside that he can trust. But I’m not the type to be left on the sidelines, and he knows it . I fight with him over it, but he can’t make a deal with a madman. So he agrees—we both go in, and one of his men keeps watch . Besides, if anything goes wrong, there’ll be two of us. That makes us pretty much unbeatable.
To top things, my brother insists we’re armed to the teeth until I feel like we’re fucking Terminators.
Well , hasta la vista baby , to whoever tries to cross us.
We reach Dalvacio’s hideout late into the night. I've been talking with Serena's doctor, and my girl has been making it difficult for the doctor to give her any kind of medical attention. It pisses me off, but she's been mostly out of it all day, so I couldn't call her and remind my little captive of her place. I will do it as soon as I get this shit over with. For now, my focus has to be here —every detail matters, and I need to stay one step ahead of our enemy .
As soon as we step out of the car, the scout says the place is empty . His night-vision goggles pick up nothing. I glance at my brother—anger’s already building on his face.
I signal for him to calm down. We can’t go in with him wound up like this; even if the guard tells us it should be secured. Surt nods that he's okay, and we make our way through the back door—hands on the trigger, and a lust to kill right about anyone and anything at this point.
I soon realize the guard was right, as we progressed through the building, we only found empty rooms. S omething’s off. I can tell Surt feels it too . Someone must’ve tipped Dalvacio off, and he bolted because I know Surt had information about his competitor being here today.
Still, I don't like the silence. Dalvacio should have left some guards behind if he knew we were coming, and at least made an attempt to end us. My gut tells me this is a trap—just not the kind we expected . “Get out!” I roar toward Surt, and we start making a run for it, trying to get out of the building as soon as possible. I didn't get to see a bomb, but I know it’s there.
The second we get out through the main door, all hell breaks loose—a loud blast throws us in the street.
For a few seconds—nothing . Everything goes black.
I don't know for how long I've been out. But as I begin to regain consciousness, my brother is screaming at me to get up. I am covered in glass and debris. There's still a loud ringing in my ears, and I just know it’s going to be there for days or maybe weeks to come. This isn't my first explosion, and luckily it wasn't the last, so I am familiar with the hangover state, like I've been sinking into a barrel of whiskey.
Fuck, this hurts like hell.
But what hurts the most is being defeated. Well, not actually defeated; it just feels like we weren't ahead of the game. Surt is a ticking time bomb himself, and I'm not far from being in the same state. We've lost Dalvacio, and I know it will be a while before he shows his face again. He's cornered and outnumbered, especially now that his plan fell through and we're still alive.
We receive no other news from my brother’s men for the rest of the day, and that brings me close to losing my mind. I have to get back to Las Vegas, but I can't abandon him. Not in the state he’s in.
It's only late in the day that I manage to talk to Serena's doctor again. She's coming to her senses but still refuses any kind of treatment, and to make matters worse , she hasn't eaten anything since they brought her there. It seems like she has a death wish. She should know by now that it is I who will decide how she lives, and when she dies from the moment she agreed to be mine.
I want to calm down after talking to her doctor, but my fingers are twitching to call her. My brother is still in my presidential suite, waiting for an answer from his man, and I don't want him to be part of the conversation I'm about to have with her. This is the first time I want him out of here, and he gives me just that break when he goes to his car to get an extra pack of cigarettes.
I instantly pick up my phone. I need to see what she's doing, so I get her on a video call. This time, I don't care if she's sleeping or not; I'm going to wake her up.
I can see her tucked in bed as the TV descends from the ceiling. “Hello, Serena.” I make her aware of my presence and then wait for a few seconds before she becomes fully aware . She tries to cover herself when she realizes I can see her, like there's going to be any piece of her that I won't get to explore eventually.
Still, I don't have the time or the patience to go into that subject. “You didn't let my doctors help you. Why?” I try to remain calm as I ask, but it seems almost impossible after the days I've had.
“I'm not letting myself be drugged by you.” I feel she’s picking a fight, but for her own sake, I try to ignore it.
Not that it's working too well. “Do you think I need to drug you? You're already fucking mine!” I thought we had this part covered. She better understand that the only rule of the game is to listen to what I fucking say. Or maybe she's already beginning to develop septicemia, and the infection has gotten to her fucking brain. I try to look at her wounds again, but she's only covering herself even more as if my gaze is torching her skin. “A nurse will come to look at your wounds, and you will let her.” I try to find an alternative where I don't have to go there myself and properly take care of her.
But she doesn't seem to drop the attitude. “I can take care of myself. As I said, I don't need your doctors.”
“Lose the attitude. You don't want to see what I'm really capable of this early in the day . Do you?” I give her a fair last warning, lighting myself a cigarette, and attempting to keep my patience, though I'm not sure I’ll succeed. I offer her one last gesture of goodwill, hoping she won't mess up again. “I know that you're paranoid right now, but you have my word that I sent the doctors for your own comfort. To make you feel better.” I don't want to get started on the wrong foot with her.
However, she doesn't seem to care about my efforts to act civilized; on the contrary, “You killed the only man that could ever make me feel better!”
The second she says it, her words choke the life out of me. I don't even know if she realizes how badly this gets to me. I know she said it on purpose, but still, there's that seed of doubt that she might be delusional enough to actually consider it true.
She's going to pay for those words. I'll make sure of that.
“That remains to be seen.” I'm going to prove her so wrong; she doesn't even know what feeling good means. By the time I'm done with her, all she'll be thinking about is my hard cock and how to get it inside her fast enough .
Still, it’s not the right time to play the sexual card, more like the revenge one. “But I have to correct you on this one. You killed him.” I cut her off, leaving her with the thought that she was the one who killed the man she claimed to have been giving her satisfaction.
I don't even know what's going on with me, but I throw my phone on the ground so forcefully that it cracks the marble tiles.I lose track of my thoughts for a few minutes. I feel trapped here like a mouse in a fucking cage. The room tightens around me, and my temper is almost impossible to control. I’m like a raging bull, so lost in the torment that's getting hold of me that I don't even hear my brother coming back in. I notice him standing next to the door, and by the look on his face, he's been there for a while now.
Fuck.
“So, you've got one with a temper.” He seems keen on making that observation.
Double fuck.
“She's just...” I trail off, not knowing what to say. What is she to me? My toy. My obsession. The woman I want next to me for the rest of my life?
This is even more fucked-up than I realized.
“I think I get you,” Surt says, though I'm not even sure I get myself . “Go back to Las Vegas. I can handle things here.”
“I'm not leaving.” I insist, even though my heart says otherwise.
“Listen, I've been tracking Dalvacio for months. He's not likely to show up anytime soon. I will let you know if he does. Go back home because, from what I can see, you have even more trouble than I do.” My brother looks at me as if he knows exactly what he’s saying. I have been through battles and wars, but never anything like this. I don’t even know what this is.
I want to refuse him so badly, tell him I’ll stay at least until things settle down, but I just can't let Serena go unpunished for putting Nick first once again. I've never been jealous of a man before, especially a dead one. Still, I fear that his constant presence in our lives may end with her joining him.
I don't wait for my brother to tell me twice; just pack my shit, and take a private plane straight to Vegas. I’ll return to him as soon as I get things cleared with Serena. Fuck, I don't even know what I'm more anxious about—proving her wrong or assuring myself that she's back on her feet. This is a whole new kind of madness I'm experiencing. I just hope we’re both going to survive it.
My heart rate quickens as I enter my hotel. I’ve never been so fucking excited about this place before. I'm still not sure what I'm about to do to her. I just hope I figure something out before I reach the room—something that doesn't involve her leaving in a wooden box.
She's asleep when I get in, like an angel lost between my sheets. Or maybe just like a lost angel.
I just pray, for both our sake, that she doesn't still have that temper because there's no telling what I will do if I hear Nick's name again.
I hear someone enter the room, but this time I'm too afraid to turn and see who it is. Maybe because I already know who's coming to pay me a visit. His cologne fills my nostrils, and I think he can already feel the arousal, and fear he brings along.
Seth is here. I’d bet that it has something to do with my little breakdown earlier. So, I pretend to be asleep, even though my body involuntarily tenses as I feel the bedsheet beneath me rise. I just can't decide if I should let him know I'm awake or if I should bury my head deep inside the pillow, and keep pretending to be sound asleep.
I feel him slide into bed behind me, close enough that I can feel the whole shape of his body gluing itself to my back. I want to get out of here, but I know one more mistake will probably cost me my life.
He gave me a choice—to kill Nick and save myself. Even if he tricked me into the deal, I’m alive because I agreed to be his. Now, here I am, in bed with a monster, who’s also the man I've been secretly yearning for—that was before I knew he was nothing else but a cold-blooded killer.
Suddenly, I feel him rising higher on the pillows; his lips search for the shape of my neck, and his hand catches the nightgown that covers my stomach, bunching it into a fist . He's breathing heavily, like a great burden is pressing down on his shoulders. “You're making me break my promise, Ya’amar. And I never break my promises. But I feel you're fighting me with every single word I say.”
Wait, what? His promise. Fuck, is that the one where he's not supposed to touch me for three days?
I should quiver with fear at the thought, but my dumb body begins to tremble with need and desire.
Motherfucker, you're getting the wrong message. Control yourself. This is an internal message to myself, hoping that common sense will kick in, and remind me that the hands that touch me are those of a killer.
And if I can't remind myself, then Seth makes sure to do it for me. “I could hurt you. Not enough to lose you, but enough to make you regret it for the rest of your life.” I can feel the anger simmering in his voice. It’s typical man of him to feel betrayed the second I praise another man.
This time, though, he actually manages to scare me . I know he means every single word of what he said. He would probably keep me struggling on the line between life and death for years only so he could get a sick kick out of it. I know he's dangerous, and it's not that kind of dangerous you could reason with. He's the wrong kind of dangerous.
Still, his lips moving on the skin of my neck give me goosebumps. He might be aware by now that I'm awake, but I still do nothing to confirm it. And he doesn't seem to ask me to react in any way.
His hand slowly slides down my nightgown, leaving a painful trail behind. It's not because of his touch; it's because of my wounds, and I can barely keep myself from crying out.
He only stops somewhere above my knees, where he grabs hold of the hem of my nightgown and starts raising it so he can gain access underneath the material. I'm losing my breath, knowing he’ll soon be exactly where my body wants him to be. It's like I'm having an internal war. I want to say no, but my pussy—along with my survival instinct—both scream yes.
I knew this man would be trouble from the second I learned of his existence, but I never imagined it to be at this level. To gauge how much trouble he is , his hand delves between my inner thighs to discover I’m not wearing panties. His fingers dig into my flesh, and I feel him groaning with pleasure like a lion roars when it catches its prey. But he doesn't have the room he needs to properly enjoy himself, and my thighs squeezing together don't give him any satisfaction.
I feel him getting them to part. His hand goes lower on one of my inner thighs, trying to gently pull them open.
I don't let him, and it only infuriates him even more. He knows I'm not sleeping, but just plays along. Maybe it's even turning him on because, judging by the hard shape I feel resting on my ass, he is fully awake.
I know he won't give up that easily, and the whispered words in my ear confirm it: “Since you didn't want the doctor's medicine, I'm giving you mine.” He's almost diabolical, sending me into a panic. I'm afraid he’ll hurt me, although I'm not sure I can be more wounded than I am right now. I guess I'm about to find out as he swiftly turns me to face the pillow , entrapping me between the mattress and the strength of his body.
This time I can't help myself but cry out in pain. The movement felt like I had fallen off a cliff, and rubbing my skin—even on the sheet—feels as painful as someone moving a piece of sandpaper on me. I almost pass out from the pain, and I can hear a disapproving snarl coming from his throat. “Behave next time.” The tone of his voice is much softer, like he knows he messed up and just made me suffer.
Still, that doesn't stop him. One of his legs positions itself between my thighs to keep them open, while his hand stays trapped beneath me . Or maybe I'm the one trapped, with his hand right where he wants it to be. Despite the delicate position I find myself in, his weight isn't on me. His body is here just to keep me from moving, but doesn't put pressure on me in any way. I don't think I could've handled it otherwise.
I feel the pain starting to tone down as his fingers come to life between my folds. “Don't you find it funny that even though you're in pain, you still manage to be so wet for me?” he asks in the most seductive tone possible, somehow managing to get me even more aroused.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I seriously need help. And it’s not the police kind of help to keep him away from me. I need psychological help ASAP. I don't want to go insane, but it seems like every moment I spend with him leads me that way.
I fear him from the bottom of my heart. I hate him from the bottom of my heart. And I yearn for him from the bottom of my heart. That says something about my mental condition.
What am I doing? I ask myself as soon as I realize that the hand playing with my pussy is the same that forced me to plunge the knife into Nick's heart. And no, no matter how good it may feel, it's still tainted with the blood of all those men. Just thinking about it makes me want to jump from the bed. But that would mean disobeying him again, and I don't think I’d make it out this time around. So, I just remain still, trying to ignore the mesmerizing fingers that play against my damp skin, gliding over and over again on my aroused nub. It's so easy to find ecstasy. Much easier than trying to prevent it from happening. My body is tense, but the more I try to get away from his hand, the more I realize I'm only arching against his cock. And that puts me again in a very difficult position.
I don't say anything. Just hang on by a fine thread, feeling him working on me with such skill that I don't know if I should cry out of anger or of joy.
“You know, the image of you covered in blood turned me on. But as much as you consider me to be a monster, I’d prefer if it wasn't your own blood. You will understand me one day, the same way you will understand what I have offered you.” His words are whispers again, like they are aimed to seduce me, maybe even make me fall in love with him, and not see him for the psychopath he really is.
I don't answer him, even though he knows I am awake. I prefer not to give him the satisfaction of receiving any kind of reaction from me, although it’s beginning to be impossible to hide the reaction of my body at a time like this. My hips are arching back into him, trying to get more pressure on my clit to ease the electric shock like pulses running through it.
He's good, I give him that. Okay, maybe more than good. He's like a fucking master of touching exactly the places that are calling out for him.
I wish I weren’t so weak .
Fucking hands of a killer, remember Serena?
I give myself a warning, hoping that I manage to put some sense back into me.
Maybe if he saw that he wasn’t succeeding in making me come, he might give up . But I know better than that. He will succeed. There’s no real chance of him stopping before he makes me climax. And if his touch isn't bad enough to challenge my self-control, the dominant words he puts into my ears are stealing any kind of will to resist him. “I want you so fucking wet, you'll be dripping on the bed.”
I really need him to stop talking like that because these kinds of thoughts would only fulfill his wish. I'm starting to think I need God in my life, because I ended up in bed with the devil.
His hand doesn't stop; it just moves faster, sending two fingers deep within me while his thumb remains to put pressure on my clit. If things were normal between us, I would probably moan from the pleasure until my throat was sore. Yet he's the man who's keeping me prisoner, even though I can't deny that I crave to remain his captive for at least a few more minutes.
I feel like I'm betraying myself by not fighting him, and those are the moments when the pain kicks in, pushing the pleasure away. But then his tongue circles my shoulder, while his fingers pound inside me with a rhythm I can't ignore, filling me with an intensity of pleasure I was yet to discover.
I don't want to give him the satisfaction of coming for him, but I don't know how to stop myself. The throbbing sensation gets hold of pretty much everything that's under my waist, and I uselessly try to convince myself that I don't belong to this man.
He knows I'm close, and his teeth begin to graze my shoulder, becoming more and more demanding. He wants to feel me tightening for him, no matter how hard I try to stop it.
His thumb traces a line down my spine , then his teeth sink into my skin like he's going to bite off a piece of me. “Feel the pain. Let it settle, and wait until I replace it with pleasure. Until that pussy of yours would only be calling for me.”
I hate that he's right. But he is right. The pain startles me, but so does the orgasm that follows just a few more movements of his hand. I want to scream in anger, but I feel this is my fault as much as it is his. I'm enjoying it well beyond any reasonable limit.
I'm expecting him to stop and give me peace. I don't think he would be mad enough to try to fully claim me because, to be honest, I don't think I will survive him at a time like this. But his hand doesn't rest, riding me through my orgasm, making my body jolt so intensely that I feel my back gluing onto his chest, and almost lifting him off the bed.
I don't know what he's trying to do, but I feel like I don't have it in me to fight it.
“You're a whisper away, Ya’amar. Stay here with me for a little longer.” He bites the words into my shoulder blade over and over again. While his hand doesn't give me a moment’s rest. His fingers seem to reach a spot I didn't even know existed in my body. It's something impossible to resist. Like he's probing a place that's threatening to leave me paralyzed.
He builds a different kind of pleasure, a pleasure driven out of madness. I've never felt this before, and I don't know how to accept it, let alone control it. Yet, here he is, achieving the impossible, and sending me into the ecstasy of pain. The pounding of his fingers stirs something so intense it seems to rearrange my internal organs. My ovaries hurt, and I come so hard that I think I'm falling apart. Every single part of my body seems intensely alive, and I can't help but scream because of the pain.
Or is it the pleasure?
The pillow mutes my screams somewhat , but certainly not enough for Seth not to hear it.
I feel his wet hand finally stopping, resting on my inner thigh.
What the hell just happened to me? I don't even get the chance to answer this question; I'm so exhausted that I can barely stay awake, and I manage to do so only enough to hear what he has to say. “Do you feel better now? Does Nick still own your thoughts, or is it me?”
I don't reply, although I think he just answered himself. It’s not that I don’t want to respond; it’s that I think I fainted . There's no other way to explain what happened because I woke up after who knows how many hours.
Seth is still next to me, and I can’t help being afraid of his intentions, especially as I feel him raising my nightgown again over my hips. This time, I can't stay silent, and the dampness between my thighs reminds me of the aftermath of his visit.
Again, what the hell just happened to me?
I'm beginning to think it's because of my injuries because what went on in my body earlier, defies my anatomy.
Whatever it was, I can't have another one for the night. I don't think I will survive it. And I don't know if I'm more scared of Seth or of me at this point. But since he's the one who’s been screwing up my life lately, I will blame it on him. “You fucking psycho,” I snarl at him, seeing that I am naked until right below my breasts.
“Yes,” the thrill in his voice as he answers me is unmatched. It's as if it's coming from the depths of hell. He is a fucking psycho, and well aware of it.
I want to say something more, but I feel I already crossed the line, and since he actually admits to being a psycho, there's no telling what he would do to me.
“Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you realized you just cursed again and you're afraid I will get your tongue?” He asks with the calm of a madman, lifting my nightgown over my breasts, while I try to cover myself by pulling the sheet from the bed. “I’m not undressing you to fuck you. You already made me break my promise. I’ve only touched you because of your little outburst. Now, stay still, and let me clean your fucking wounds.”
It's only now that I notice he holds a wet towel in his hand, and more than a few bandages are lying on the nightstand next to him.
“What about my three days?” I ask, pushing the limit again. I just feel I have to do it since I'm definitely not ready for him.
“You still have them, if you can manage to behave yourself,” he mutters, pressing the towel into one of my wounds.
That hurts like hell.
He sees me fighting the pain, but he doesn't seem to be bothered; it's more like he gets a kick out of it. It's my punishment for not standing up to Nick. And I am beginning to think I deserve it.
I regret what I’ve done, but I haven’t yet had a chance to fully grasp what Nick did to me . He would have killed me without a second thought if that meant saving his life. I guess that's why I'm trying to avoid thinking about what happened because, in the twisted way of things, Seth might be right. He’s still a psycho for killing him, and the rest of the guys. But he’s also right for wanting to free me of Nick.
I don't even know how my mind took me there, especially now that Seth's hands are traveling my body, checking for any bleeding wounds. He turns me into his puppet, moving me as he pleases; still, his touch is gentle as he tends to me, injury by injury.
I cover myself as much as I can. He's down to my last wound, and I know he left this one for last because it's the most serious. There is a cut on my stomach, not deep enough to be life-threatening, but deep enough to give me serious trouble.
I see him looking at my hand that covers my pussy as well as the one that covers my breasts. He smiles, as if I'm not aware that he will eventually see them. Like I don’t know yet that I belong to him.
Still, his focus is on the wound. He's carefully cleaning it while a strand of raven hair falls over his eyes. I fight the pain just to look at him a little longer. He seems incredibly charming in this light—maybe even gentle, I might say. But that’s just because I’m hallucinating. He’s nothing more than a killer, and I should know better than to let a romance movie play out in my head.
“I don't like this,” he says, putting a bandage on my wound. “In the morning, you’ll let the doctor see you and you’ll take whatever medicine she tells you to. Then you’ll eat the breakfast that will be brought to you. You'll be on antibiotics, and you need nutrients in your system. No more drama, or I’ll have to come in and feed you myself. And food won't be the first thing to enter that pretty little mouth of yours.”
Well, so much for the charming part of him...
He knows I’ll listen to him. I would be crazy not to do it this time.
I know what happened a few hours ago wasn't the kind of punishment he usually gives, and I don't want to discover the truly dark side of him.
He’s preparing to leave, and I feel a wave of relief flowing over me. I will finally be alone, even if only for a few hours. But he makes certain not to give me even that. “I want you to sleep in the puddle you made, dreaming of me .”
No, I won't.
I could tell him that, but he leaves the room before I get to do it.
Nah, I wouldn't have opened my mouth and risked him staying any longer. But he's right, he will be here, in my dreams, while I try to figure out what he did to me—or maybe even how to get him to do it again.
Just call me crazy and throw away the key.