Sebastian
I've killed men with my bare hands. Burned down buildings with people still screaming inside.
But sitting in this chair for the past hour, watching my eighteen-year-old step-niece sleep while blood pounds steadily to my cock is the most depraved thing I've ever done.
She’s a brat, I’m sure, even with her childish nightgown and pink cheeks. Even the worst of them look innocent and sweet in their sleep.
I let my eyes drift downward to the floor, shaking my head as I focus on a single quarter-inch scuff mark on the tip of my black wingtip, battling the urge to call for my valet and replace this soiled pair with a new one without blemish.
That obsession with detail, with perfection, with control… It’s what I do here. I train young women in the art of submission and obedience.
It’s not as gratuitous as it might sound. I use my powers for good, even if they don’t see it that way.
At first.
Larissa is my next rehabilitation project. She’s my brother's stepdaughter, shipped to my private island in the Mediterranean because, according to him, she's too wild, too defiant, too much trouble for his carefully constructed empire where everyone serves a purpose.
Everyone is a means to an end.
My fucking little brother, Hoover. If it weren’t for the promise I made to my father on his deathbed, I’d have killed him years ago.
I made two promises that day: to watch out for my little brother, and to take revenge on the men who murdered my dad.
The revenge was easy, even if it led to my exile here. But Hoover was a bastard back then, and he’s a bastard now, and if there’s anyone in this world who deserves to die, it’s him.
I quoted him triple my usual fee. She may be family, but that term carries zero weight in my world.
No attachments. No exceptions.
The girl in this bed means nothing to me. She’s a job, nothing more.
The relentless thickening of my cock tells me I'm a liar. Why do I keep circling the thought that she is the most beautiful creature ever to cross my path? The idea of shredding that fabric covering her body with my teeth gnaws at me relentlessly.
She stirs with a whine, a delicate hand lifting to shield her eyes from the light, and I lean forward in my chair. The air seems to evacuate the room as sunlight streams across her shifting form under the white sheets.
This is it. The moment I find out what color they are.
Blue.
No. Not just blue. That word is too simple, too pedestrian for what I'm looking at.
These aren't blue eyes. They're the color of deep open water miles from the coast, of shadows bleeding into dusk, of every fucking shred of beauty and decency I’ve spent ten years in exile trying to forget.
Rich and deep enough to drown in, with flecks of black gold catching the sun streaming through the window behind me.
Dust motes dance in the shaft of Mediterranean sunlight cutting across her bed, turning her dark hair to bronze where it catches the light. Her lips are full and lush, deep pink in contrast to her creamy skin.
She looks ethereal in this sparse, white room. Untouchable.
The room I've put her in isn’t exactly a cell.
White walls. A bed with hand-spun Egyptian cotton sheets. A single brown leather wing-back chair where I sit. A bedside table with a crystal water pitcher and glass.
The floor is polished Carrera marble, staying cool even in the hottest of months here. Through the window behind me, the Mediterranean sparkles, all azure water and endless sky.
There's no handle on the inside of the door. No phone. No mirror she could break into a weapon.
Or use to harm herself.
Just luxury, and the man sitting between her and the only way out.
A gilded cage for a defiant bird.
As many have been before.
But she’s unlike any of them. I harden in a way I haven’t in years. Barbaric thoughts pound at my temples.
Mine. The contract tells me so.
And something in my gut keeps telling me something else.
I’m fucked.
She groans, her lithe legs lengthening under the sheets, and the sound she makes goes straight to my dick. She’s five foot two at the most. Maybe a hundred pounds. Likely less.
A burst of hot jealousy floods my veins, thinking of my staff snatching her from her bed last night.
They were touching her and looking at her with lust, I’m sure. I want to call them to my office, sever their hands, remove their eyes—
As I work through the bloody consequences of their actions, she does something I don't expect.
Her hands fly to her face, eyes pinned on the ceiling, fingertips pressing into those wide, doe-like eyes, then…
She laughs.
Not a chuckle. Not a tentative giggle. A bold, knowing guffaw.
"Of course," she exclaims, her hands flying upward then back down to press the tips of her index fingers above her eyebrows. "Of fucking course."
I'm gripping the chair arm so hard, my knuckles crack.
Her voice has an edge that makes something dark and hungry slither through my chest.
I shift in my seat, my pants uncomfortably tight, and reach for the pitcher on her bedside table.
The ice inside has long since melted while I sat here watching her chest rise and fall.
“This is fucked.” She flings her eyes my way, and I feel it in my chest. “Fucking Hoover. He can’t stand to lose.”
"Here," I say, as I pour and hold the glass out to her. The medication in her system has dehydrated her. It does all of them. "You need fluids."
She ignores me. Instead, her eyes dart over my shoulder to the window, the door, the corners of the room.
Situational awareness. I recognize it.
She’s looking for exits. For weapons. For anything she can use. Interesting response for a princess who’s grown up surrounded by security and luxury.
Her proximity assessment apparently complete, she fixes me with a defiant stare, my hand frozen in the air holding the glass as the water inside trembles.
When was the last time someone looked at me without flinching? My cock is as hard as a battering ram.
Jesus. I'm supposed to be rehabilitating her. Training her to be an obedient daughter, then a wife for whatever alliance Hoover's cooked up. His business ventures span the globe and cross lines between legal and underworld.
He has strong, dark political alliances as well, so the possibilities of how Larissa was to be used in his empire are vast.
And none of them likely considered her best interests.
She accepts the glass, raising it to her lips, and my gaze locks on the movement of her throat as she swallows. My chest is full of lead weights.
Something low in my gut clenches, telling me this is one of those moments in life where everything pivots.
Where my downfall begins.
My demise is sitting there, cross-legged on white sheets with a vengeful smirk, messy black hair, and blue eyes that tell me stories of a life not as shiny as it seems.
I want to trace those pouty lips with my tongue. I want to bite the soft skin on her neck until she whimpers and I taste blood. I want to press my thumb against her larynx and control every single breath she takes.
I focus on where her lips are pressed to the rim of the glass and imagine them wrapped around my cock, stretched wide, tears in her eyes while I fuck her throat and feel it work around me the same way it's working that swallow of water.
"Good girl," I say, and catch the soft flicker in those bright eyes.
Interesting.
"You'll probably feel a little groggy for an hour or so, but it will wear off."
"Are you going to tell me where I am?" she demands without a hint of fear. “When I’m leaving?”
Most girls would be crying by now. Begging.
But Larissa Bianco looks at me like she's deciding whether I'm worth her time, and fuck if that doesn't make me want to show her a good, hard attitude adjustment with her bent over the bed, and me balls deep, re-arranging her insides.
I’m a big guy. A black handstitched suit sitting here filled with six feet five of lean muscle, dark hair, and a scar through my left eyebrow and cheek that should intimidate her.
It has the rest of my wards over the years.
"You’re safe," I tell her, settling back in my chair, even though every muscle in my body is screaming to move closer.
I have to ignore the bite of the zipper against my erection.
“That’s all you need to know. There's no way out of here, not without my permission, and none of the staff will help you, so refrain from asking.
" I point lazily toward the window behind me.
"We're on a private island. The Mediterranean is beautiful this time of year, but the currents are deadly.
Even if you could get past the guards, past the walls, and past me, you wouldn't make it far. "
I tap the tips of each of my fingers on my right hand with the pad of my thumb, counting as I watch that sink in on her face.
One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one.
If she starts to cry, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
She sputters, narrowing her eyes at me like daggers. “This is a felony.”
I nod, running my hand over my chin. "Maybe. Depends on what country you are in. But all you need to think about right now is that you’re very safe here. From everyone except me."
She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, embedding them until the pouty flesh turns white.
She is fucking stunning. That word isn’t enough, but I understand clearly that she’s a bargaining chip. That’s why my estranged brother called me, begging me to take her on.
This girl has a value few women do. A beauty so powerful, it’s difficult to look at her.
She’s a carrot dangled in front of an enemy or a friend. A deal to be made, for sure. But this little bird was not going to capitulate. Thus, she’s here for me to fix.
Something inside me rages, thinking of sending her back to the fate I know awaits her.
I’m hard, throbbing, and lost in an image of a good girl of my own, a little girl I’ve never wanted, seeking out her Daddy for praise and pleasure.
I want to keep her.
The thought rockets through me like an icy missile.
"What's your favorite color, Larissa?" I blurt out, swallowing down the saliva gathering under my tongue.