Chapter Thirteen
Killian
I feel her panic worm its way through the air and invade me, through my nose, ears, my very pores like the sweetest poison. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
I don’t open my eyes. I don’t let her know I’m awake. I’m too curious to see what she’ll do now that she’s back in her right mind. It might be too far a stretch, but part of me hopes she’ll relax again and stay.
After all, I just had the best sex of my life with her—and I’ve had a lot of sex.
I’m used to a feeling of impatience when I have a woman beneath me.
I don’t want to explore or take my time.
I want to fuck her, quick and hard, get off, and get out.
But tonight, I couldn’t seem to stop myself. I didn’t want it to end.
Unfortunately, my hopes are too much. After inhaling a long breath, whispering, “what the fuck have I done,” Lyra begins to extricate herself from my arms. I could stop her—it would be very easy to, but something inside me twists up at the thought of her leaving me.
At the gall she has to walk out of here after what I’ve given her.
My little journalist sneaks out of bed. I crack one eye open to watch her stumble around in the dark, searching for her clothes until she realizes they aren’t there.
She’s leaving. She’s actually fucking leaving after what we shared.
I shouldn’t be upset, considering I drugged her with an aphrodisiac to get her up here, but I’m furious nonetheless.
I want to ask her if she knows how many women would kill to be in her position, but I can’t move.
A mixture of shock and anger holds me captive.
If I move right now, I’ll do something drastic—I’ll hurt her in ways I won’t be able to come back from.
I’ll punish her for not burning for me the same way I burn for her…
and, considering I have every intention of being inside her tight pussy again, I don’t think doing that would help me.
She steals out of the room like a thief in the night. I hear her footsteps pause in the hallway, and then she finds her way to the stairs. Only when I’m sure she’s out of hearing range do I sit up and take a beat to go over my options.
I could drag her back in here and tie her to my fucking bed. I could keep her here for the next eight weeks. It could be done, but I’m not sure that’s really what I desire.
Conquering Lyra is half the fun. I can’t very well hunt her down if she’s already trapped.
Alternatively, I could let her go. I got what I wanted from her tonight—or, I should have.
I fucked her enough times to leave my cock sore and my balls completely drained.
I was so far gone, so lost in her, I forgot to put on a condom, and Lyra’s medical records indicate that she’s not on birth control.
But I don’t think I need to worry about entrapment with her. I believe Lyra would rather have a hysterectomy than my baby… and something about that almost makes me hope that the amount of cum I fucked into her tonight will be enough to take root.
No. Fatherhood is not in my near-plans. I’m simply enamored after the most satisfying fucks of my life, and I expect Lyra’s novelty will swiftly wear off. No matter the woman, her novelty always wears off.
I’ve never met a woman quite like Lyra, however…
I cut off that line of thinking before it can take root.
It’s dangerous—all of this is dangerous.
Getting so swept up in a woman I spank her until she’s crying, coerce her into coming over to my place, and then drug her so I can find out what it’s like when she’s an enthusiastic participant rather than someone swearing up and down they don’t want me is dangerous.
Not because I’m morally against any of the things I’ve done; I don’t give a shit about that.
The way Lyra dissected me that first day in my office was all the consent I needed, and how wet she got when I spanked her only sealed the deal.
I can see the interest in her eyes when she gazes at me, even when it’s shadowed with caution.
What really makes the reporter dangerous is that I’m swiftly developing an addiction to her, and I’ve never been one to have an addictive personality.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I pick it up, seeing a message from security downstairs, asking whether they should let Lyra down. I imagine her standing in the elevator, frantically clicking the button to go down, praying that it works.
I thumbs-up the message. Bruised ego or not, I did tell her she was free to go if she wanted to leave after dinner—and I like to avoid lies whenever I can.
Besides, I have a very busy day tomorrow, and I need to get myself some sleep.
The Eyes meet on a quarterly basis. Sometimes, the meetings are digital; when possible, they’re in person. Hosted in a mansion about an hour upstate, which is usually decorated to reflect the importance of the people attending.
Unfortunately for me, Silas and I pull into the circular driveway at the same time.
Locke is driving the SUV I’m in, while Silas—the pompous prick—decided to show up in a limousine.
I have no problem riding in style most of the time, but discretion is heavily advised at these meetings.
Still, Silas has never been one to curb the urge to shove his money in other people’s faces.
It pisses him off to no end that I’ve amassed double his wealth with no inheritance to get me going. I’m sure he wants to kill me very badly since I hold his business’s livelihood in the palm of my hand. Should I choose to, I could crush him.
Both of us belonging to The Eyes is the only thing stopping me.
We get out of our cars at the same time.
I look him up and down, smirking as I take him in.
He looks disheveled and exhausted. That could be because I decided to take some of my anger at Lyra’s abrupt departure out on the stock market this morning…
and happened to crash one of his largest investments.
Oops.
“Tough day?” I remark drily. The animosity between Silas and I is curbed more often than not; we respect each other enough to live and let live. On occasion, however, fucking with him brings me great pleasure.
And knowing he can’t do anything about it only sweetens the kill.
Silas’s jaw clenches. He glares at me, but doesn’t comment, apparently deciding to avoid that minefield.
“How long will you be a nuisance to my investments?” he questions as we walk up the fine marble steps leading to the building.
“Just a few more days. It’s been a tough week, I have some anger to vent. Then I’ll make sure everything’s back in good shape.”
Silas grunts. “Does your tough week have anything to do with the pretty reporter you’ve been sniffing around?”
My gut tightens, and my cock twitches at the mention of Lyra.
The image of her is usually enough to make me hard as a stone, but Silas’s words carry the undertone of a threat.
If she becomes a problem, he’ll get rid of her, and if he thinks he’ll spite me in the process, he’ll be all the more eager to do it.
“She’s pretty enough for a couple of fucks and to do a nice profile for me,” I say with a casual shrug, pulling open the grand wooden door.
The foyer is so imposing it manages to swallow all sound.
A chessboard of marble lies underfoot, with veins like frost gripping the white squares.
The walls are paneled in sable wood, shining with a slight oily sheen.
The chandelier is cast-iron, glowering down on us from above.
Portraits line the gallery, old-money faces with their eyes lacquered to a mirror shine.
It’s eerie as hell here; no matter where I stand, someone’s dead eyes are glaring at me.
A grandfather clock ticks without hands.
A single vase of calla lilies wilts on an antique table.
A bodyguard pats us down. His movements are slow and methodical—he goes over my palms, ribs, waistband. He taps my breast pocket until my obsidian Lens coin—a token of membership from The Eyes—clinks, then runs a wand along my spine.
Once he gives Silas and I the nod of approval, we head to the ballroom, where a meeting roundtable is constructed.
“Be careful she doesn’t sniff around you too much,” Silas says. “The Eyes don’t take kindly to outsiders getting too close.”
“The only thing she’s getting close to is my cock. She won’t find out anything else. It’s not like any of us have physical evidence of the existence of our society.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Silas murmurs.
Most members are already seated in their designated spots, wearing suits or gowns—these meetings are always black-tie. Nameplates shine beside small black microphones on the table, but they don’t showcase given names; rather sigils assigned to members. Mine reads Vega, while Silas’ reads Wasp.
Silas and I are seated by each other. Although there’s animosity between us and we like to fuck each other over here and there, The Eyes consider us close allies.
And, in some ways, we are. Feelings rarely factor into matters of business.
Outside of business matters, however, I’d happily put a bullet in Silas’ head.
Paintings of dead society members adorn the walls. A balcony on the second floor lets less-senior members observe the meeting without having the right to intervene. The table’s surface is inlaid with a spiral of tiny eyes cut from nacre.
I was recruited to The Eyes after grad school. I worked my way up its ranks very quickly, cozying up to one person or another. Now, I’m considered one of the most powerful people at the roundtable… and one of the most dangerous to anger.
The ex-director of a three-letter agency, with the sigil Janus, leans forward, tapping his microphone.
“Now that we’ve all gathered, let’s begin with our first order of business.
As all of you are aware, Raymond left us last year.
” The tech industry mogul was a valuable member, but he decided to grow some cumbersome morals that prompted him to leave.
Usually, people don’t leave The Eyes alive, but he was respected enough to be let go… along with a blood vow of secrecy.
“It’s come to my attention that he’s considering loosening his tongue,” the director goes on. “Our first matter of business is to put Raymond’s life to a vote. All those who think he’s not a threat to consider, please say Aye. Those in opposition, Nay.”
The Eyes like to fancy themselves a democracy, though that’s never been the case. Everyone in this room is loyal to someone else; most of the thirty people seated at the table will always follow the votes of the top three.
Since I know it’s expected of me and I’d rather not stir any tension, I vote for killing off Raymond. Silas follows suit, as does nearly every other person seated here.
“It’s decided,” Janus nods. “Who sees themselves as fit to carry out the execution?”
I cut in, leaning forward to speak into my mic. “For obfuscation’s sake, I’d suggest pawning off the job to another organization. I’ve had some dealings with The Nighthawks before; they’re extremely good at what they do, and their fees are both encrypted and reasonable.”
The director nods at me. “Very well. Arrange it. Onto the next matter…” He talks for half an hour on the work of intelligence agencies around the world.
Then, he yields the floor to me.
“Helixon Biopharma’s current focus is on the anti-aging drug we’ve been developing. Early results look strong. There’s still much testing to be done, and a long road ahead, but there’s promise. I expect us to move onto human trials in the next few years.”
“This substance can’t be made available to the public,” a senior woman, known here as Crow, says. “If everyone could get their hands on it, it would lose its value.”
I smile. “I didn’t say public trials, only human ones. When the drug’s ready, it won’t hit any markets—not even the black market.”
Crow nods. “Alright. Keep us updated.” Her eyes slide to Silas. “I hear you’ve been having money issues.”
“Just a temporary downturn,” Silas says smoothly. “My investments took a recent—and temporary—plummet.” He glances at me.
“It’s not just your investments that concern me,” Crow says sharply. I hide a smile. “It’s your other assets and holdings. You’re bleeding money. Patch it up or you’ll lose your value here.”
Silas swallows. Nods. Turns a little pale.
Satisfaction bathes me like sunlight.
A media mogul down the table, with the sigil Herald, clicks his mic.
“It’s come to my attention that there’s a journalist working on a profile about Vega, set to come out around the holidays.
” He pauses, and I try to ignore the way my heart ticks a bit faster.
“Do you trust that she’ll write a favorable article and refrain from digging too deeply? ”
“Obviously,” I drawl carelessly. “She’s worthless; a passing amusement and a mule to maintain my public image. If she starts behaving in a concerning way, I’ll stop her.”
Crow leans forward. “You understand what’ll be done if she becomes a problem, correct? What you’ll be expected to do?”
My chest tightens, but I keep my expression blank. “Of course.”
Crow gazes at me for a few moments before nodding, satisfied.
A banker—Bull—clears his throat. “Europe is sniffing around price-fixing—insulin, cardiac drugs. You’ll feel it in the European branches of Helixon.”
“The EU commissioner will read the lines I gave him at the press announcement,” I say. “Our Brussels lobbyist wrote the draft. It won’t be a problem.”
“And if it becomes a problem?”
“Then I’ll cut the budget line behind applicable task forces through our friends on the relevant committees.”
I’m not worried about artificial price inflation—certainly not when it goes up against Helixon Biopharma’s open-book policies. Any price fixing will backfire on whoever tries to do it.
Next, a politician high up in DC—Consul—speaks, and finally, a telecommunications news mogul takes the floor.
Three hours later, all the votes and matters are settled. The meeting adjourns.
And I understand with stark clarity that, if I want Lyra to stay alive, I need to ensure that she doesn’t dig too far… else I’ll be fucking a corpse.
Necrophilia has never been on my roster of kinks.