Chapter 17 #2
"Good." My hand comes up to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against my palm like a trapped bird. "I like how you look when you are terrified and scared."
Her breath catches. I feel it under my palm—that tiny hitch that could be fear or arousal or both.
"If you could run right now," I murmur, thumb brushing across her racing pulse, "would you?"
She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.
"Or would you stay?" I lean closer until my lips are near her ear, until I can smell lavender and fear and something sweeter underneath. "Would you let me see what happens when you stop fighting what scares you?"
A shiver runs through her. I feel every tremor against my palm.
And underneath the terror, underneath the shock, her pulse is racing in a pattern I recognize.
Arousal.
She's turned on.
By the violence. By my hand on her throat. By whatever fucked up chemical reaction happens in her brain when fear and desire get tangled together.
Perfect.
"That's what I thought." I release her throat slowly, dragging my fingers down the column of her neck, feeling her swallow hard against my touch.
My cock is so hard it's painful. Every instinct screams to press her against this wall and find out what other sounds I can pull from her. What she'd do if I slid my hand under her skirt right here, right now, with Marco's blood still wet on my knuckles.
Would she fight? Or would that darkness surface, and she'd take what I gave her?
I step back before I find out. Before I do something that crosses lines I'm not ready to cross yet.
Not until she breaks first.
"Clean this up." I gesture to the blood on the floor. "And Valerie?"
She looks up, still pressed against the wall, still trembling.
"Next time you witness something you shouldn't, try not to look quite so aroused by it. It's fucking distracting."
I walk away before she can respond.
Before I can change my mind and take what I want.
My hands are shaking slightly. From adrenaline or desire or the effort of walking away, I don't know.
Don't fucking care.
Because tomorrow I'll push harder. Test more boundaries. See how far I can bend her before she breaks or that viper surfaces.
One way or another, I'm going to drag her darkness out.
And when I do, she'll be mine.
I try to work that night.
Pull up files. Review contracts. Go through security reports, but my focus isn’t worth shit.
My mind keeps circling back to Valerie against that wall. The way her pulse raced under my palm. The heat in her eyes before terror drowned it.
The burner phone records sit on my desk. Mikhail traced the number as far as possible—dead end. Routed through multiple proxies, encrypted, would take resources I don't want to spend to crack.
Someone with serious money and connections is running her.
Who the hell could it be?
The smart play is elimination. Put a bullet in her brain. Problem solved. Message sent.
But I don't want her dead.
I want her corrupted. Want to drag her so deep into darkness she forgets what light looks like. Want to own every part of her—the fear, the arousal, the twisted desire, and especially that flash of cold calculation I saw in my bathroom.
The mouse is useful. Good with Mila. Easy to manipulate.
But the viper? The viper is what I'm really hunting.
And I'm going to find it even if I have to break her completely to do it.
I close the files and pull up the security feeds instead.
The hallway camera outside her room shows her door slightly ajar. Light spilling out. Movement inside.
I shouldn't look.
I adjust the camera angle anyway.
It catches just enough through the gap—her silhouette against the lamp, moving around. Getting ready for bed.
She pulls off her uniform. Down to plain white underwear. Nothing seductive about it.
Doesn't matter. My mouth goes dry watching her move.
She sits on the edge of her bed, shoulders slumping. Exhaustion in every line of her body. Hands come up to her face—she's crying.
The sight does something to my chest. Something uncomfortable I don't want to examine.
What are you hiding, little mouse? What's breaking you from the inside?
Then she lies back.
And her hand slides down her body.
Oh fuck.
I watch her hand disappear between her thighs. Watch her back arch. Watch her free hand come up to her breast.
My hand moves to my belt on instinct.
I can't see details—the angle's wrong, lighting too dim. But I see enough. The arch of her spine. The rhythm of her hips. The way her head tilts back.
I free my cock, already hard, already aching.
Stroke myself while watching her pleasure herself twenty feet and one wall away.
"That's it, milaya," I murmur to the empty room. "Touch yourself. Show me what you do when you think no one's watching."
Her movements get more desperate. I match the rhythm, imagining it's my hand between her thighs. My fingers inside her. My name on her lips.
"Ty moya," I breathe. You're mine. "You just don't know it yet."
What is she thinking about? Who's in her head right now?
Is it my face she sees? My hand on her throat? The violence she witnessed?
Is she getting off on fear or me, or both?
My grip tightens, rhythm increasing. Russian falls from my lips mixed with English—possessive claims, filthy demands, promises of what I'll do when I stop watching and start taking.
"Mine. Fucking mine. Every breath, every moan, every dark thought you're too scared to admit."
On screen, her body goes rigid. She's coming. I can tell by how she freezes and then melts into the mattress.
I come with her, jaw clenched, her name torn from my throat. "Valerie. Blyad. Moya."
The orgasm hits hard enough that I have to brace against the desk.
Afterward, I clean up mechanically. Eyes still on the screen.
She's curled on her side now. Small. Vulnerable. One hand tucked under her cheek. The other still between her thighs.
I should feel satisfied.
I feel hungrier.
Because watching isn't enough anymore. Touching her throat isn't enough. These stolen moments through cameras aren't enough.
I want more. Want everything. Want to replace her hand with mine and hear my actual name when she comes instead of whatever fantasy she's playing out alone.
Want to see that viper again. Pull it out. Make it permanent.
The phone on my desk buzzes. Mikhail.
Marco's people have received the message. They’ll pay the original terms.
Good. Business handled. Message sent.
I should feel satisfied about that too.
Instead, all I can think about is Valerie twenty feet away, probably still trembling from orgasm, definitely still clueless that I watched every second.
I pull up her file again. Study her face in the photo Marina Petrov sent over.
Innocent. Sweet. Exactly the kind of girl who shouldn't be in my world.
But she's here anyway. Gathering intel for someone. Lying to my face. Playing a game she doesn't have the skills to win.
And I'm going to make her pay for it.
Not with her life.
With everything else.
I close the laptop and head to my room. But I stop at the wall we share. Press my palm against it.
On the other side, she's sleeping. Dreaming. Completely unaware that I'm standing here thinking about all the ways I'm going to corrupt her.
Sleep well, little mouse. Tomorrow, the real game starts.
I head to bed, mind already planning.
More tests. More pressure. More opportunities to see if that darkness will surface.
Because I've made my decision.
She's not leaving. Not alive. Not intact. Not unchanged.
She's mine now.
And I'm going to own her.
I’m going to own her spirit, soul, and body.