Chapter 12
Declan
K neeling, I wipe my lip, savouring the sight of her—flushed, her chest rising and falling as she gasps for breath, hair tousled, thighs slick with arousal. The way she’s unravelling is exquisite. I watch as she slowly drifts down, her eyes finding mine, lips parted, legs trembling as she tries to pull them together. Before she can utter a word, I stand, letting a slow, dark smile play on my lips.
“Don’t forget, firecracker. I’ll only take you when you beg for it.”
Her gaze flicks to the obvious bulge in my pants. I let her linger there for a moment, wanting her to know just how much I fucking want her. I could’ve left her on the edge, but now she knows the pleasure I can drag out of her. Next time, when I stop short, she’ll be craving this, aching for it.
I slide my finger over my lip, tasting her hot, white liquid on my skin, her scent clinging to me, reminding me of everything I’ve just done to her. Resisting the urge to unzip and fuck her right here, I take a deep breath. Not yet. She isn’t ready for that.
“I will never beg,” she hisses, yanking her dress down as she sits on the bed, glaring at me with sharp eyes. “This doesn’t mean anything, Callaghan.”
There she is—my beautiful firecracker, still spitting flames even after I’ve left her legs shaking.
I lean against the doorframe, smirking.
“It means I know exactly how to make you come hard and scream my name, sweetheart.” I throw her a wink, watching that spark in her eyes flare before she can hurl her usual poison my way. Without another word, I leave, attempting to tug the door back into place, though it’s barely hanging from its frame after I nearly took it off.
Kian leans against the wall just outside, arms crossed, with that irritating smirk he wears far too well. “Need me to ring someone about the door, brother?”
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah,” I say, taking a step toward him. “How much did you hear, mate?”
He laughs, low and slow. “Oh, you know… just the occasional moan, a whimper or two…” He chuckles, that smug look practically plastered on his face.
I roll my eyes, though I can’t help the corner of my mouth quirking up. “She wasn’t even that loud.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs, still grinning. “But next time? Don’t break the fucking door so I can close it.”
I look in the mirror, my face still red from her riding it. Fuck…
The shower scalds down on me, steam curling thick in the air, but it does nothing to erase her scent from my skin. A smirk pulls at my lips, the taste of her still fresh, a reminder of exactly how I left her—trembling, breathless, a beautiful mess.
I pushed her right over the edge; although it seemed like a good idea, I’m the one with aching balls and a cock so hard it could break the stone.
Water streams over me, but I close my eyes and let the memory fill my head—the way she shuddered, the way her eyes rounded, helpless, as I wrung every shiver and whimper out of her. Knowing I can leave her like that—aching and dripping—is more satisfying than anything.
My hand drifts lower, heat and slick warmth building under my grip. My cock is hard as iron. I pump it almost punishingly, savouring the memory of her broken, choked breaths, her taste lingering on my tongue.
The way her hips buckled as she rode my face without even noticing, her hand pulling my hair and the other piercing my shoulders with her nails. My jaw tightens at the thought, and my hand quickens, desperate for some relief from the ache she’s left.
A grunt escapes my throat as the tension coils tighter. I lean into the cold tiles; everything has her scent. That woman brings out something primal in me.
This is just business but fuck if I don’t want to be balls deep inside her. I will be, but the thought of the complications, even making her come, will probably bring a shitstorm into my own home. But I can’t resist anymore.
I grip harder, my balls feeling like they’re about to explode. Her whimpers as her orgasm hits come to mind, and it’s enough to send me over the edge.
It takes me a few minutes to get myself back together. For some reason, I’m still on edge. My hand isn’t enough. I need to get this feeling out of me—fast.
Heading to the study, I see Connor smiling like a damn idiot. I’m guessing Kian can’t keep his mouth shut. I’ll remember that.
“Don’t, Connor,” I warn as he hands me a picture of some guy with a blond beard. “Who the fuck is this?”
“We finally have a lead on the warehouses.” He hands me my suit jacket. “Flynn has him at the docks. We need to get there fast, or we’ll miss all the fun,” Connor chuckles, already moving toward the door.
A smirk crosses my face. This is exactly what I need. “We can’t miss that.”
One of our men is already at the door. He nods and opens it. The silence is nerve-wracking if you don’t know this place—the grey
walls, the small windows, the office materials left behind before the Dark Wars. The place feels haunted.
We head down the hallway in silence. A steel door stands at the end. Connor knocks twice. A few seconds later, the door opens. Inside, there’s the sound of a whimpering man. My lips curl up. This is going to be fun.
This place is one of the office buildings owned by the Russians. We had enough of those, so we turned the basement into our little interrogation centre.
I step into the room, the sound of my boots barely a whisper against the seamless, charcoal-grey floor. The dim industrial lights hang low, casting a glow on the metallic surfaces; every inch of this room is designed for a single purpose—holding secrets as tightly as it traps sounds.
The concrete walls, sheathed in sterile steel panels, give it that clinical, surgical feel. This room doesn’t let anything escape not sight, not sound, not even the blood that gets spilt here.
I glance down, noting the barely visible line of the drainage system along the floor. Practical. Efficient. The details matter in a place like this. Blood, sweat, and tears—they’re all washed away, leaving no trace. That’s the point. Once someone enters this room, it’s as if the room itself erases them.
I shrug off my suit jacket and start rolling up my sleeves. The grim reaper skull tattoo on my arm catches our new captive’s attention. A dark red rain surrounds the reaper, drops that seem to taunt him.
I give him a cold smile. “I’ll be adding you to this soon enough. The only thing left to decide is how much pain you want before it’s over, mate.” My voice is steady, calm, and detached; I’ve done this more times than I can count over the last decade.
I give Flynn a nod, and he steps back as I move closer. “Name.”
“Maxim,” Flynn answers, his eyes as predatory as mine. His knuckles are bloodied, fresh drops trailing down his hands. Maxim already has a few broken teeth and a swollen eye. But I can do better.
I lower myself onto a steel chair right in front of him, taking my time. His hands are tied behind his back, blood trailing from his mouth, but he holds his chin high like the proud soldier he is. “So, Maxim,” I say, my tone casual. “From what I hear, you’re the man with information about who’s been hitting the Irish Consortium’s warehouses.”
The bastard mutters something in Russian and spits blood onto my shirt. My response is swift—a sharp punch to his gut that doubles him over. “Let’s try this again.”
I stand up, circling him slowly before moving to the table behind him. The glint of sweat on his forehead doesn’t go unnoticed as he tries to get a glimpse of what I’m grabbing.
I pick up a small scalpel, flicking my gaze to Kian, who’s watching with that wicked smile of his. He strides over to Maxim and unties his hands just enough to pull one to the front, spreading his fingers wide on the armrest.
“Who is bombing my docks?” I ask again, but I already know he’s not going to answer. He knows he’s dead anyway, but this is where he’s wrong: it’s not death he should fear—it’s how long I can prolong his pain.
“I’m not telling you shit, Irishman!” he snarls, blood and spit flying everywhere. But I notice how thick his accent is—this guy hasn’t been in this country for long.
I step closer with the scalpel and cut each of his fingertips, one by one, as he tries to hold in his screams.
“You see, Maxim, dying is the least of your problems. I can make your life hell for days, weeks, and keep you alive the entire time.” Another cut. “Or you can tell me who hired you.” Another cut. “And I’ll make sure your death is quick and painless.” Or not, but he doesn’t need to know that for now.
I nod to Kian, and he brings Maxim’s other hand up. “Let’s continue, shall we?” I cut another.
This is something we’ve learned from our father: instead of hitting a man over and over, stabbing him, or shooting him, sometimes all you need is finesse. Like he used to say, these small cuts hurt like a motherfucker. After, I will remove the skin from each of his fingers—slowly.
“I don’t know!” the man screams, more curses in Russian as he tries to curl his fingers. Connor comes closer, holding Maxim’s hand in position so I can begin to remove the skin from them.
“Try again, Maxim.” I start with the thumb. His screams become more agonizing as the room falls into silence. Flynn stays near the door, arms crossed. This isn’t his first time in the room with us.
“After each finger is done, I’ll have my brother here cut some veins right here.” I slowly slide the scalpel down to his dick. “If you think this is hurting, you can’t even imagine how that will feel.” I chuckle darkly, cutting another strip of skin from his finger.
By the time I reach the sixth finger, he’s finally talking. Good, because cutting his dick is next on the list, and it’s not my favourite part.
“Koslov has someone on the inside,” he snarls, blood dripping from his split lip. “I don’t know who, but they’re giving him dates and times, telling him when to set the fires.”
He’s on the edge of blacking out, his head drooping, so I grab the smelling salts from the table and hold them under his nose. He jolts back, eyes wide and unfocused.
“Someone inside? One of ours?” I ask, holding the scalpel steady, just to remind him what will happen if he stops talking.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, voice barely a whisper. “Koslov keeps it under wraps, even from his own cousin.” He slumps again, his eyes rolling back. But I give him a sharp slap that brings him around, forcing him to focus.
“I need more than that shit!” I grit out, my patience teetering on the edge of snapping.
Maxim stares back at me, fear glinting in his eyes as my scalpel hovers, ready to inflict more damage. He shakes his head. “Koslov said the guy helping out is tired of being in the shadows, but that is all!”
Connor and Kian exchange glances; their eyes go wide. There’s only one person I can think of who’s been feeling that way since the Dark wars and the thought of that Italian piece of shit being behind this makes my blood boil.
I rise, locking eyes with Flynn. “I think we have all we need.” He nods with a smirk as I position myself behind the Russian. I slide a sharp knife across his throat, and he gasps, his bloody hands instinctively reaching for the cut.
Within minutes, he bleeds out while I clean my hands, the satisfaction of it a bitter balm to my anger.
“You think your wife knows anything?” Flynn’s voice remains calm, but I can see the tension in his demeanour. He’s worried and wants answers.
“I can’t imagine someone like Viviana being involved in this,” Connor interjects, all eyes shifting to him. “Come on, Dec. You know she fucking hates her father. Do you think she’d put herself at risk for him?”
He stands his ground, locking his gaze on me. He has a point; Viviana has never been close to him, but if forced to choose between us and the Morellis, I wouldn’t put it past her to side with her flesh and blood. She did agree to marry me; she could’ve run and let them die at our hands.
I turn to Flynn. “I don’t know if she is, but I will find out.”
“And if she is?” His question hangs in the air, heavy with implications about what that would mean for me as head of the Irish Consortium.
“I’ll kill her and her entire fucking family.” The words boil up from deep within, but alongside my fury, a pang in my heart surprises me. Something that wasn’t there a week ago.
Fuck, not feelings!