Bound to a Monster

1. Carmie

Chapter 1

Carmie

I storm into the club armed with my worst lipstick and my best vibrator.

The makeup is my mask. I don’t normally wear bright red, but tonight I’m trying to be anyone but myself.

Good Carmela. Nice Carmela. Never-broke-a-rule Carmie.

My window for living on my own terms is rapidly closing.

That’s why I’m in a dress my best friend, Kaley, encouraged me to buy but has been hidden in the back of my closet for the last few years. It’s something I’d never dare put on in public, at least not the normal Carmie.

Black, strappy, straight neck, bodycon. I’d never, ever be allowed out in this thing if anyone from my family caught it on me, and it’s not even that bad.

Good thing Club Twilight’s on the other side of town in West Philly where I don’t know anybody. It’s in an old Victorian mansion that got flipped a few years back and turned into one of the hottest destinations for young people looking for a good time.

I’ve never been here before, but more than that, nobody from my father’s organization would ever be caught dead in a place like this.

Which makes it perfect.

The bouncer doesn’t look at me twice. I’m just another anonymous girl out for a little fun. I cling to my little black clutch as I walk through the crowd, feeling both elated and nervous.

I’ve never gone out alone before. The few times I’ve gone dancing have been in big groups, but this is totally different. I have no friends to fall back on, no circle of girls to disappear into.

It’s just me, my red lipstick, my vaguely inappropriate dress, and my sex toy.

I head to the bar. I can’t imagine dancing sober. I ask for white wine and nervously sip it as my knee jostles up and down. I manage to sneak a glance at myself in the mirror behind the bar and resist the urge to start touching my hair. It’s a nervous habit and one I’m trying to break.

This has to be the stupidest idea ever. If Daniel or Luca knew I was here, they’d lose their freaking minds, and forget about Dad’s overreaction. He’d probably try to ground me like I’m still a teenager.

But joke’s on him—if his daughter is old enough to get married off to some strange Russian man, then his daughter’s old enough to lose her virginity in a nightclub to a stranger.

Okay, that’s probably not how he’d see it, but that’s my goal.

I saved myself. That’s such a stupid phrase, like having sex is ruining your body, but whatever. I don’t even know why I waited anymore. My dad made it clear that he expected me to be pure until marriage, and I’ve always been the kind of girl that listens to her parents. Not sure I’m all that proud of it anymore. He praised me all the time, told me how strong I was because I refused to get emotional, and he even encouraged my fencing back when I was in high school. A nod or a kind word was everything to me, and I guess I thought if I really did follow his rules and try my best to be the kind of woman he wanted me to be, he’d reward me with more freedom, more responsibility, more something .

Instead, I’m getting a husband I don’t want, and I don’t even know his name.

That’s right. I’m getting married to a man I don’t know, have never met, and couldn’t pick out of a lineup with a gun to my head.

And now this is my final act of rebellion. This is my one last fuck you, world , before I walk down the aisle and do my duty.

I’m going to have sex with a stranger and lose my virginity on my own terms.

Except I have no idea how to go about making that happen, which is an unfortunate side effect of embracing the whole good-girl thing.

Now that I want to be bad, I have no clue how to get started.

I skim the men sitting nearby. A few of them are on their phones and a few more are standing in groups with other guys and random girls, talking and laughing. I don’t know which of them is available, and even if there were some sign flashing above their heads that said Open For Sex Business , I still don’t know how to actually initiate a little bone-town transaction.

Do I just walk up to the most attractive man I find and proposition him?

He’ll probably think I’m a hooker.

It’s not like I can explain myself. Hey, my dad arranged for me to marry a stranger and I want you to fuck me tonight so I don’t walk down the aisle as a virgin . Not weird or crazy, I swear!

That sounds… complicated.

I slam back my first glass of wine and ask for another. I’m feeling hopeless when I finish my second and ask for a third. This was always a terrible idea. So what if I want to rebel? There are easier ways. I could get a belly button piercing or a tattoo on my butt. I could run away for a few nights and steal my father’s credit card to fund a little luxury vacation.

I could refuse to marry a stranger.

But none of that would be enough.

Instead, I chose this, because it’s the last thing I can really control.

A tattoo can be lasered away. A piercing comes out. My father can find me and make sure I say my vows whether I agree to do it or not.

But my virginity will never grow back.

And so I’m giving it away tonight, even though I’m itching with how awkward and uncomfortable I feel.

Which is why I packed my favorite vibrator.

Some stupid, insane voice in my head thought it would be a good idea to have it, just in case things went wrong and I needed a little helping hand.

Like if I weren’t in the mood ? Maybe it would… assist? I could whip it out like hey, stranger, I actually brought my own sex toy! I promise I’m not weird!

As if tonight were about getting off and not just getting on with it.

Irrational, I know, but for some reason it felt like a good luck totem at the time. Like if I brought a sex toy, I’d have more confidence or something.

I’m aware how insane I must seem.

I definitely feel like I’m losing my mind.

The alcohol starts to help. I bop around in my stool at the bar, bouncing a little bit to the loud, pulsing beat. Honestly, people do this sort of thing all the time. They meet in places like this, build some kind of connection, and have a one-night stand. It can’t be that hard.

I just need to send the right signals.

How do I let men know I want some no-strings-attached sex? Without coming across as a hooker, ideally?

Although, it might not be so bad if I manage to pull this off and also earn some spending money…

I try making eye contact with a few of the men sitting near me. One’s around my age, maybe a little older, and doesn’t seem to be here with anyone, but he’s way too lost in scrolling on his phone. I catch the eye of another guy and try giving him a big, friendly smile, but I must look deranged because he quickly turns away.

Not the best showing so far.

After my third glass of wine, I’ve got a good buzz going, but I’m feeling pretty dejected. I ask for a fourth, even though I know it isn’t a good idea, and leave a big tip for the bartender. I gather up all my courage and turn toward the dance floor, thinking this is the only way I’ll be able to attract a mate, like I’m some kind of peacock in a nature documentary. I’ll shake my ass, get all sweaty, maybe let some guy grind up on me, and that might go somewhere. I can do this; I can definitely do it.

I throw myself around, take one step toward the dance floor, and slam into a guy so hard I spill my drink all down his shirt.

“What the fuck?” the guy says, looking at himself, his big, pig-like eyes going wide with shock.

He’s heavyset with a shaved head and a thick nose. I’m guessing banker, maybe car salesman, hard to really say, but he’s definitely bristling with testosterone in all the worst ways.

There’s a moment of pure horror where I’m gaping at the humongous, soaking wet stain on his expensive-looking shirt and he’s glaring from me back down at himself like he can’t believe this is happening, and neither of us does anything, like if we acknowledge the stain any further that’ll somehow make it real.

Then he must decide being wet sucks and he grabs my arm.

“I’m fucking soaked, you clumsy bitch,” he snarls at me.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I swear, it was an accident.” My heart’s racing with terror, and this is basically my worst nightmare playing out in real time.

“I don’t give a shit if it was an accident. I’m fucking drenched.” His grip tightens, and I realize he’s drunk. Like, really drunk. His eyes are glassy, and his lips are pulled back in rage. He’s roided-out, and his top three buttons are undone, and there’s a big glittering chain around his neck. His gelled hair looks like a helmet on his square head.

I revise my initial assessment. Not a banker or a salesman.

More like a cheap mafia prize fighter.

Panic slams into my chest. Now I have to deal with this asshole, placate him somehow, fix his shirt or dry him off or give him money or something , and forget about sex tonight.

It’s not happening.

I wasted my one chance. I’m getting married in four weeks, and my father won’t be going out of town again before it happens. That means there won’t be any other risky nights like this one, no last-ditch shots at keeping a piece of myself purely for myself.

“Seriously, I’m really sorry. Here, I have money in my clutch—” An insane plan forms in my brain. I don’t even know why, but the way he’s talking to me, the way he’s grabbing me, it manages to turn all my fear into pure anger. Fuck this guy for ruining my night. Fuck him for thinking he can touch me just because I made a mistake.

I reach inside and grab onto my big lipstick tube.

As I pull it out, the asshole yanks on my arm hard enough to hurt.

“Fuck your fucking money, you bitch ?—”

Say what you want about my father. He’s controlling, he’s manipulative, he’s emotionally distant and borderline abusive, but he did not raise me to be soft.

This asshole just crossed the line. He was being aggressive and douchey, but he kind of had a right to be.

But the moment he hurt me?

All fucking bets are off .

I don’t even think about it. Years of training click into place. I drop into my fencing stance, yanking myself away from him, and as he growls and comes for me again, I lunge the lipstick tube forward and jab it right into his throat.

It’s one hell of a strike. Pride blossoms in my belly. The end gets him as his momentum drives him forward into my strike, and he ends up stumbling to the side, gripping his neck and gagging. His face turns red in shock as he looks at me with bulging eyes.

If this was a fencing match, I’d scream with excitement over my touch.

Instead, I’m suddenly aware that a lot of people are watching me right now.

Time to get the hell out of here.

I turn and run. To hell with this. To hell with dancing, to hell with losing my virginity, to hell with having just one stupid thing for myself.

Like I said, this was a really dumb idea.

I make it outside. I’m shaking with adrenaline and cursing myself for being so dumb. It’s a brisk evening. The sidewalk is mostly empty except for the line waiting to get inside. I hurry across the street and slump against a fence half a block away, my heart hammering. I should keep moving, get an Uber back home, hide out in my comfortable bed under my pillows and blankets, and pretend like this nightmare evening never happened.

But I’m coming down hard, and I need a second to get myself together.

My hand trembles as I tug at my hair. I keep seeing that guy’s face, red and wide-eyed with shock, his big mitts at his throat. I could have killed him if I’d hit a little bit harder. Honestly, I’m lucky if he’s still breathing back there.

I pull out my phone, and I’m about to call a car when a man comes walking toward me from the direction of the club.

For a second, I think it’s my enemy, the muscle-head, following me for some revenge. I wouldn’t put it past the guy. But the man coming right for me is someone else entirely.

I don’t recognize him. I’m about to start running, but when he steps into the light of the streetlamp, my breath catches.

He’s wildly attractive. Gorgeous, even. Chiseled jaw, dark eyebrows, full lips. His hair is messy in that perfectly casual, tousled sort of way, thick and slightly curly. He’s in faded black jeans, black sneakers, and a simple black t-shirt, and he’s looking at me with the most charming smile I’ve ever seen in my life. His body’s chiseled and built like he was born to be a professional athlete, and I realize I’m staring as his smile gets bigger.

“You okay?” he asks. “I saw what happened in there.”

My mouth clicks shut as I take a breath.

Get it together, Carmie. He’s not that hot.

Even though he really is.

“I’m fine, just embarrassed. Is that guy?—?”

He shakes his head, and for a moment, his charming smile slips away, replaced by something else.

A strange expression. It’s serious, almost emotionless.

Black as night.

A thrill runs into my core.

“I took care of him. He won’t be coming after you.”

I stand up straight, not sure what to make of that. “He was following me?”

“At first, but I had a conversation with him.” The man comes nearer and leans against the fence beside me. “He understands how things are.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that he understands bothering you will be the biggest mistake of his life.” His charming smile returns, banishing the darkness, but the threat of it lingers.

It’s disconcerting. My heart’s still pounding, and I don’t think it’s from the adrenaline anymore.

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Stepan, but you can call me Step.”

“Well, uh, thanks, Step.” I clear my throat and catch myself tugging at my hair. I force myself to stop. “I appreciate your help even though I don’t really know what you did.”

“Just a casual threat of violence is all.” He tilts his head, studying me. “That was one hell of a move in there, by the way.”

I flush with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. “I don’t even know why I reacted like that.”

“The prick deserved it. I was about to get involved when you—” He gestures in the air like he’s waving a sword around. “Where’d you learn that?”

“I did fencing in school.”

“Really? I guess that makes sense. You look like you were pretty good.”

“I was okay.” I glance down at my phone, thinking I really should order that car. But something makes me stop. “Actually, I was really good.” I don’t know why I say that. My cheeks flush with embarrassment. I’m not the kind of girl that brags about herself to strangers, but god, for one night, maybe I can be someone else.

He laughs, and it’s extremely endearing. Some people have the kind of laugh that makes you want to hear more, and that’s definitely Step. It’s low and absolutely addicting.

“I like the confidence.”

“You saw me in there. I just stabbed a dude in the throat with a lipstick tube.”

“Good point. How good were you, exactly?”

“Won the state tournament two years in a row. I could’ve fenced at any college I wanted, except?—”

Except my father wouldn’t let me go to college.

“I’m extremely impressed,” he says, clearly deciding not to push me to finish that sentence, which makes me like him even more. “Show me that move again.”

“What, right here? You want me to stab you in the neck?”

“I doubt you could. That idiot practically ran himself through for you.”

I snort and push him with my shoulder. He’s easily twice my size and weight, and he feels like a solid wall. I catch a hint of his smell—pine and musk. It’s surprisingly pleasant.

“Give me a saber and I could cut you to little itty-bitty pieces.”

“That’s what it’s called? The sword thing is a saber?”

“Yep, depending on the fencing style, and there’s a whole uniform that goes with it.”

“Come on, show me.” He pushes off the fence and squares up with me, but there’s nothing menacing in him. Even though he’s big and fit, and he just admitted that he threatened to physically violate a man for me, I don’t feel like this is a bad situation. “Stab me in the face.”

“You really want me to?” I turn my body and fall into en garde, knees bent, off-arm held back, foil-arm forward. I bounce on my toes very lightly, keeping loose. “I’m warning you, I’m pretty good.”

“I want to see,” he says, and that edge is back.

But this time, it’s a playful edge.

It’s inviting.

And I feel it. The spark. The deep, pulsing want roiling in the air between us, and suddenly I know.

This is how it happens.

The weird alchemical magic everyone but me seems to be able to find.

This is how two strangers meet and decide they want to fuck each other.

Excitement burns into my core. I reach into my clutch again and grab for the lipstick tube.

I’m very distracted by the way he’s looking at me. His cocky smile, his handsome lips. His mouth slightly parted with anticipation. His body held loosely, like he’s prepared to react to whatever I’m about to do, but not overly primed for it.

He knows how to handle himself.

And he’s glorious, my god. He’s absolutely stunning.

My mouth pulls back into an elated grin. This is weird and crazy, but I feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in years.

And I lunge at him.

I go in fast. My favorite fencing style is saber, which rewards speed and aggression, and I don’t hold back. He seems surprised and takes a step, trying to put distance between us.

He’s too slow.

My touch lands right on his chest an inch above his heart.

“Got you,” I say, feeling breathless and wild. It’s glorious, this feeling. I love to win more than anything in the world, but for so long I’ve caged that emotion.

Now it’s back. At least for a little bit. This night was a disaster until this moment. I’m elated, my cheeks flushed with the thrill of a fight and the tension between the two of us.

He looks down, and his face changes.

At first, I don’t understand why. He seems surprised and amused, and he slowly reaches up to gently take my hand.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I stare at my weapon.

And immediately a tidal wave of embarrassment pours down over my head.

I didn’t get my lipstick this time.

No, I ended up with something about the same size, a little bit larger, and very pink. Neon pink. And made from a soft, rubber foam material designed to be gentle on a lady’s private area.

It’s my freaking vibrator.