Chapter 6
Gustav
Her door is locked.
Of course it is. She still has no understanding of what she should fear in this house. Locking doors only irritates me, and irritation is never good for her.
I slip the skeleton key into the lock and turn it with slow patience. The latch clicks, then clicks again. I push the door open and let the heavy wood complain on its hinges as I step inside.
Moonlight slices across the room in a pale diagonal, illuminating the massive bed in the center. She is curled in the middle of it, swallowed by a comforter.
So small. So cold. A delicate little thing trying to disappear.
Something moves in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Maybe anticipation or excitement at the thought of tormenting her tonight. I cannot tell, and I do not care to analyze it.
I walk to the edge of the bed and look down.
Her full lips are parted slightly, breath warm against the blanket. Thick brown hair spills around her like a soft halo, rich and glossy the way all the women in her family seem blessed with. Her olive skin glows faintly in the low light, lashes long enough to brush her cheeks.
She looks every inch the American-Italian mafia princess, beautiful, sheltered, and painfully unaware of the world she’s just been dragged into.
Oh.
A vision: Her tied to each bedpost, limbs pulled wide, ribs rising with each frightened breath.
That pretty little hourglass body stripped of the bra and underwear she wore in the dining room.
Surprisingly supple curves. A small pouch on her stomach that made her look real, warm.
I liked what I saw, but mostly because she shook like a leaf.
If I wanted, I could make her scream, too. That would amuse me. It does. But it strikes differently now that I know what she is.
Untouched.
My eye twitches. I’ve never had a virgin. Never preferred one either. They probably cry too easily and cling too much.
Doesn’t feel earned.
Yet the thought of corrupting something so pure, of dragging my mouth and my hands over innocence and turning it into rot makes my cock come alive.
“Traitor,” I scold.
That irritates me far more than the locked door.
I hear it, the way I always do when I am too close to something soft. Whispers, low and poisonous, curling near my ear like smoke.
Get too close, and she will betray you.
I ignore the dark warning the way I ignore people’s advice.
Women are a weakness for lesser men. Affection is a chain. Wanting anything is dangerous in my world. I do not want her. I will not allow it.
Instead, I’ll break her. I’ll turn softness into obedience. Tears into entertainment. Fear into the kind of loyalty only suffering can create. The rule stands that no man may harm her.
Except me.
I reach down and brush her hair away from her cheek, my knuckles sliding along her skin. She does not awaken. Her face is relaxed, almost peaceful. It makes my teeth clench. She should not sleep this comfortably in my house. She should not be allowed the luxury of peace.
I don’t have any.
I drag my thumb along her jaw. There are a thousand ways to shape her into what I need, and I intend to explore all of them.
But before I do, I need to make sure she cannot run, cannot hide, and cannot be touched by anyone else.
I remove a small black device from my pocket. The microchip glints faintly in the moonlight. Four guards enter the room without a sound. Their shadows glide across the floor, surrounding the bed.
“Hold her,” I say calmly.
Hands seize her wrists and ankles at once. She wakes in a violent panic, screaming and thrashing.
“No, stop, please! What are you doing?”
Her voice cracks with pure fear, and it rolls through me, a dark music.
I climb onto the bed, straddling her thigh, and press my fingers to her cheek in rushed, sloppy strokes. “This is necessary,” I say. “Be still.”
“What is?” she sobs.
“I need to know where you are. Always.”
She shakes her head hard, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. The more she fights, the louder her cries become, the deeper her terror digs into the air.
Intoxicating.
I press the injector to her hip.
She sees it, understands it, and her panic splits into something primal. Her scream turns sharp enough to crack the windows.
I drive the needle into her skin.
Her back arches violently, body twisting as the chip embeds itself beneath her flesh. The guards struggle to hold her still. Her sobbing turns into broken little gasps.
When it’s done, I lift the injector and set it aside. She collapses into the mattress, shaking uncontrollably.
I stroke her wet cheek again, smearing the tear across her skin with my thumb.
“Now no one can steal you,” I say softly.
“I’m not a possession.” She whimpers and curls into herself. Her hair sticks to her damp cheeks. Her breathing is uneven and small.
I stand and move toward the door, watching her struggle to pull the comforter back over her trembling body.
“Sleep well, devushka,” I tell her.
She groans, followed by a faint sob into the blanket.
I pause at the doorway.
Another whisper invades my skull. My father.
Kill her before she infects you.
I snarl, murmuring under my breath, “Not now. Stick to the plan.”
His voice fades.
My gaze stays fixed on the woman. Her lashes wet with tears and long against her cheeks. Her lips twitch as she is about to speak.
And her scent... sweet, warm, a little floral, lingers in the air. I swallow against the sudden urge to smother the beauty who shouldn’t be here but resist and indulge in my default ways.
“Get used to me. This is how I love,” I say, and shut the door behind me.
It’s a lie.
I don’t love.
Another voice. Mother.
Be nice, Gustav. I chose her for you.