Fawn: A Dark Mafia Shifter Romance (Blackfang Barons Book 1)

by Elaina Jadin

  “What about dancing?” His eyes are fixed on me, freezing me in place. “You were working at a club. Is dancing something you enjoy?”

  I can’t look at him, so I let my eyes rest on the carafe of orange juice instead. I notice the way he phrased it as if dancing is no longer a part of my life. Hopefully, it won’t be. Not if I can stay here long enough to earn the fifty thousand they’ve promised. Shrugging a shoulder, I say, “It’s something I’m good at. But it’s never been my dream job.”

  Satisfied with my answer, he offers me another bite—this time it’s the rich, savory poached eggs. I swallow the bite down, then make eye contact with him. There’s a plea in my gaze, but I don’t speak, though. I wait quietly, hoping he’ll give me permission.

  He arches a single eyebrow, and I look at the empty glass beside the carafe.

  “Ask nicely,” Bishop commands, the order sending a thrill through me.

  I wet my lips, feeling the weight of his stare as I speak. “May I please have something to drink?”

  I wait for his response, but he’s still watching me, silent, as though I’ve forgotten something. I scramble to think of what else to say but I’m at a loss. I run the question through my mind—it was phrased correctly, and I even said please. Then I remember the agreement, and Draven’s words. I’m their property. They own me.

  “Sir?” I hazard a guess, my face warm.

  “Sir is acceptable, but Alpha is preferred,” he instructs. “You will address myself—and Draven—as alpha or sir. Kade, whom you also met yesterday, does as he pleases and doesn’t usually bother with titles.”

  “Oh,” I say with a little breath of surprise.

  Kade. That’s the man’s name. The one who scooped me from the hallway in the midst of my panic attack and took me to my room. The one who made me breathe. The one with the chaotic energy bristling inside him.

  So, that means I’ve met all three of my… owners? Masters? I don’t know what the appropriate word is in this situation.

  I also don’t know what to make of Bishop’s choice of title, but I ask again, correctly this time. “May I please have something to drink, Alpha?”

  “Good girl,” he says, and like when Draven said the same thing, delight fills me.

  I can do this. I can spend thirty days pleasing these men, and perhaps I will even come to enjoy it without shame.

  He pours me a glass of the sweet-smelling juice and holds it up to my lips, carefully allowing me to drink. I swallow it down greedily, slaking my thirst with big gulps. When I finally pull away from the glass, he sets it on the table and gathers more of the fluffy, syrup-covered pancakes on his fork.

  “Did you enjoy living with Bryan?”

  The question isn’t one I expected, and a cluster of words shove their way into my mouth all at once, tangling until I can’t spit any of them out. Right now, I’d rather kick Bryan in the balls than look at him, but I suppose there have been times I did enjoy his company—at first, at least. Especially after my aunt died, and I was all alone and completely adrift. When he moved in it was a small comfort, one I desperately needed then. But that was a long time ago.

  Bishop frowns with displeasure at my brief silence and he eats the forkful of pancakes himself, his eyes narrowed at me as he chews.

  “I don’t anymore,” I quickly tell him. Should I add an apology for not answering faster? I’m not sure, so I press my lips together, hoping my simple reply is enough.

  He regards me quietly and spears a piece of sausage on his fork. He has a single drop of syrup on his lower lip, and I want to lick it off of him.

  No... I realize as I stare at him that I want him to order me to lick it off of him.

  When he offers me the bite of sausage I accept eagerly, relishing the savory flavors. My stomach rumbles loudly, begging for more, prompting Bishop to lift an eyebrow, but whether he’s amused or annoyed by the noise, I can’t tell.

  His expressions aren’t a carefully guarded mask of calm control, like Draven’s. With him, I can sense that strong, primal emotions are simmering beneath the surface. Bishop’s are much more detached, almost neutral, which keeps me guessing. But I can also tell his mind is constantly working, and that he doesn’t miss a thing.

  He stops questioning me between each bite, and instead continues to feed me, forkful after forkful, until my hunger is sated. I’m full, but I’m not gorged like I would have been if left to my own devices.

  When the plate is empty, he sets the fork down and regards me inquisitively once again, staring at me over his coffee cup as he takes a sip. “Tell me why you do not like dogs.”

  His command is not gruff or curt, but it still makes an icy chill sweep against my skin and I feel a wave of nausea crash into me, threatening to make my meal reappear. Instinctively, I reach for my mother’s necklace, but it’s not there. I’m not wearing it, but I swear I went to bed with it on. I haven’t taken it off since I arrived. I bolt up from the chair, my eyes searching the floor. Bishop stays seated, watching me with rapt interest.

  “My necklace,” I pant, my heart rate rocketing, “where’d it go? I need it.”

  He tilts his head, a mixture of curiosity and disappointment in his expression, but I don’t care right now. I feel untethered, as though the pendant was the only thing holding me intact, the only thing keeping me sane. Anxiety rises inside me, vibrating through my body, and I fight the memories trying to flood my mind.

  I managed to avoid them in my sleep last night, and now they want vengeance for it. They’re always with me, waiting to pounce. To drag me back to that dark night. To remind me of how selfish and cowardly I am.

  I cling to the table, ignoring everything—Bishop, the food, my manners—as tears fill my eyes and panic pools in my heart.

  A sharp gasp rockets from my lips as a searing burn lances over the back of my hand, jolting me out of the hellish whirlpool I’ve been sucked into. I stare at my hand in shock as a thick layer of white wax hardens on my skin, the burn already fading. I glance up to see Bishop’s looking at me, his face completely blank, the lit candle still in his hand.

  He watches me as my eyes shift from my hand back to his face. Then he pushes his chair back and stands. “Remove the robe,” he instructs, his voice smooth but commanding.

  Trying to gather my breath, I eye the wax marking my skin, marveling at how the burn has eased into a comforting warmth, at how the pain sliced through my panic. Then I slowly pull myself away from the table until I’m standing before him, a buzzing tingle gathering in my body under his gaze.

  I do what he says, easing the burgundy silk robe off my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. My pulse is pounding, my eyes are still wet from the tears I shed, and I have no idea what this man is about to do to me, but something tells me that whatever it is, I want it.

  Leaving me standing there in nothing but my bra and panties, he walks to the far end of the dark wooden table and gracefully waves a hand at the smooth, empty space. “Lay on your back, here.”

  As I walk toward him, it’s as if the burn on my hand is bleeding arousal into my veins. Somehow Bishop knew that the pain would pull me back to him, away from the demons hounding me. Draven chased away my memories last night, and I’m hoping Bishop will drive them away now.

  The table is cold on my skin as I lay back against it, my hair fanning out around me. I try to watch Bishop, but he runs his hand over my eyes, closing them in a silent order. Trapped in the darkness, I’m left with the threat of my past, and the quiet sounds of him moving around me are the only lifeline I have to cling to.

  “I find it interesting,” he says, his voice somewhere near my feet at the end of the table, “how pain can alter the thought patterns of the mind. The mind’s own Pavlovian response.”

  I can’t hear anything that would give me a sign as to what Bishop has planned. It excites me more than terrifies me, but only barely. When he speaks next, his voice is right against my ear.

  “Let’s do our own experiment, little
fawn.”

  12

  Bishop

  Jemma’s pale skin is picturesque against the dark table. I see the physical response my words inspire, the goosebumps that run along her arms and legs, the way she bites insecurely at her lip. She keeps her eyes closed, learning already. I wonder if she will continue to be so obedient as her time with us progresses.

  “I have a theory,” I tell her, walking to the end of the table, pulling chairs away and placing them against the wall as I go, settling into a comfortable head space and preparing for the work ahead.

  In this room, in this moment, I am the master of her reality, and soon she will discover that my control goes beyond what she might expect. I did not lie to her when I informed her of my sociopathic condition, and the excitement that runs through me is less base attraction and more fascination.

  My curiosity is piqued by this woman, displaying herself for me so easily, and I enjoy nothing more than satisfying it. I can already smell her excitement, which pleases me—and it makes me even more intrigued. I’ve rarely had such a reaction to a human.

  “You do not like dogs because of your parents’ deaths.” I state the words simply, without embellishment or emotion, my gaze fixed on Jemma to observe her reaction.

  It’s immediate. She draws in a soft gasp and her eyes fly open in surprise, her whole body tensing. Her head lifts from the table and she stares at me with wariness and confusion.

  “Yes, I know about the incident,” I tell her, without further explanation.

  Draven’s meticulous work in gathering background information on her was a nice starting point. But where he dug into her work history and her financial situation, I devoured the statements she gave to the police, the investigative interviews with her aunt, and most of all, the records of her time in therapy.

  The treatment plans her team of counselors and psychiatrists hobbled together were of little interest to me, except to note how spectacularly they failed Jemma. None of their bland, institutional methods did anything to help her, yet they felt justified in keeping her locked away under their deficient care for two years.

  The notes and recordings of her therapy sessions, however… those were quite fascinating.

  She’s watching my every movement, her eyes following me guardedly as I walk to the opposite end of the table, retrieving one of the lit candles. The dripping wax rolls slowly down the candle, a perfect tool for my intentions.

  “Close your eyes,” I command. This will not work as well if she expects what’s coming. It takes her a moment to comply, and I measure her apprehension as she swallows hard once, twice, then slowly allows her eyes to go shut.

  “When you’re unprepared to see the creatures, it sends you into a spiral.” I set the candle on the table’s edge, far enough away to keep from accidentally burning her. When she feels the sting of pain, it will not be by chance—it will be by privilege. “Tell me why the absence of your necklace sent you into a similar panic.”

  She hesitates, and I catalog her response. I know the necklace is important, that’s why I removed it before she woke. When I want it to, my touch can be but a whisper.

  There was no mention of it in the therapy notes, but it was easy to deduce how precious the item is to her. No other jewelry adorns her body, she’s discarded her clothes for those we’ve provided, and she has not once asked for her purse or phone, and yet… she slept with the necklace on.

  It now resides in the pocket of my slacks, but she does not need to know that yet.

  Her arousal is still faint, and I can smell the pheromones of her nervousness. I see the palpitation of her heartbeat under the flesh of her throat. It’s quite enticing.

  “It was my mother’s,” she answers at last, her heart still beating quickly—but steadily. The truth then. So I will reward her.

  “It is safe and will be returned to you.” My sensitive ears pick up her quiet exhale of relief. “But you will not find strength from such a sentimental item today,” I warn her and reach for the candle.

  She flinches as she hears the base of it lift from the table, but she keeps her eyes closed. Trusting me, for the moment at least.

  I step against the side of the table, her body stretched before me as if a delicacy created for my own enjoyment. I feast my eyes on her, slowly drawing my gaze up her lithe frame, beginning at her toes, then her long legs, to the patch of dark red fabric, and my cock twitches as I fix my gaze on where the silky material disappears between her thighs.

  My eyes roam across her smooth stomach, noting how the muscles there flex softly, nearly vibrating with tension. My gaze continues up, to her breasts, which are covered by another swath of red. I watch how they rise and fall with uneven breaths.

  Then to her neck, the skin unblemished by bite marks or bruises, for now. Finally, I move my focus to her face, her full lips parting nervously even as she follows my orders and keeps her eyes shut.

  “Tell me about the creatures who killed your parents.”

  Her entire body seizes at the question, tense as a bow string, and I know she wants to deny me.

  I consider her body as I wait, and decide the bra must go. I ease my fingers across the fabric, and she jerks at my touch before relaxing once more. I undo the small front clasp between the swell of her breasts and the bra releases, revealing her to me.

  Her breasts are not overly large, but fit her smaller frame perfectly, and her dusky pink nipples are the perfect complement to her pale skin. Under my gaze, they pebble in the cool air—and with anticipation. I have no doubt that the thin material covering the junction of her thighs will be damp if I stroke my hand there.

  Yet, her heart currently races because of the fear I’m inviting into her thoughts with my question. I consider the punishment I will issue if she does not answer me soon. I nearly regret leaving my flogger in its case upstairs.

  “There were three of them.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but I smile all the same. I move my hand to her leg and swirl circles over her thigh with one finger, barely touching her, as a small reward. She swallows audibly, and her face is pinched with a pain I could never duplicate.

  “They…” she pauses, her hands trembling where they lay against the table. “They were massive. The police thought they must have been wolves. They were never tracked down.”

  I move my caresses to her stomach, delighting in the twitching of her sensitive skin. “How did it happen?”

  She doesn’t answer, and the quiver of her chin reveals more than she can know. I know of the time she’s spent surrounded by doctors and therapists, stuffed with drugs to keep her sane.

  But I also know what happens to people when forced to confront what could have been their own violent demise. When they’ve been suspended between life and death for so long they finally plead for fate’s cruel grasp to claim them, only to escape the reaper’s blade at the end. To live when they’d already given their soul to the afterworld. She needs more than to speak about it to come to terms with their deaths, to understand what she experienced.

  “Why are you asking me this?” Her voice is quiet but rough, filled with a decade of scar tissue.

  I pinch one of her delicate nipples harshly, and she immediately arches up from the table and cries out, but I grip her thigh and make her lay flat once more. “Answer my question,” I order as I release her nipple.

  A small, dry sob emits from her before she finds the courage I know is buried deep inside her. She believes herself weak—the last decade of her apathy has convinced herself of this. But even though she has not thrived, she has survived. Watching her discover that strength as I push her to her limits over the next thirty days will be a delightful experiment.

  “They attacked my dad first.” Her tone is full of sorrow, but it’s tinged with anger, too.

  I encourage her with my touch, gently cupping and teasing her other breast. It serves two purposes—a reward and a threat.

  “My mom and I ran,” Jemma continues, her face drawing into an agonized winc
e, and I know she’s trying to force herself to disconnect. To check out and remove herself from the reality of the moment.

  But I’m not her therapist, and I will not allow her to retreat.

  I capture her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, rolling it—not enough to hurt, but enough that she can’t distance herself. Her body is already responding, even if her mind has not yet joined the race.

  “Then we fell, and they dragged her off of me.” Jemma draws in a ragged breath, her fingers trying to find a grip on the edge of the table as she approaches what I suspect is the deepest wound she carries within her. The one I will force her to confront, though she’ll hate me for it.

  I don’t expect to heal her, but I won’t let her hide from her demons, either.

  Not here. Not with me.

  She’s all jagged edges and splinters, continuing to reopen her wounds each time she relives the memory. I want to feel those shattered edges, to let her sharp slivers push into my skin, to experience her pain.

  “And then?” I prompt her without any more punishment other than removing my hand from her body. I take visceral pleasure in seeing a tear escape and roll down her cheek before disappearing into her hair.

  “Then I ran away,” she whispers, shame filling her voice. “I ran away and hid.” The anger is back, but this time it’s directed inward.

  “You blame yourself.” It’s not a question. The truth is settled in her body, it lines her throat, shapes her words, her actions. It colors every thought, every decision she’s faced since then. “You punish yourself, believing you could have saved them.”

  “Yes,” she admits with a tortured hiss. Her features twist as she grimaces, her eyes squeezing shut tighter, and I know she’s letting her pain drag her back into the depths of her memories.

  That will not do at all.

  The gasp she releases makes my cock throb as I pour a line of hot wax over her smooth stomach, her pale skin reddening beautifully under the candle wax.