Chapter 6
Desire
I’m staying the night. Aurora is passed out naked.
While she’s in the grip of deep sleep, I methodically leave marks on the most visible places.
Biting the delicate skin of her neck and thighs, leaving hickeys while ignoring her pitiful unconscious whimpering.
The urge to fuck her is consuming me from the inside, but Aurora’s virginity is my prized reward, and I have no intention of wasting it.
I want us both to feel it. I want her looking into my eyes, fully conscious, experiencing every moment.
With her head tilted slightly to the left, her blonde hair is spread across the pillow, her breaths even. Tonight, she’s not having nightmares—a rare luxury, according to the files I stole from her old therapist.
Leaning back on the bed next to her, I exhale heavily, trying to calm my pulse. I’m not wearing my sweater, so she saw my scars. The web of intersecting lines left by blades. The number of people I’ve allowed to see them can be counted on one hand, and I wanted her to see them.
Reaching down, I fish my phone out of the pocket of my jeans discarded on the floor to send orders to my entourage.
Aurora said that word with irony, but the truth is, that’s exactly what they are.
My kingdom. My entourage. My subjects. I’m building my own world, and the crooked crown etched in tebori ink on the dirty streets of Macau is the symbol of my resolve.
Thoughts roll over me in waves.
The surveillance on Zack paid off—Steve reported in time that the bastard was heading to Aurora. I was already planning to visit my princess tonight, so I simply brought my captains along to dispose of the trash.
The Thorntons won’t leave my mind. Why was someone from the Vance family covering for Zack and his relationship with Aurora?
The Vances are too powerful, so they have nothing to gain from the Thorntons.
I think back to Aurora in that basement, the bruises on her ass when she jerked up on the bed trying to kick me.
What the hell was Alistair doing to her?
And why, when he had power over her, didn’t he fuck her?
I’d love to drag Zack into the Kingdom and beat the truth out of him, but that bastard is constantly in the public eye—either surrounded by his buddies in bars or with whores.
Taking him for interrogation tonight would be too risky.
There could be witnesses, and if the Thorntons start looking for their heir, it would create a whole slew of problems for me.
Besides, whichever Vance cut the deal with Zack would find out about the kidnapping, and that would probably put Aurora’s life in danger.
The surveillance on him isn’t turning up anything useful either.
My entourage doesn’t have the resources to uncover Aurora’s secret. The Kingdom is still on its way to true power.
I get out of bed and, trying not to wake Aurora, head to the kitchen. My gaze lingers for a moment on the bottle of whiskey left on the counter. I ignore it—alcohol dulls reaction time and blurs vision, so I rarely allow myself to drink. I dial a number with a short press.
“Fuck, Desire, do you know what time it is?” Laurent grumbles after the first ring, and I hear the steady clicking of his laptop keys in the background.
“Like you were sleeping,” I counter, without a hint of apology. I know his schedule well: on weeknights, the family’s chief strategist never leaves the office before three in the morning.
“But I certainly didn’t stay here to listen to my little brother in the middle of the night. Make it quick. I have a lot to do.”
“I have a favor to ask. I’ll owe you one.” This will cost me, and Laurent always collects his debts in full.
“I’m listening.” There’s a smile in his voice—the kind that signals a deal with the devil. All the Sterlings are devils, and I’m no exception.
“Remember Alistair Thornton? He was clearly running experiments on his victim.”
“The one you didn’t kill for some reason,” Laurent states.
Because I claimed her, for fuck’s sake.
“The Thorntons have clinics. I think one of them was used for his sick rituals. There have to be records somewhere—black accounting, financial reports. Find out what that psycho was really doing.”
“Okay, little brother.” Laurent hangs up without asking unnecessary questions. He knows I won’t open up, and besides, the terms of our deal don’t require it.
I go back to the bedroom and lie down, making the mattress creak. Turning to face Aurora, I slowly run my fingers through her hair, brushing tangled strands from her cheeks. She’s crying in her sleep, her bound hands twitching convulsively.
“Prince …,” she moans, eyes still closed.
Of course, she recognizes the touch of her worst nightmare, even half asleep. One can’t fool instinct.
I lick the tears from her face, and she slowly awakens, then looks at me with wide sleep-clouded eyes. Her gaze keeps drifting back to the crooked crown on my chest and the pale web of scars crisscrossing my various body parts.
“There are so many …,” she breathes. “Were those knives?”
I smile at her frightened but mesmerized face.
“A shitload of knives and razors, babe.”
“Where did they come from?”
I consider whether to tell her. Well, why not?
“When I told my father at sixteen that I wanted to be a killer, he sent me to the Red Stock in Macau for eight months. Beautiful place. The training pit floor is always covered in white river sand—it keeps your feet from slipping and absorbs blood really well.”
“Is it a fight club?” Her voice trembles, her eyes fixed on my ruined chest.
“It’s a school of life, Princess. They teach you about inches.
Students are placed in the center of the pit, and instructors move around them in complete silence with kerambits and razors.
The strikes are fast but shallow. The instructor’s job isn’t to kill—it’s to shave you down.
Pain becomes the main teacher.” I pause, letting her picture it.
“Sweat runs into the fresh wounds, making them sting, so your brain learns on a primal level to fear the blade and calculate its trajectory in a split second. The final exam is in complete darkness against two masters—you rely only on the sound of the blade cutting through the air and your instincts.”
“Gosh …” She gasps.
“Good princess.” I smirk.
I touch her face, and she whimpers again, her sugar-sweet nipples hardening.
Psychologists call it emotional attribution.
When a person finds themselves in an extreme situation, their body floods with adrenaline: their heart races, their breath quickens, their palms sweat.
If someone is there in that moment, the brain frantically searches for the cause of this physiological storm and makes a fatal mistake.
Instead of admitting I’m scared to death, it draws a false conclusion—my heart is pounding like this because I’m insanely attracted to this person. Fear simply converts into passion.
Aurora wants me because she’s afraid of me, which suits me just fine. It’s the leverage I’ll use to own her completely.
All three months in Africa, I devoured the reports on her.
Every photo my men sent choked me with anticipation.
She was watched around the clock. Soon, she’ll be mine completely, and Zack will drown in his own blood.
I’ll untangle this knot his crazy father started, and she won’t even remember those bastards’ names.
I rise on the bed and place my palm on her head, holding her steady. Leaning over her, I shove two fingers into her tight, hot cunt. Her breath catches, and I kiss her tear-streaked cheek.
Her nipples are as hard as cherry pits, and her pussy clamps around my fingers. She stares at my scars, then finally surrenders and closes her eyes.
I pound into her, finger-fucking her. At the same time, I torment her clit, giving her no time to catch her breath. Aurora writhes on the sheets, her tits bouncing.
“Do they hurt?” she whispers, eyes still closed.
I’m silent. She’s still thinking about my scars? Even now?
“Sometimes. Then I hurt someone too so I’m not so alone.”
She breathes deeper, faster, her cunt practically soaking my fingers.
“You’re not my boyfriend …,” she breathes out through a moan. Just a few minutes ago, she called me exactly that to her therapist.
“Then why did you say it?” I smirk.
“They’d lock me in a mental hospital … if I admitted that my nightmare ordered me to switch doctors.”
“I’m your prince and you’re my princess.” Or just a toy.
“We don’t have a relationship …. You’re just playing with me.” She arches her back, pressing herself against my thrusting fingers.
What a smart girl. She understands everything.
“That’s exactly why you feel so good with me, Princess.”
She cries out as her muscles contract, and comes on my fingers.
Having complete control over her body is pure power.
I’m drunk on how readily she’s accepted her role.
Every cell in her screams with desperate need to obey.
To be my thing. Freezing, I study her lowered lashes and relaxed face.
I raise my hand, slick with her juices, and trace the line of her half-open mouth, feeding her that sweet, sticky syrup.
She licks the offering from my fingers as I run my tongue along her cunt, collecting the last of her juices—sharing this feast. Then her head falls back and she falls asleep instantly, spent.
I unbuckle the leather belt from her wrists, and red marks remain in their place.
“This is only the beginning,” I whisper into the darkness.
After rising from the bed, I get dressed and walk into the hallway. My gaze falls on the key rack. I calmly open it, take the spare key to her apartment off the hook, and slip it into my back pocket.
“I’m the one who opens this door now, Zack,” I say, smirking at the mangled remnants of the chain lock.