Chapter 50
The Predator
Istepped back, barely able to contain the twisted grin that tugged at the corners of my lips. Watching her freeze up like a deer in headlights, her muscles went stiff and breath catching in her throat like she were bracing for the worse—I couldn’t help but find it absolutely delightful.
Now that I realise, I had been finding a lot of enticing things about her. The way she batted her lashes, knowing she pissed me off, the slight scrunch of her nose, the mole under her eyes, and the soft tint of crimson that painted her cheeks.
The way she clenched around me, the soft moans, the loud screams and cries. I should stop thinking about that. The more I think, the more I’d be tempted to take her raw. And looking at her, I wonder if she’d be able to take me in her tight little cunt.
The most terrifying part wasn’t just the intensity of it; it was the realization that my heart had been empty until she walked in.
I fucked women before, but it was all merely a physical dance of skin on skin that left me feeling unanchored and unfulfilled.
I had never felt the soul deep, frantic urge to lose myself in someone.
To crave the raw, bruising heat of a connection that felt less like sex and more like a collision of souls.
With her, it wasn’t just a desire. Every thought of another woman felt disgusting compared to the ache she had carved into my very marrow.
I wanted to be consumed by her, to be unmade and rebuilt in her image, until there was no distinction between where my skin ended and hers began.
She’d creep out if she ever hear my thoughts, so most of the time I just keep them to myself, wondering how I should deal with this.
The poor thing, trying so hard to keep it together, but the cracks were showing.
And I could feel that delicious tension wrapping around my insides, tightening like a noose, and damn, if it didn’t feel good.
I let my fingers drift from her cheek, watching as her eyes flickered, a slight tremor running through her.
The urge to break her, to see how far I could push her before she shattered, was almost unbearable. My little bird was so fragile, so scared.
I wanted more. Always more. To see her crumble, to watch that spark of defiance flicker out, to know she was completely and utterly mine. And the best part? She would start to realize it, too.
The moment I stepped away, her breath came out in a shaky rush, her relief so obvious it was laughable.
I could see the way her chest heaved and those delicious nipples all erect and begging for my attention. This suits her, and she should start leaving that damn bra behind.
It made her look pathetic. Yet somehow, so fucking alluring.
I deserved a good blow-job for not touching her tits and devouring her on the spot.
I ripped off my bloodstained blazer, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. Fuck. I hate messy work. And today I had zero to none patience to deal with some thugs.
I raised my head to look at her.
Her eyes locked onto the blazer, widening with that sweet, dawning realization of just how deep she’d sunk into the pit. But she stayed rooted to the spot, not even a twitch.
Good girl.
The more I looked at her, the more I realised, I was losing my mind over her.
Sex with her violently. I was so consumed by the madness of her scent that the world simply ceased to exist. I would take and take, forgetting how fragile she was, only snapping back to reality when her body finally surrendered to exhaustion.
It always started with the promise of just one round with myself. Then two. Then three. Before the night was through, the hunger turned feral.
I didn’t just want to fuck her; I wanted to devour her. I wanted to pound into her. I wanted to worship her. Pressing my face into her legs and kissing her pussy until she was nothing but a weeping mess.
God, she was delicious.
The way she whimpered when my tongue drove deep inside her... the way she moaned when my fingers stretched her open... it was driving me insane.
And even as I lost myself in the sweet, slick nectar of her, a possessive hunger bloomed in my chest.
I was about to take a step closer, to reach out and drag her back into that dark place where she belonged, when a knock echoed through the room. I rolled my eyes, and a snarl curled on my lips.
Cockblocking had become Kyle’s new favourite pastime, it seemed.
The bastard always had the worst fucking timing.
My gaze snapped to the door. For the first time in minutes, anger stirred beneath my skin, but it faded when I caught the slump of my little bird’s shoulders.
Kyle stepped inside, wearing that infuriatingly blank expression.
The glare I levelled at him made him hesitate. His eyes dropped for a heartbeat before returning to mine.
“What is it?” I almost growled, resisting the urge to put a bullet into his head and finish him for good.
But the bastard was useful.
Kyle motherfucking Molotov stepped fully into the room, his eyes flicking briefly to my prey before returning to me, and did I say I wanted to rip his eyeballs out?
But soon he averted his gaze.
Smart man. He was, after all, just as much a pawn in this game as anyone else. The difference was that he knew it and played his part well.
“There’s a situation,” he cleared his throat. “Needs your attention.”
My jaw clenched and frustration boiled over.
“Handle it,” I snapped, already turning my back on him.
“It’s the shipment from the docks. It needs your approval.”
Of course. It was always something, wasn’t it? Something that required my attention, something that dragged me away from the things I truly enjoyed. Like tormenting my little bird.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair, trying to tamp down the irritation clawing at my insides. “Fine,” I muttered, my tone barely restrained. “I’ll be out in five.”
He nodded once, quickly, as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the room, away from the storm that was brewing behind my eyes. Smart fucker. He left without another word, closing the door behind him.
I turned back to my little bird, who was still standing there, frozen in place, her wide eyes locked on mine. She looked so damn fragile, like a little bird with broken wings, trembling in the face of the predator that was me.
“Don’t go anywhere, Ptichka,” I muttered as I reached for the door handle. “I’ll be right back. And then we’ll finish this.”
Her silence followed me out of the room, and the door clicked shut behind me. I hadn’t felt this… this ecstatic in a long time.
There was something about her that pulled me to her, and I didn’t know it. Maybe it was her body I wanted to demolish, or maybe it was something else. Only that I knew was that she was mine, trapped in my web, and there was no way out. Not for her. Not for anyone.
I rolled my shoulders, cracking my neck as I strode down the hallway.
The storm was still brewing, simmering just beneath the surface, but I welcomed it. It was a part of me, just like she was. A part of the darkness that consumed me.
And when I returned, she would realize just how deep that darkness ran. How it was inescapable. Unavoidable. Just like me.
Kyle stood by the elevator with his default posture relaxed, phone pressed to his ear as he murmured in that smooth, demure Italian I never heard him speak. The picture of calm.
I almost wanted to rip it out of his hand just to shatter that peace. But I didn’t have to. He saw me coming, raised his head, and shoved the phone in my face.
“Your father.”
I raised a brow. Typical Kyle. No pleasantries, just the facts. I rolled my eyes and snatched the phone from him, pressing it to my ear.
“Padre…” I started, expecting the familiar gruffness of my biological father.
Instead, a cold, deep voice slithered through the line. “Сын.”
The hair on the back of my neck prickled, a reaction I despised. This man—that man—always managed to dig under my skin, rip me open, and lay me bare in ways I couldn’t control. I hated that about him.
I knew what was coming. So I lowered mine, masking the astonishment simmering beneath my skin.
“Father…” I forced the word out, the respect drilled into me by years under his thumb, by the cold-blooded lessons he’d etched into my soul. Alexei Volkov. The man who shaped me, molded me into the weapon I was. His blood didn’t run in my veins, but his darkness did. And that was far worse.
I enjoyed it.
The storm inside me churned, threatening to spill over, to consume everything in its path. But I welcomed it. This was where I thrived, where I belonged. In the darkness, where blood and power ruled.
I leaned against the wall, my grip tightening around the phone. I could almost feel Alexei’s icy gaze through the line, dissecting me, waiting for the slightest crack. But there was none. Not today.
“You’ve been busy,” he said, the words more a statement than a question.
A twisted smile curled my lips. Busy didn’t even cover it. “Just tying up loose ends.”
A silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I could almost hear the gears turning in his mind, calculating and planning. Always planning.
“Don’t disappoint me, son.”
His voice cut clean through me, leaving behind only one certainty—you did not fail Alexei Volkov and live to regret it.
“I never do,” I replied, my voice as cold as his. And I meant it. Failure wasn’t an option for either of us.
“Where are the shipments?”
His voice sliced through the phone, but satisfaction settled in my chest. He didn’t mention the Donatello incident.
“They’re on schedule,” I replied.
“Come back home. Your mother’s missing you.”
My jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a tooth. Now she missed me? The same woman who could barely look at me without flinching, as if I were a monster that had crawled out of an asylum.
She played the concerned mother well, but we both knew the truth. She preferred me buried in the shadows, where I couldn’t stain the rest of her perfect life.
“I’ve got unfinished business here,” I said.
“Two days.” That was it. No room for negotiation.
The man knew exactly which chain to yank. He’d drag me back whether I walked willingly or not.
I opened my mouth to protest; to spit out the venomous retort perched on the tip of my tongue, but then I thought better of it.
Arguing with him was like wrestling with a snake—no matter what, you’d end up strangled. If he wanted me in Italy, he’d have me there, no question. And if I dared to refuse, he’d show up at my doorstep by morning, mother in tow, playing the perfect, doting parent. What a joke.
But that wasn’t what had my blood boiling. No, it was the thought of being back under that roof, surrounded by the ghosts of my past, the whispers of my failures.
The darkness there wasn’t just a part of me; it was all-consuming, a black hole that would swallow me whole if I let it.
But that was the point, wasn’t it? To remind me who held the chains. I vowed on Morozov’s blood.
“Understood,” I finally said, but my voice was as cold and controlled as his.