21. Kiera
KIERA
Ishouldn't have followed them.
The thought screams through my mind as I stand frozen in the doorway, my hand still gripping the frame. The room before me is stark, bare walls and concrete floor, with a single chair in the center. A man sits in that chair, his wrists bound behind him, his face pale and sweating.
And Emil stands in front of him.
I watch, unable to move, unable to breathe, as Emil's fist connects with the man's face. The sound is sickening, a wet crunch that makes my stomach lurch. Blood explodes from the man's nose, flooding down his chin and onto his shirt in a crimson cascade.
The man howls. It's a pitiful, animal sound that makes every nerve in my body scream at me to run.
But I can't move.
Emil turns his head and looks at me. His dark brown eyes are completely empty.
No surprise at seeing me there. No guilt.
No apology. No explanation. Nothing. He just stares at me with that same quiet, watchful expression he always wears, as if he's just been reading a book instead of beating a man bloody.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is the man I was just with. The man whose hands were on my body less than an hour ago, whose mouth was on mine and whose cock was inside me. The man who made me come so hard, I saw stars.
And now he's standing there with blood on his knuckles, looking at me like I'm the one who's done something wrong by witnessing this.
The bound man sobs, trying to staunch the flow of blood with his shoulder since his hands are tied. "Please," he whimpers. "Please, I have kids. Three kids. My wife's mother is sick and—"
"Shut the fuck up," Emil says quietly, still looking at me.
Then he jerks his head toward the door. Toward Luca, whom I hadn't even noticed standing beside me.
Luca's large hand wraps around my upper arm. Not painfully, but firmly. Unmistakably. He's not asking.
"Wait," I start to say, but Luca is already pulling me backward, away from the doorway and that horrible room.
I hear another punch. Another wet, sickening sound of fist meeting flesh.
The man's wails follow us down the hallway, pitiful and broken, and I wince with each cry. My stomach churns, and I think I might be sick.
"Take me home," I say to Luca. My voice sounds strange, high and thin. "I want to go home. Now."
Luca says nothing. He just keeps walking, his hand still wrapped around my arm, guiding me through the compound. We pass rooms I recognize from earlier.
God, I'm so stupid. So incredibly stupid.
Of course he's violent. He's a Mafia boss. What did I think that meant? That he just sat in an office and made phone calls? That he never got his hands dirty?
But knowing it intellectually and seeing it firsthand are two completely different things.
"Luca, please," I try again. "I need to leave."
Still nothing. His face could be carved from stone.
We reach a door and Luca opens it, ushering me inside. It's an office, masculine and professional, with a large desk, leather chairs, and bookshelves lining one wall. Under different circumstances, I might find it impressive.
Right now, all I can think about is that man's blood.
Luca releases my arm and steps back into the hallway.
"Wait," I say, moving toward him. "You can't just—"
The door closes. And then I hear it. The distinct click of a lock sliding into place.
No.
I grab the handle and twist. It doesn't budge. I pull harder, rattling the door in its frame.
"Luca!" I shout. "Luca, open this door!"
Nothing. Just silence from the other side.
I'm locked in.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I'm not a guest here. I'm not Emil's lover or his fiancée or whatever the hell I thought I was.
I'm a prisoner.
I back away from the door, my breath coming faster. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in. I pace to the window, but it looks out over the compound's interior courtyard. Even if I could open it, even if I could climb out, where would I go? I'm surrounded by Emil's men.
I sink into one of the leather chairs and wrap my arms around myself. My body still aches pleasantly from our earlier activities, and that makes everything worse. How can I still feel the ghost of his touch when I've just seen what those hands can do?
Time passes. I don't know how much. It feels like hours but might only be minutes. But then I look out the window and realize I must have fallen asleep. The sky is that gunmetal gray of morning.
The sound of the door unlocking has me instantly on my feet, my heart leaping into my throat.
Emil walks in and closes the door behind him. He's cleaned up from yesterday. There's no blood on them now, no evidence of what he's done. He looks exactly as he did earlier, calm and controlled, his dark eyes fixed on me.
"What the hell was that?" I demand. My voice shakes but I don't care. "What the hell did I just see?"
"Business," Emil says simply. He leans back against the door, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement makes his shirt stretch across his shoulders, and I hate that I notice, hate that some traitorous part of me still responds to him.
"Business?" I repeat incredulously. "You beat a man bloody and call it business?"
"He owed me money." Emil's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "People need to learn that there are consequences."
"So you break his nose?" My hands clench into fists at my sides. "You terrorize him?"
"I do what's necessary to maintain order." He pushes off the door and takes a step toward me. "This is my world, Kiera. This is what I do."
"Then I can't be part of it." The words burst out of me. "I can't be around someone so violent. I can't—"
"Can't what?" Another step. His eyes have gone dark, intense. "Can't handle reality?"
"This isn't reality!" I back up as he advances. "This is insanity!"
"This is life." He keeps coming, stalking me across the room like a predator. "And you knew what I was when you climbed into my bed."
"I didn't know!" My back hits the desk and I have nowhere else to go. "I didn't really understand—"
"Bullshit." He's right in front of me now, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He plants his hands on the desk on either side of me, caging me in. "You knew exactly what I was. You just didn't want to think about it."
His face is inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more primal. My body responds despite my anger, despite my fear, with heat pooling low in my belly.
"You didn't seem to have a problem with my violence when I was fucking you," he says, his voice dropping to a rough growl. "When I had you bent over, when I was making you scream my name. You liked it rough, didn't you, Kiera? You liked it when I held you down, when I took control."
"That's different," I whisper, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Is it?" His gaze drops to my mouth. "Violence is violence, sweetheart. Whether it's in the bedroom or the interrogation room."
"No." I shake my head, but I can't look away from him. "No, that's not the same thing at all."
"Isn't it?" He leans in closer, his lips almost brushing mine. "You want the Alpha male in bed but not out of it? You want me to dominate you, to take you, to make you submit, but you want me to be gentle with everyone else? That's not how this works."
"Emil—"
He kisses me, hard and demanding, his mouth claiming mine with the same ruthless intensity he brings to everything else. And God help me, for a second I kiss him back. My body melts into his, my lips parting, as my hands come up to grip his shirt.
Because he's right. Some dark, twisted part of me responds to this, to him, to the danger and the power and the raw masculinity that radiates off him like heat.
But then I remember. The blood. The man's cries. The empty look in Emil's eyes.
I shove at his chest. Hard.
He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His eyes are blazing now, all that careful control stripped away to reveal the predator beneath.
And I slap him.
The crack of my palm against his cheek echoes in the quiet office. His head barely moves from the impact, but I see his jaw clench and something dangerous flash in his eyes.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. My hand stings. My heart pounds. I don't know if I want to hit him again or kiss him again or run as far away as I can get.
Emil straightens slowly, deliberately. He doesn't touch his cheek where my handprint is already forming. He just looks at me with that same intense, unreadable expression.
Then he speaks, his voice low and absolutely certain.
"Get used to this home, Kiera. Because it's your home now, too."