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

by Elaina Jadin

  Draven’s grip tightens, and he grunts as he tries to restrain me, but I only struggle harder. I can’t be trapped with the wolves. Not again.

  I hear the loud sound echo through the quiet room a split second before the sharp pain cuts through my panic like a blade of clarity. My ass is on fire from Draven’s slap. It’s the hardest he’s ever struck me, and tears soak into the tie wrapped around my face.

  My heart is pounding, and my face is numb, but I slump against the chaise, panting for air between my sobs.

  After a moment, he releases his grip on me and smooths his palms across my lower back. I only cry harder, ashamed of my panic, of disappointing him, of the unstoppable cycle of torment that’s turned me into a shell of a person.

  “Little fawn.” He whispers my nickname softly, stroking his fingers down my spine.

  Tentatively, I reach a hand behind me. Immediately, he laces his fingers through mine. My hand is still shaking, but I squeeze his as though he’s the only thing holding me together. There’s no complaint despite the fact that I must be crushing his hand.

  “You are safe,” he tells me. “The only danger you face here are the wolves from the past that live on in your mind. But you can take their power away.”

  I press my cheek against the leather and swallow back my tears. I want to tell him this is a pointless exercise and he should give up now. I’ve already failed this test, no matter what reality he’s tried to will into existence.

  And yet, even as my chin quivers and tears threaten to roll down my cheeks, his words take hold like a gentle caress across my skin. It’s the smallest comfort, but it’s something.

  “Now, I need to let go of you for the count of fifteen.”

  I grip his hand harder. “Please, no.” If he’s not here to ground me, I know I’ll slip back into the darkness of my nightmares.

  “Count for me.” He rises from the chaise and forces my hand from his.

  The moment his touch leaves me, I’m exposed, blindly adrift on a sea fraught with danger. I curl onto my side, drawing my knees and arms into a protective pose, tensed and waiting for the sound of the door to open and shut, terrified that he’ll leave me alone with the wolves.

  “One,” he begins as he moves away. “Two. Fawn—count.”

  “Th-three.” My voice shakes and bile burns at my throat. “Four.”

  “Good girl. Keep counting.” He’s not too far away. By the desk from the sounds of it—nowhere near the door.

  “Five.” I try my best to pretend the wolves are gone. That they’re not actually within arm’s reach, as Draven suggested. That they aren’t watching me with sharp fangs and a hunger in their eyes.

  A drawer is pulled open and then shut a moment later. I focus on following the small noises, tracking him through the room as I count.

  Before I get to twelve, his palm curls around my shoulder and I let out a dry sob. He runs a hand over my hair, stroking me reassuringly. I wrap my arms around his thigh, pressing my face into his leg, uncaring if he punishes me for touching him without permission.

  But he pauses beside me, allowing me the strength he provides, letting me breathe him in.

  “In front of you is a sketch pad.” He guides my hands away from his legs, to the floor in front of me and I feel the familiar shapes of a pad of paper and a single pencil on top of it.

  Although I can’t see him, I tilt my face up in confusion, an unspoken question on my lips.

  “You said drawing can help you work through your fear,” Draven says. “So that’s what we will do.”

  Before I can ask what he means by we, he grips my legs and pulls them straight, uncurling me and stretching me out on my stomach once more. Then he straddles the chaise again, but this time he positions himself across my thighs, just below my ass, the fabric of his slacks brushing against my bare skin as he settles on top of me.

  I’m tiny compared to him, and he could easily crush me, but he doesn’t. I can tell he’s bracing most of his weight, but the sensation of his body on top of mine is soothing. I wait for instructions, but he says nothing, as though he’s giving me time to center myself.

  After a few moments of silence, I rest my head on the end of the chaise, breathing slowly, and a calmness descends over me, as if the warmth radiating from Draven’s body into mine is a sedative.

  God, he feels like shelter. Like a big, badass security blanket pressed against me.

  If it wasn’t for my keen awareness that wolves are in the room, I could almost nod off to sleep.

  He leans over me, the soft material of his shirt teasing my bare back, the buttons pressing against my spine. Whether he intends it or not, it feels like he’s surrounding me, protecting me with his whole body.

  His breath warms my neck, fluttering through my hair, and I melt against his embrace.

  My heart settles into a slow, steady rhythm as he wraps his fingers around my wrists, his grip tight. I relax into his touch, giving him complete control. My hands are his, my body is his.

  For the first time, I feel the true depths of the words he spoke earlier. You are safe.

  It doesn’t matter if there are wolves lurking nearby. He is my shield.

  “I’m going to remove your blindfold,” he whispers against the curve of my ear.

  I nod softly, feeling almost drunk, as though I’m floating between reality and a dream state.

  “Then, I want you to draw,” he continues. “I want you to pour your terror and your pain into the pages in front of you. And I will devour your fear. I want it, Fawn. I want you to give your fear over to me entirely. I will control it because I control you. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.” My words are little more than a murmur. I feel hypnotized, lulled into a space where nothing exists but Draven’s will.

  He releases my wrists and the pressure of the knot at the back of my head loosens as he removes the blindfold. A soft amber glow replaces the utter blackness I’ve been suspended in, and I blink as my eyes slowly adjust to the dim light.

  Fuck.

  A bolt of adrenaline as hot and fast as lightning runs through me at the sight of the wolves, and I squeeze my eyes shut immediately. I swallow hard, my body tensing in anticipation as I wait for the wave of nausea to curdle my stomach, for the terror to finally twist its way into my mind.

  But it doesn’t.

  My hands are shaking, my pulse is pounding, yet I’m strangely unaffected by the physical reactions. It’s as though I’m floating inside my body, aware and observant of what’s happening to me, but somehow disconnected from the surge of panic.

  “Tonight, your fear belongs to me.” Draven’s deep voice vibrates through me, as though he’s read my mind. “Now open your eyes.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I part my eyelids just enough to peek once again at the two wolves sitting calmly nearby. They are so similar to the ones from my past, and yet, so different.

  They’re as huge—no, even bigger, which seems impossible. I’ve been sure that the wolves I remember have grown beyond the scope of reality into a monstrous size over the years, the product of a rich childhood imagination and reliving the trauma over and over. But as large as those wolves have become in my head, the ones sitting before me are even more massive.

  Even with Draven’s body shielding me and the strange calmness I possess, I still can’t bring myself to make eye contact with them, so instead I focus on their huge paws, and then slowly trail my vision across the slope of their backs.

  One is a tawny gold, sleek and muscular, even under its thick coat. The other is nearly brindled, a brown so dark it’s almost black, but there are streaks of autumn red. No, not autumn red. The color streaking its dark fur is a brownish-rust. The color of dried blood.

  Finally, I slowly raise my gaze to theirs. As with the wolves that upended my life, there’s intelligence in their eyes, so clear I feel as if I could converse with them and they’d answer.

  But unlike the wolves of my memory, I don’t see the loathing hatre
d I’ve come to expect. I’ll never forget that look—it’s been burned into my soul.

  I force myself to stare at them, but they only look back at me with patience and curiosity. There’s no malicious longing to rip the life from my body. They’re watching me intently, but I sense nothing threatening in their gaze.

  There’s more than attentiveness and intelligence. Almost a familiarity, as though these wolves know me. Maybe they do, in a sense. Perhaps they’re the ones I’ve sensed lurking in the shadows at the end of the hallways here, always watching me.

  Now it’s my turn to study them. I reach for the sketchbook and pencil, and as I was taught, I look at them as my hand flies across the paper.

  It’s as if someone else is in control. Maybe it’s Draven. Maybe it’s the dream state version of me. Or maybe it’s the wolves guiding my hand as they sit calmly while I fill the page with drawings.

  I focus on their eyes first, then their muzzles. My sketching becomes frantic, possessed with the need to capture their image on paper.

  They’re predators, deadly and fierce... And yet, instinct tells me there’s nothing to fear so long as I don’t make a mistake of fleeing. I’m their prey, but they do not hunger for my death. They will not hunt me unless I run.

  Page after page, I slash the pencil across the paper. Draven is silent and still against me, his body anchoring my mind in this moment as I drift out of awareness of everything else. The world disappears and all that matters are the images forming under my pencil.

  I’m not conscious of how much time passes, but I’ve filled half the sketch pad with dozens of iterations of the two wolves when they suddenly rise to all fours and leave the room. I was so singularly focused I must have missed Draven commanding them to leave.

  I watch them cautiously until they enter the hallway and disappear from sight, the sketchpad and pencil still clutched in my hands.

  Draven’s weight and warmth vanish as he moves off me, and a spike of fear finally penetrates my mind like a residual echo. I drop the pad and pencil and scramble onto my knees, reaching for him as I croak out his name, my mouth dry and throat sore.

  He looks down at me, and I swear his expression nearly glows with approval as he strokes his thumb across my lips. “You did perfect, my beautiful fawn.”

  I soak in his praise. I’ve pleased him. And for the first time in my life, I’ve survived the wolves. They didn’t pull me into their twisted game of terror tonight. I’m exhausted, but between the pride swelling in my chest and the adoration in Draven’s gaze, I’m floating on air.

  “What reward would you like?” he asks, his dark eyes drinking me in.

  I don’t hesitate. “A kiss.” It’s not an order, of course. I’m simply telling him exactly what I desire, what I’ve longed for. But nonetheless, I quickly add, “Please, sir.”

  There’s no hesitation from the man. He takes my face in both hands and bends down to me, his lips on mine almost before I can finish speaking, his tongue demanding entrance.

  His fingers tangle through my hair as he devours me. I clutch his shirt, holding him to me even as I submit to him, letting him swallow my sighs of pleasure as we taste each other.

  Draven’s lips are firm but yielding, and like with everything he does, he drives me crazy drawing out my desire, playing with it until I’m on the brink of madness.

  He pulls back until he’s teasing me with soft sweeps of his tongue and the barest brushes of his lips across mine, leaving me reaching toward him for more. Then his fists tighten in my hair and he crushes his mouth against mine with a deep, all-consuming hunger.

  Over and over, until I’m dizzy with need.

  There is no fight for dominance between us. Draven has complete control and I revel in it. He owns me completely in this moment and I am his, without question.

  He cradles my chin in his hands as he finally pulls away, leaving me breathless. “Remember—your fear is mine,” he tells me in that firm voice I love.

  “Yes, sir.” I’m not sure what that really means, because it’s impossible for anyone to truly share the hellish torment I carry inside, much less take it away, but his words sound heavenly to my ears. Just his desire to do so is enough for me.

  He stares at me as he cups my chin, his fingers pressing into my flesh possessively, claiming all of my attention. I wish I knew what he was thinking when he looks at me like that. I feel completely stripped bare, as though he can see my very soul and every thought in my head. But he’s so guarded, his expression a perfect mask of steel.

  And yet, beneath the hard glint that’s always present, there’s a warmth in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. Perhaps I’m imagining it, longing for it as I’m longing for his lips to claim mine again.

  A hint of a devious smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Do well at the fight, Fawn. If you do, I think you’ll enjoy the reward immensely.”

  20

  Jemma

  The hot water falling from the shower feels decadent as I linger under it, my eyes closed and face tilted slightly towards the ceiling. I’m more relaxed than I have been in months, maybe longer.

  The last time I let myself linger in a shower like this was when Bryan left town for a week, so he wasn’t there to pound on the door after five minutes to tell me to hurry up. I get the impression these men don’t care how long I stand here, letting the steaming water massage my aching muscles.

  Although, I wouldn’t mind if Draven or Bishop came in, or even Kade—who I’ve still barely talked to. But for now, I’m alone, so I’m taking my sweet ass time and pampering myself with this heavenly shower where the hot water never seems to run out.

  My mind wanders to thoughts of last night. Of Draven’s hands and mouth on me, his fingers inside me firm and demanding, his manhood pushing into my mouth. The memory makes my core burn hotter than the water ever could. He’s pulling down my defenses with every controlled strike of his hand, giving me the high I’ve sought ever since that night so many years before.

  And Bishop… just one morning with him, and it’s as if he’s already taken me apart and examined every inch. I haven’t decided if he’ll ever put me back together again, or if I even want him to. He breaks me in a way I crave, revels in my shame and need for atonement.

  It makes me wonder about Kade. Draven and Bishop are so different, yet they’ve each cut through my defenses in their own ways. They’ve made my heart race with fear and grief, and my body ache with both pleasure and pain.

  What’s Kade like? What else could this agreement with these three men give me—and can I even handle anything more? It’s been one intense experience after the other, and it’s only day three.

  I still don’t know how I feel about being here. On one hand, it’s a welcome respite from a nothing life full of sleepless nights, dancing for leering strangers—and Bryan. On the other hand, I hate the shame, the pain, and the total lack of control. Especially because of how much I crave it.

  For once, I feel as if I’m alive. That I’m finally walking toward the light at the end of the tunnel, not sliding deeper into a bottomless pit. But it’s a perilous path, and every step demands a sacrifice, another ounce of flesh and blood. It’s possible I may bleed to death before I ever see where it takes me.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And I know that if I run back to Bryan, I’ll fade into obscurity while I wait to die.

  After what feels like a half-century, I finally turn off the shower and dry myself off with a large, plush towel before wrapping it around me and returning to the bedroom. I still don’t think of it as mine, although I suppose it is, for as long as I stay. The sight of a tented piece of paper on the vanity stops me in my tracks.

  Someone has been in my room. Heart in my throat, I pick up the paper and carefully unfold it.

  Join me for breakfast. Fourth floor, third door on the left.

  I read it over and over, trying to divine the sender’s identity. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but then again, I’ve only caught gli
mpses of Draven’s from the paperwork on his desk, and I have no idea what Bishop or Kade’s might look like. It could be any of them—or someone else entirely.

  Dropping the towel, I dig through the underwear, mulling over what to wear. It probably doesn’t matter much, since there’s a limited choice of garments, anyway. With a bra and panty set in hand, I throw open the closet door to grab a matching robe and do a double-take.

  Yesterday, there were only a handful of silk robes, hanging in solitude in the spacious closet. Now, there are dresses, too. Actual clothing.

  Stepping closer, I run my hands over the new collection. There are long, curve-hugging slinky dresses that make me feel sexy just looking at them, patterned maxi dresses with flirty, flowing skirts, and short, casual dresses made from what feels like t-shirt material.

  I grab a cream colored t-shirt dress, the soft cotton jersey material so comfortable in my hand I almost don’t put on the bra and underwear.

  Tucked along the floor of the closet is a small selection of simple flats. Thinking quickly, I go back to the dresser, pulling open the drawers I had assumed were still empty. One of them now contains leggings—nude, white, black, and all the colors of the rainbow, some sheer, some thick. The sight makes my heart squeal.

  I pull on a pair of thin leggings under the t-shirt dress, feeling completely dressed and comfortable for the first time since I’ve been here. I don’t even care that I still don’t have shirts and pants—I can happily live forever in these t-shirt dresses and soft leggings.

  I slip the clothes on, along with a pair of flats, then drag a brush through my still wet hair, twisting it into a knot on the top of my head with a band I find in a bathroom drawer.

  The large mirror shows that my skin is still as pale as always, but at least the dark circles under my eyes are fading a bit, which is a good thing since I don’t have any makeup to hide them. I’ve been sleeping like it’s a contest. Not a single slumber has been disturbed by nightmares so far this week—a new record.