60. Riley
Riley
A t some point, I must’ve passed out.
Body wrecked. Heart emptied. Mind long gone.
“Beautiful.” I hear a voice. Dante?
“Which one’s for sale?”
Now that’s definitely not Dante.
Voices creep in like the fog, a thick, low rumble rotting with all the wrong intentions.
My brain scrambles to catch up, every instinct screaming wake up now.
I jolt upright as my vision spins. My hand latches around a bar as I scramble to my feet.
Mila’s still out. So soft and vulnerable in ways that gut me.
With a small crowd of voices approaching, I don’t think. I move.
I throw myself in front of her, shielding what little I can.
And then, they’re here.
Masked men in tailored suits. Polished shoes. Flashing rings. Eyes hollow behind bone-white masks.
Staring. Pointing. Whispering like I’m some exhibit behind glass.
One of them flips through a glossy black catalog, intrigued.
“Think they’ve taken it up the ass yet?” One of them chuckles, lunging for me, fingers splayed and eager.
I jerk back just in time, nearly tripping over Mila.
Another one smirks behind his mask, tapping the bars with his knuckle like he’s ringing a bell.
“How long can you last?” His eyes are bottomless disks. Black. And…I blink, fury and disbelief congealing in realization. Vincent fucking Shaw? “What do you think, Andre?”
That guy next to him just shrugs. He’s big. Broad. Built like a slab of rot.
Jabba .
The asshole who escorted me in.
His eyes drag up my legs in a slow, savoring gaze. Lingering at my breasts. Licking his lips as he takes me all in.
Pausing—just for a beat—at my neck. Then settling on my mouth.
“The question isn’t how long,” he says, chuckling. “It’s how many she can take at once.”
Laughter follows, and my stomach twists. My blood runs ice-cold.
But I don’t move.
I stay in front of Mila.
Shaking. Crying. No where to go.
My hand finds the wall.
Fingertips dig in like maybe stone can hold me together.
I drag them down.
The scrape is one sharp, ugly, shred of skin.
Blood blossoms like petals from the wound.
It hurts. God, it hurts.
But I welcome it—because for one second, I’m not drowning.
I’m breathing.
And in the event someone ever comes looking for me—Kennedy looks for me—someone will know I was here.
R. I. L. E. Y.
My name. I carve my name.
Until I hear, “It’s a silent bid, gentlemen,” Declan announces, like he’s unveiling a fucking tasting menu. “We’ve decided to sell them both. Since both of them signed contracts.”
My spine locks. My heart stutters.
A small, dignified roar of applause.
“Without the necklace, this one’s worth less,” a man says, tone light. His gaze slides past me and latches on Mila. “A black necklace…”
“No holds barred. Do whatever you like, for as long as you like. Depravity to your heart’s content.” Declan flicks a cigarette at my chest. The ember hits the fabric, then the floor. It sizzles out. “That is, of course… until they stop breathing.”
Fear and anger boil over. In a wild fit—a need for control—I spit right in Declan’s face. And instantly regret it.
He wipes it into his cheek, tastes it, winks like it’s foreplay.
“And if the winner wants?” His grin splits wider. “They can fuck one of you right here. Center stage. While we all watch.”
My stomach lurches. Acid scalds my throat. I want to scream. But no sound comes.
I stare as they all leave.
Da.
I tilt my face up, toward the ceiling, toward the nothingness above.
To the universe. The void. The maybe.
“If you’re up there…”
My voice cracks.
“Please…”
But it isn’t Da who answers. Or God.
“Why pray to him,” a low voice rumbles, Refined. Russian .
Terrifying in its restraint.
“When you can pray to me?”
Every part of me stills.
It’s not just the sound of him.
It’s the shift in the air. The sudden chill that tightens around my lungs. The way the room is too hot and too cold, all at once.
He steps forward, his silhouette slow and composed, a phantom built of power and shadow that closes in like a moonless night.
A mask hides his face, but never his voice. Dante?
My eyes find his arm, his sleeve rolled up. No tattoo. But it only takes one more step into the light for me to fully take him in.
“Zver?”
His name barely makes it past my lips.
He moves closer, a slow inch that fills the room.
“I told you what would happen if our paths ever crossed again.”
I nod. “Yes.”
His finger glides along the bar—slow and deliberate.
The way he touched me that night.
The way he still touches me without laying a hand anywhere on my skin.
And God, I feel it.
In every breath. Every nerve.
He knows it, too. I can see it in his smirk. His pitch black eyes.
Were his eyes always this dark?
“Say it,” he murmurs. “Tell me what I’d do.”
The knot in my throat makes it hard to breathe, let alone speak.
But I force the words out anyway.
“You’d take more than a kiss.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
From the folds of his jacket, he pulls out a key—suspended on a length of black silk.
He holds it out.
Tired. Cold. Every muscle pulled tight with suspicion.
And the masks—God, the masks—each second makes them harder to stomach.
Still, I step forward.
Slow. Guarded.
Just close enough for the key to slip from his fingers into my waiting palm.
“Her necklace.” He motions to Mila. “Put it on.”
I jerk back a step. “Why?”
His gaze slides over me like a starved man at a Vegas buffet. Down then back up, until he meets my eyes. “It looks better on you.”
I don’t move. Just stare.
He shifts, leaning lazily against the bars. “Do it,” he says, reaching through—bold and unrushed—letting his fingertips drag a deliberate line across my thigh.
“Do it and I’ll bid.”
My tone sharpens. “Bidding doesn’t mean you win.”
He smiles, slow and wicked.
“And yet, I always do.”
The figure eight he’s been tracking flattens to a long seductive line. I brush away his hand. “And then what?”
Before I can move, his hand snaps out—fist in my hair, dragging me close with predatory grace.
His mouth brushes mine. “Then I’ll break you… until you forget every name but mine.”
A beat. A breath.
“Or I’ll do it to your friend.” His voice chills ten degrees. “The choice is yours.”
I can barely breathe.
My heart cracks from the inside out. I know if I let out the smallest breath, even for a second, I’ll break.
“Buy us both,” I whisper. “Buy us both and set her free.”
He tilts his head, slow and curious—like he’s studying a work of art he doesn’t quite believe is worth the asking price.
His expression shifts, unreadable. “And why would I do that?”
The bars bite into my skin, unrelenting ice cold.
But I don’t flinch.
I can’t .
He needs to see it. Needs to know I’m not bluffing. That I mean what I’m about to say.
“Because I’ll give you anything you want.”
Even if it wrecks me.
“You’ll do that anyway.”
I have one bargaining chip. His only demand that first night.
Not my fear. Not my pain.
Me.
He wanted me. Freely, willingly giving myself over to him.
“I’ll give you me,” I whisper. “For life. I won’t run. If you free Mila, you get me.”
His breath skates across my cheek, slow and deliberate.
I shiver.
“I snap… you obey?”
A pause. Then?—
“Every depraved, filthy word?”
My throat goes dry. My lips part, but no sound comes at first. Then—barely—“Yes.”
He studies me.
A long, agonizing beat of silence where he just watches me.
Then—his thumb brushes my lower lip.
And I let him.
A test. Probably to see if I’ll bite. The thought reloads with every stroke. Like the barrel of a gun with the safety clicked off.
Slowly, he slides it between my lips.
Not a question.
A claim.
And I take it.
Jesus, what choice do I have?
“Suck,” he commands.
Tears sting, hot and fast. Humiliation burns its way up my throat.
But I do it.
Hollow my cheeks. Let it settle on my tongue.
Show him I mean every word I’ve said.
Because I do.
Because I have to .
It’s the only move I’ve got left.
To save Mila.
To save myself.
Then he pulls away.
Lifts my chin with a single finger.
Nips at my trembling lip.
His hand slides lower. Cupping my breast like he already owns it. Like it’s his.
Like I’m his.
“She owes you her life, your friend.”
A pause.
“Will you owe me yours?”
I hesitate.
A mistake.
Two fingers clamp down on my nipple, tight and punishing, until I gasp.
“Yes.”
The kiss he takes is all teeth and possession. No softness. No warning.
Just the brutal crush of his mouth, sealing the deal I just gave him. Freely, willingly signing away my soul.
Then, ice-cold steel.
It glides across my collarbone… Drags over my nipple…
Then lower.
Down my stomach.
He presses it along my sex.
My whole body locks up.
Frozen. Trapped in my skin.
I feel it—right at my clit—cold steel and the kind of threat that doesn’t need words.
Terror takes over.
I bite down on my lip so hard it splits.
Just to keep from moving.
Just to keep from sobbing.
Blood pools on my tongue.
And still, I don’t flinch.
And finally, he places it in my palm.
“Done.”
He steps back.
No smirk. No gloating.
Just that lethal calm—the kind only men like him wear like a second skin.
The kind that says he always wins .
I look down.
In my hand is…
Da’s knife.
Unrushed, he heads out. No parting glance back to admire the wreckage. Just the slow, echoing click of his shoes on polished floor.
“Promise to break pretty for me, Zapretnaya .”