Marrying My Bratva Boss (Ruthless Mafia Kings #9)

Prologue

LILY

“Tell me what you are afraid of Moya?” His breath curls around the shell of my ear. I can’t stop the fear. The uncontrollable shake rolling through me. The way I want to run away and towards him in the same breath.

I can’t even open my mouth to respond. My lip quivers as I look at him from the corner of my eye.

His silver eyes intensely stare at my face, and I am too afraid to look my dark viking in the eye.

I look down at my toes barely touching the floor, as I hang from the ceiling by my wrists.

His large hand encircles my hip and the heat of his body is the only thing keeping me from the chill of the dungeon.

“Moya,” he whispers, in that painful rasp I have come to learn means he is disappointed in my actions. “I am going to give you one more chance to answer me.”

I flinch without meaning to. His breath curls around my shoulder, right before he presses a chaste kiss to the curve of my neck. “What are you afraid of?”

I could lie. A part of me—a very silly, practically stupid part of me—believes I should lie. That I have to.

Because how could I ever admit that every tremble in my lip, every bead of sweat slicking my skin, isn’t fear at all, but something far more dangerous?

That this breathless, frantic edge—this delicious ache of not knowing what comes next—is the very thing I’ve been starving for.

That being watched, hunted, claimed, isn’t a nightmare, but a dream I’ve never dared speak aloud.

The feeling of being prey, of being wanted so completely, so relentlessly, it nearly breaks me—that is the feeling I’ve always craved.

To be the center of someone's hunger. To be desired until it hurts. It’s suffocating.

It’s beautiful. And I want more. God help me, I want all of it.

“Mmm are you giving me the silent treatment, Lily?” He mocks into the curve of my neck, the smile on his lips tickles as he digs himself deeper into me.

His body leans in forward and the tent in his jeans runs against my bare ass.

Fuck, he’s huge. I want to push back into him, really get more than the taste I am right now, but he pulls back.

“I—” My voice cracks, and I swallow hard, trying to steady it. But how can I? His hand on my hip is branding me, and the heat of his body pressed against mine threatens to melt my resolve.

“You what, Lily?” He teases, the humor sounds so foreign to me. I feel drunk. I want to make him say it again. Do it again. “Say it. I am afraid of…”

“You.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I instantly regret it.

Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s only half the truth, but from the way he presses his body into mine.

His chest to my back. His mouth to my collarbone.

His hand gripping the metal chains holding my arms up.

His tented cock pressing firmly into the curve of my ass, giving me just a bit above a taste.

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through my spine. His lips brush my ear as he speaks, his voice a dark purr. “I scare you, Moya?”

His hand drifts lower, fingers trailing along the curve of my hip before slipping between my thighs.

I gasp, my legs instinctively trying to close, but he’s already there, his thigh pressing against me, forcing them apart.

“Uh, uh,” he chides, his breath hot against my neck.

“You’re not allowed to hide from me. You agreed to be mine.

My little plaything. My scared little wife. ”

The leather cuffs dig into my wrists as I twitch, my body betraying me with every trembling inch. His fingers tease at the edge of my barely there panties, tracing the damp lace before slipping beneath it. I whimper, my hips bucking involuntarily as he brushes against my clit.

“You agreed to lie for me. To have, and to hold.” he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

“Through sickness…and health. It’s not your fault.

You didn’t know that you’re the source of all my fucking madness.

” I shake my head, a feeble attempt at denial, but he’s not having it.

“How can I punish you for driving me fucking insane all these years? Who do I blame?”

My mouth opens, and slams shut over and over again. I want him to blame me. Punish me. Show me what I do to him. Teach me how to apologize for causing him so much distress.

“I have to blame you, Moya. I have to punish you. You are my madness. You are my sickness. You are the problem.” His fingers circle my clit, slow and deliberate, and I bite down on my lip to stifle a moan.

“Don’t,” he growls, his free hand gripping my chin and forcing me to look at him.

“I want to hear you. Every sound. Every breath. If I want to hear my wife scream. You are going to scream. If I want to hear you beg and cry like the needy girl you are? You are going to beg and cry. And if I make you moan?” He chuckles, those viking grey eyes drowning me.

His grip tightens, and I let out a shaky gasp as his fingers press harder, flicking over my clit with a precision that makes my legs tremble. “You are going to fucking moan.”

His thumb rubs circles against my clit, each stroke sending jolts of pleasure through me.

My back arches as the moan tears from my throat—raw, unfiltered, the sound of pure release.

Not soft. Not sweet. A primal, uncontrollable scream of want that rips straight from somewhere buried deep inside me.

It’s overwhelming, this high of surrender.

The intoxicating rush of giving him everything—everything he wants, everything he needs—and knowing, knowing, that it’s me.

He wants me. He only ever gets like this for me.

It’s my name that drives him to the edge.

My body that pulls him into madness. The truth of that undoes me.

I shake my head, like it might stop the sob clawing up my chest, the first in what feels like forever—broken, ugly, and free. It crashes through me in waves.

And then—his breath, warm against my skin. A low, dark chuckle curling into me.

“Good girl.”