Chapter Eighteen Monika
Chapter Eighteen
Monika
Darius’s office is way smaller than I thought it would be.
That should be comforting, but it isn’t.
Somehow, the size of the room makes the whole space feel twice as intimidating.
It feels like a prison. The ceiling is low.
The gray walls are covered in dark-gray shelving.
Open shelves decorate the upper half of each wall and showcase books and carefully placed bobbles.
Closed shelves decorate the lower half of each wall.
A massive concrete desk stretches nearly all the way across the room. A computer sits on it, but where a keyboard should be are two sheets of paper, one of which is decorated with black text I can’t read from here, the other of which looks like it might be a photograph laid upside down.
Darius sits behind his desk, a blue monster with white horns that shoot up taller than I stand.
He’s showered and shaved but still shirtless.
Not that I’m complaining. I’d say if I did have one complaint—and I do—it would be that his fingers are steepled and pressed against his lips and he’s glaring at me like he just found out I killed his childhood hamster.
“I’m a little surprised you called a meeting and didn’t just break into my apartment again.
” What’s more surprising was that he let me postpone it.
The original meeting request came in for yesterday, but I accidentally slept through it and had to ask him to reschedule for the next morning. He did without complaint.
He doesn’t respond. Hmm. The topic of the meeting wasn’t provided in the calendar invite, so I thought playful banter might have been on the agenda, but I guess not.
His eyes bleed a darker and darker purple the longer I stand there.
I’m wearing normal human clothes again after spending all day yesterday naked in bed, nursing my aches.
I saw another calendar invite pop up for me after this one, scheduling me to meet with Emily and another doctor named Viola, who’s meant to give me a pap.
Even though I haven’t had that visit yet—it’s scheduled for tomorrow—I can’t deny that I’m feeling a little hopeful Darius might be up for another session later .
. . or now . . . if this meeting is a sex workshop.
I thought it might be when I got the invite.
Now I’m feeling less sure. He looks like he’s going to eat me. And not in the fun way.
My hands are empty, making me wish I lived in the era of briefcases just to give myself something to hold. Even worse, there isn’t anywhere for me to sit. The chair Darius sits in is the only one in the room.
I glance around. Darius’s eyes are so bright, flashing blue and purple and white. “Why are you here, Ms. Neumann?”
I swallow, but there’s not a doubt in my mind he can hear me lick my lips. “You called for this meeting, Darius.”
His eyes burn. His horns crackle with electricity. “And why did I call for this meeting?”
“I’m not really sure anymore . . .”
His palm slaps down onto the desk so loudly I jump. He pushes one of the papers toward me ever so slightly, prompting me to edge forward and take a look.
I creep toward his desk and see a familiar still from the video I took at the South Korean Embassy printed on the paper.
It’s from his socials, the one of Cynthia’s face looking the picture of happiness.
The less-than-crisp shot gives me bubble guts while simultaneously making me want to tear out her hair.
“Is this what you saw happen the night of the gala?” he asks me in a voice that’s way too calm.
I meet his gaze. It’s bright purple again, bringing out the menace in his monstrous face.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, glad I had time this morning to rewash and dry it.
He focuses too intently on the movement of my hand as I bring it down to my stomach, then shove it into my sweater pockets.
I’m wearing leggings and a low-cut, formfitting black V-neck.
I didn’t want it to totally look like I was here for the D, so last minute I threw a chunky pink sweater over all of it.
I’m suddenly regretting not having worn my bulletproof Press vest from our last mission.
I don’t look professional, and I don’t look equipped for war either.
I scratch my neck with my other hand and roll out one ankle. I’m wearing slip-on shoes that I hope to hell he doesn’t notice are actual house slippers. “Um . . . no. Not all of it.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw you holding Cynthia in a hug first, except you were electrocuting her, I think.”
“And did you capture that on video?”
I nod.
He slams his hand down on top of the paper again and crumples it into his fist. “Then why did my PR team post this shit?”
“It’s . . .” It’s obvious. The alternative would make him look like a psycho killer. This makes him look like a swooning romantic. “ . . . for your image, you know. Your brand. As Taranis. She makes you look good here . . .”
He sweeps his arms across his desk, sending everything to the floor, including his computer. I jump, genuinely afraid. “Did you like seeing this post?” he asks me, seething. I don’t understand it.
I hesitate, debating how much power to give him here. But there is no other alternative to the truth. I shake my head.
He stands up to his full height, and holy fuck, I forgot how tall he is now. His horns nearly touch the low ceilings. “Well, I fucking hated it. Take off your clothes.”
“I . . .” I waver. Even though this is maybe what I thought I came here for, he’s making me way too nervous.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix the personal and professional stuff,” I try, voice weaker than I’ve ever heard it.
Because how can I forget how good that omelet was yesterday morning, or the fact that he cleaned up my apartment after?
He was nicer to me than anyone’s been in a long time.
And he’s the villain whom I’m supposed to sabotage.
“Take off your clothes and come here.”
I know the safe word. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
But I remove my sweater instead and shut the fuck up.
My shirt goes next. My leggings and slippers.
My underwear, socks . . . bra . . . I stand in front of him feeling self-conscious.
He’s still in sweatpants, after all . . .
though he doesn’t stay in them for long.
He drags them down his thighs and steps back from his desk, his bare ass bumping into a cluster of metal pieces that make a jangling sound when they’re shoved together. “Come here.” He gestures at me with two fingers. His claws are longer than my hands.
Swallowing hard, I step across his bare concrete floor.
Like the rest of his house, there’s no carpets, no signs of life.
Just a cold box that feels like a tomb. I move around his concrete desk until he’s close enough to grab me.
He doesn’t. Instead, he glances down at the surface where the incriminating photo once was.
“You had my permission to share your pretty pictures without my first right of refusal for less than a day.” He grabs me by the back of the head and guides me to stand in front of him, then pushes my head toward the desk.
I lower with no resistance, hissing lightly when my perky nipples press flush against the cold concrete.
He grabs my hands and locks them at my lower back.
He prods at my pussy with a knuckle, undoubtedly finding me wet already, then makes a very male, primal sound before kicking my legs apart.
“Your poor decision-making leaves me no other choice than to rescind the liberty I gave you.” Something cold trickles over my asshole. My eyelashes flutter. I can’t imagine a less romantic place to be in than this room, or anywhere else I’d rather be right now.
“I’m sorry, Darius . . .”
“Don’t fucking speak.” He wrenches open a drawer under his desk and pulls out a stress ball for me to see, one marked with the logo for the COE. He shoves it into my mouth. “If you want to say the safe word, you’re going to have to scream it loud.”
Without any other prelude, I feel Darius insert something not at all as small as it should be into my ass. I jolt over the desk, but Darius kicks my feet even wider and presses down on my wrists on my lower back. He doesn’t say anything as he shoves whatever it is a little farther in.
A vibrator? Dildo? It’s wiggling inside me, so I know that’s not it.
It’s not a finger because those are all clawed.
I can’t figure out . . . “Mmmph,” I groan, my eyes rolling back as the huge head of whatever it is finally makes it past that outer ring and my tight anus squeezes on the thinner shaft of his . . . tail. Holy fuck. It has to be.
“Mmm,” he groans, and that strange purring has picked back up in his chest. “Tight.” He starts to thrust his tail in and out of me and it hurts, but it also feels so fucking fantastic.
I’m not going to come from it, though, and I could cry.
If he would just touch my clit a little bit, for a second, I’d erupt.
A few minutes pass. I’m writhing and shaking on the table while he tail-fucks my ass. My tits are so unhappy, pushed against this hard desk. I could cry at the injustice of it. And then the bastard at my back has the nerve to whisper, “Fuck it.”