Chapter 18 Fawn
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
fawn
When I walk into our room, I hear the shower flicking water against the tiles. Perhaps he went for a swim? Or decided to exercise or shoot?
I set the boys into their cots, in the adjoining nursery, with a soft teddy each, and grab the monitor. “Sir.” I enter the ensuite, thick warm steam circling me like ground-hanging clouds across the Australian desert.
“Is it okay if I make my own cake?” I ask, my voice echoing off the tiles, high-pitched with excitement that we came to this conclusion after trying seven cakes today.
Cassidy said the best cake she has ever had was the strawberry shortcake I made for Kelly’s birthday last year, and Bronson agreed.
“We tried so many, and I still think mine and Maggie's are better.” Setting the monitor down on the vanity, I step into the clouds, seeing a misty outline of his silhouette.
“It'll please the Family, too. Right? That I can bake?” I pause. “Sir?
The steam parts.
I gasp at the sight of red water at his feet, at the remnants of blood on his neck. No, no, no, no—he’s hurt. Who hurt him? "Who hurt you?”
"Not my blood, little deer."
My hands shake. "Oh."
Water laps the tiles as he scrubs his hair and neck and face. "And the only person you need to please—is me."
I swallow. "Do I please you?"
"Not when you yell at me from across a shower." He turns to face me, his virile form emphasised by the tiny streams of pink water swerving down long powerful muscles, finding a course to pool at his feet. He looks like the Devil’s Prototype today—made in his image, with his deep, velvety timbre and plated in his darkness. “Wait outside, sweet girl. I don’t want you in here until it’s clean. ”
I grab the baby monitor.
My legs move towards the door of their own accord, trembling to match my fingers. I've seen this before—seen him washing away someone else's life, the evidence disappearing down the drain, but not from my mind.
Not entirely.
Though, it is easy to forget when the same man burps our sons against his shoulder, who traces my spine with reverent fingertips in the dark, who whispers promises against my neck, and fucks me until I come.
The Don of the Cosa Nostra.
I should feel horror. Fear. Disgust. Instead, relief floods me because the blood isn't his. The victim isn't me.
A knot forms in my belly as I recognize the truth—I abandoned normal morality long ago.
My compass was recalibrated by my mother’s death, by my foster brothers’ rough hands.
My north and south, east and west, stained with trauma.
Now, safety is my only true north, and he provides it—no matter the cost to others.
My dangerous man.
My protector.
My soon-to-be husband.
Lying naked on my side of the bed, my chest expands with a deep breath when he enters the room.
“Sir,” I say his name as a greeting, a welcome, thick with emotion and yearning. “The boys are asleep.” I lift my knees, planting my bare feet on the sheets, a shy invitation—as if my bare skin wasn’t enough of a tell.
I think I know what he needs.
We have been here before. Not just with the blood and the shower, but with us trying to connect when we experience such different realities.
Shaped and forged in two different fires.
While I’m eating cake with Bronson and Cassidy, he is making people bleed, letting the darkness consume him.
How do we connect after that? Find a common place to be close?
We use our flesh.
That’s what I discovered the last time this happened. I can’t truly understand his evil. Though I can, and I will, handle it. The first thing he needs when in this state of mind is my touch, then after, maybe words, but our bodies have to connect first.
While his eyes drag along my exposed body, my heart is an erratic thing inside me, but I try to hold my confidence. I know he likes what he sees. Even when I’m hormonal or insecure, deep down there is no denying the pull between us.
His deer.
My wolf.
His cock, hanging long and thick between his thighs, twitches and grows right before my eyes.
It’s magnificent.
My fingers flex to touch him.
He strolls towards me, long naked legs, tattooed across one thigh, moving with prowess and dominance. Slowly, with his blue eyes capturing my hesitant gaze, he crawls onto the mattress, his tattooed flesh shifting as he moves.
He dips to drag his lips over my lower belly, nuzzling and kissing the soft flesh. He hums. I arch into his mouth, moaning for more. Travelling upwards, he kisses my ribs, between my breasts, warming my skin with his breath.
"Are you okay, Sir?” I ask when he settles over me; one little question I desperately need an answer to.
Cupping the back of his neck, I feel entirely entranced by his gaze only inches from me.
Clay Butcher is a formidable man in every way, not just dangerous, but criminally handsome. “Do you need me?”
“I always need you, little deer.” His lips meet mine in a gentle way that steals my heart, rolling and sucking, savouring and appreciating me.
Leaving my mouth gasping for more, my body humming to have him enter me, he kisses down my throat. “I need to taste you. Need your scent and flavours.” His hand slides to the back of my knee, up between my thighs, where he slips two fingers into my pussy.
I pulse upward.
Meeting his hard body.
More. More.
But it’s selfish—I want to be the right woman for him. His wife. The wife of the Don of the Cosa Nostra. I want him to know that he can trust me. That my compass—my north, south, east, and west is him… “I can be here for you. I can listen. You can confide in me.”
He groans, stroking his long fingers inside me while kissing my skin and consuming my very soul. Like the devil does. My devil.
"Knowing this,” he says, breath heavy on my neck, “would be a brilliant waste of your time, sweet girl. You have more important things to consider.”
“Our wedding?”
“Is far more important.”
"Will I ever be the person you confide in?” I gasp as he thrusts with more purpose, working my pelvis with the expert skill of a demon summoned for pleasure. “Will you ever share your dark secrets, S-Sir.” Oh God. Feels so good. “I want to handle your e-evil.”
"What I need most from you is your innocence.” He pushes up to watch my mouth part, my words of support curdling into heedless moans.
My face flushes.
My body tightens.
I shudder.
I buck into his hand.
“To watch you come,” he says. His eyes pin me to the mattress as I come on his fingers, whimpering and shuddering. “The other half of me.” A smile touches his lips.
I close my eyes tight, letting the pleasurable wave crash through me. “The good half,” he adds. “The half that is pure, that is worthy. The evil suffocates me, and you help me breathe. Purify my air. You already handle my evil, little deer. Exactly the way I need."
He draws his fingers out through my clinging inner walls, bringing them up to taste, groaning. Positioning his cock perfectly between my thighs, Clay takes my mouth and presses inside of me with searing possessiveness.
I whimper, receiving him, wrapping my legs around his thighs and my arms around his broad back, fingers grabbing powerful muscles as they ripple and shift. He is an artisan’s canvas, hard and strong, so perfectly formed and virile.
My nipples tighten.
He thrusts. Deep. Steady.
The rough sounds of his pleasure fall into my mouth as we kiss and make love. Because that’s what we’re doing. Sweet, thorough, consuming lovemaking. I feel entirely smothered by him. He is everywhere. Inside me. Around me. Taking my breath. Touching my skin. Owning me.
My pussy grips him.
“Sir!” I come again.
And it’s wonderfully frightening. The best things always come with a touch of terror, don't they?
Like a caterpillar emerging as a butterfly.
A mother splitting open to bring new life.
And me, being consumed by this powerful man who could just as easily crush me—his dominance and lust are even more thrilling because of it.
He is dangerous.
And I need safety.
We are opposites, and opposites attract. Sometimes opposites even explode when they collide. Being the right woman for him, being worthy of him, of the acceptance from the Family means fitting his needs. And I do that. They don't need to understand it. I am his other half.
He empties his evil inside me with a throaty growl, pounding his hips between my legs to work out the last pulses of his orgasm.
When he shudders to a finish, I hold him to me as he relaxes. He buries his head in my neck, and I feel tears sting behind my eyes. It is so sweet.
As he pants into the crook of my neck, coming down from pleasure’s peak, he is almost too heavy. A wisp of breath squeezes from my lungs, then he lifts to his elbows, knees on either side of me, taking his weight. I inhale deeply.
His cock pulses in my core. We are wet and hot and content, slung together.
When I feed my fingers through his dark hair, dragging my nails up his nape and into his scalp, he nuzzles me further.
“Can you tell me one thing?” I whisper to the quiet room. “One word for what this was all about?” I know I shouldn’t push—I only need a hint to pacify my insecurities. Is it about me or business? Was it defensive or offensive? Or neither...
“Revenge."
My throat tightens.
The question ‘whose revenge’ rolls around my tongue like a sour entity, clinging and insistent, but all I say is, "I believe in karma, Sir. It doesn't always have to be so... final. So villainous and bloody.”
Clay’s body loosens with a deep exhale, muscles going lax over me, the perfect amount of pressure to allow me air—but forbid me to move.
We settle into each other.
Panting in unison.
Then hot breath slithers down my neck and blankets me as he murmurs, “Even karma needs a little push, sweet girl.”