by LK Shaw
She nods. “Yes.”
“It must have taken quite a while to accomplish that. Months even. Add that to the few additional months you spent inside the estate and I’m guessing we’re talking close to half a year? That’s a long time to plot your revenge.”
She merely shrugs.
“So you kill Mikhail, somehow manage to sneak past all his security as well as the guards, and make it through that wall. What would have happened if you’d actually gotten out? And that’s a big if. Mikhail’s men would have been looking for you.”
“They were looking for a young soldier named Ivan, not a woman named Mila. I only had to remove the binding around my chest and put on a wig until my hair grew out. No one would know it had been me.”
My gaze drops to her breasts and back up. “Ah, yes, the cloth. It was all part of your disguise as this young soldier then?”
“That and protection,” she says.
“Protection from what?”
Mila looks at me like my question is stupid. “Men. It’s easier to hide in plain sight if they think you’re a boy.”
I study her. “Who were you hiding from?”
“I told you,” she sighs with annoyance. “Men.”
“That’s a broad generalization. All men, or just some of them?”
She shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“How did you know about Brenna?” I ask.
“I heard Mikhail bragging about having taken someone he called that Italian bastard’s so-called queen. By that time, he’d already discovered my deceit.” She pauses. “He punished me for it, too.”
My body goes rigid, and that familiar burning once again starts in my belly, as my mind pictures all her scars. No, they aren’t fresh enough to have happened within the last couple of months.
“How did he punish you?” I grind out, trying to calm myself. Look at how you just treated her. Are you any better? I stifle the voice.
Mila turns away and stares somewhere in front of her. “He had one of his men beat me unconscious and threw me in a closet for a few days.”
I think of her reaction when I’d left her in my playroom. Alone and in the dark. “Is that why you’re afraid of it? The dark I mean?”
“One of them.”
That gives me pause. What else has this woman experienced? I don’t have the energy to fight with her anymore this morning, so I don’t push it. “What happened after he let you out? How did you manage to get away, make your way through the interior without getting caught, and find Brenna?”
Mila’s eyes dart in my direction and quickly away. Her entire face flushes, and she straightens her shoulders with a deep breath before returning her gaze to mine and locking it there. “I let a guard fuck me and swiped the key from his pants,” she replies in a tone that dares me to judge her.
Chapter 11
Mila
* * *
I sit, staring out into the lovely backyard I’m not allowed to enter, and watch the sun set. Not that I can actually see it collapsing behind the horizon. But the shadows along the grass are growing, lengthening, and the sky is changing to beautiful shades of orange and red.
I’ve been locked up in this house for two days. Alone. Without a single visit from Death. Not since my confession. Who knows what his response would have been, if anything, if we hadn’t been interrupted by the arrival of a delivery boy with a week’s supply of already prepared food. Apparently I can’t be trusted with cookware. Whoever made the meals had been kind enough to include plastic utensils.
Death had given me a brief instruction to put all the meals away, and then he’d left without another word. He hasn’t been back since. I don’t know why I care, either. I should be glad. I’m in a nice house, even if it is a prison, and I have a full belly. Except, I’m…lonely.
There’s a series of beeps from the front door, and I turn my head. It opens and, as though I’ve conjured him, there he is, stepping through it. Death pauses at seeing me on the couch, but then he closes the door behind him and re-engages the security system.
In his hand is a plastic bag. On its side is a name I’ve never heard of before. He strides through the entryway and stops where it opens in to the living room. He looks me over. As always, his expression is unreadable. Blank. Not a single emotion crosses his face.
“I assume you’ve eaten dinner already, but I brought you dessert,” he says, holding up the bag.
Death strides farther into the room and sits in the overstuffed chair, setting the bag on the floor next to him. I have to stifle a smile. He’s so big and muscular, the furniture looks like it belongs to a child. He reaches in and pulls out a small, square styrofoam box and a plastic fork. He holds them out to me.
“The best tiramisu in Brooklyn,” he says.
Gingerly, I take it from him. “What’s tiramisu?” The word feels foreign against my tongue.
He screeches to a halt mid-lean and lays a hand over his chest as though I’ve wounded him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
My cheeks heat, but I shrug as though I could care less. “We don’t have a lot of Italian restaurants in Sheepshead.”
“Ah, that makes sense.” He reaches back into the bag and pulls out another container and fork. “You’re from Sheepshead, then?”
“Mostly.” Which isn’t a lie.
Death rises up to sitting with a brow raise, but doesn’t comment. He gestures toward me with his chin. “Go ahead.”
Warily, I flip open the lid and stare at the off-whitish and brown colored square with a brown powdered top. “What is it?”
“I told you. It’s tiramisu,” he says with a surprising amount of patience. “It’s coffee soaked cookies and some type of creamy stuff topped with cocoa powder. I don’t know any other way to describe it.”
I eye the dessert warily, but finally dip out a forkful and give it a little sniff. Smells good, at least, like the coffee shop we used to walk past on the way home from picking up Anya at school. My gaze darts to Death, who’s waiting expectantly. Here goes nothing. The first taste of it on my tongue, and I’m not sure about this. But within seconds my whole life changes. I quickly swallow that bite and shovel another one in right behind it.
“Oh my god,” I mumble through a mouthful. “I think this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I inhale the rest of it, finishing the last bite before Death even makes it through half of his. He chuckles, but it doesn’t seem like it comes naturally to him.
“Would you like the rest of mine?” he offers.
For a brief second I hesitate, eyeing his container, but shake my head. “No, I shouldn’t.” I lift my gaze to his. “Thank you for bringing it. It was delicious.”
He dips his head. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Why can’t I look away? I manage to shake myself out of this fucked up hold he seems to have over me, which is no doubt his intent, and rush into the kitchen to toss the empty box in the trash. I stand in the middle of the room taking one deep breath after another. I refuse to admit I’m running. From what, I’m even more afraid to admit.
Once I feel like I have myself under control, I head back into the living room. Moments later, Death finally finishes his dessert and discards it in the kitchen as well. He returns to his seat. An uncomfortable silence hovers between us. A question has been niggling in the back of my mind. One I’m afraid to ask for fear of upsetting the tentative peace we occasionally have between us.
There’s nothing else I can do but plow ahead. “Are you ever going to tell me your name? I think it’s only fair since you know mine.”
He doesn’t say anything for several seconds. It’s unnerving the way he stares at me. It’s as though he’s imagining all the ways to hurt me. I can’t keep calling him Death though.
“It’s Pierce,” he finally replies with some reluctance.
I’d expected something like Bruno or Luca. Maybe a Mario or Roberto. He must sense my confusion.
“It was my father’s best friend�
�s name. He died when they were in middle school. It was his way of honoring their friendship.” Death—Pierce—quickly rises from his seat and moves back into the kitchen like he regrets telling me something so personal.
Before I question my decision, I follow him. He’s leaning against the counter with arms crossed in a deceiving casual stance. There’s so much tension in his body, he isn’t fooling me. It strikes me that it’s not just a pose to intimidate people. It’s also as though it’s armor—a shield—to protect himself.
I mimic his pose at the opposite counter. “That’s a lovely thing for your father to have done. My sister is my best friend. Even though she’s six years younger than me. She was all I had growing up, and I was all she had.”
“Where is she now?” he asks.
I look away and focus my gaze on the floor. My eyes rise up to meet his. “I don’t know.”
Unable to meet his stare any longer, and cursing myself for coming in here, I hurry out of the kitchen as quickly as I arrived. This time, he follows me. My hatred of Mikhail is probably greater than Pierce’s. Despair hits as I accept the fact that Anya is probably lost to me forever. I curl up on the couch and rest my head on my propped arm.
My gaze is unfocused and blurry. “I’ve spent the last six months trying to find her,” I begin. “The last time I heard from her, we fought. She accused me of being overprotective and said that I was smothering her. She said I wasn’t her mother and then she hung up on me.”
“She sounds like my sister was at that age.”
I jerk my head up to meet Pierce’s gaze. How could I have forgotten he was here? His very presence is overwhelming. “Did she grow out of it?”
His cold, blank expression shifts into something different. My gut clenches. It’s because the same expression has crossed my face more times than I can count over the last six months.
Sorrow.
Pain.
“She did. But she paid a high price for it. Too high of one, actually.”
Once again I avert my gaze. Anya is most likely paying a steep price as well. I open my mouth to ask for his help, but close it again. I don’t want this man to be human. To be someone who is real. Who feels things. It’s too easy not to fear him. It’s too easy to hope. Maksim made me hope once, too.
Never again.
Chapter 12
Pierce
* * *
What the fuck was I thinking telling Mila about Francesca? This whole game has nothing to do with me and everything to do with her. I somehow keep forgetting that. It’s time for yet another reminder. Rising from my chair, I cross the distance between us to loom over her. Her head tilts back and she eyes me warily. She should, too. I inhale deeply. There’s the faint scent of fear wafting off her. As well as arousal.
Once again I find my mouth tipping up on one side. “I smell your fear, you know.” I say.
“Fear you cause,” she accuses.
I cock my head. “Are you more scared of me or the fact that you enjoyed what I did to you the other night? Or maybe you’re scared because you want it to happen again.”
Even in the fading light, it’s not hard to miss the pink crawling up Mila’s neck into her cheeks.
“I don’t think you’re as scared of me as you want me to think, mia piccola fata. That’s almost a shame. I like the fear.” With the speed of a striking snake, my arm lashes out, and I capture her throat within my palm, not squeezing, just holding. Reminding her I’m in control.
Mila’s eyes go wide, and her pupils dilate. Her breath catches and that little whimper spills from her lips. In seconds my cock is rock hard, begging to be released from its confines.
“Jesus, I really do love that sound you make.” With my grip still firmly on her, I pull Mila to her feet.
Beneath my hand, her pulse races. We stare at each other. I wait for her to beg—to plead—for me to stop, but she only keeps looking up at me. She doesn’t even fight. It’s as though she’s accepted that I’ll do whatever it is I want to do to her. The twisted part inside me wants her to participate in her own downfall.
My hand glides from the front of her throat to palm the back of her neck. I dip my head and brush my lips across hers. She remains stiff beneath me, but I’m not deterred. I keep my kiss gentle. Because of our height difference it’s an awkward gesture.
I flick my tongue against the seam of her mouth, coaxing her to open. I hold back a smile of satisfaction when she does so with obvious reluctance. It’s as though she can’t help herself.
I explore for several minutes, tasting her, learning her flavor. She’s sweet, with a hint of coffee and chocolate, like the tiramisu she just ate. I’ll never enjoy another piece without tasting Mila’s own unique flavor as well. Her body sags against mine and those tiny fingers of hers reach up and grasp the fabric of my shirt. I’m not even sure she’s aware.
My free hand reaches down and cups the barely-there curve of her hip. It’s understandable how she’d been mistaken for a boy with her slender build, but she’s most definitely all woman. One I’m ready to see all of.
I grab her around both hips and lift her off the ground, forcing her to wrap her legs around my waist. She squeals and jerks her lips from mine staring, for the first time, level into my eyes. Her lips are swollen, and those large blue orbs have darkened to almost black with arousal. Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, pushing those perfect breasts almost directly into my face. I’m anxious to wrap my lips around the tight nipples poking through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Circling the coffee table, I lower us both to the floor and resume our kiss. Only it’s no longer gentle and coaxing. It’s rough—deep—and demanding. I want to pull every response from her. Feelings and emotions she didn’t even know she had—I want to own them all.
I force my lips from hers and glide them along her jaw and neck. My fingers find their way to the hem of her shirt and drag it up to her chin exposing those tits to my view. Before she can protest, I take the right one into my mouth. I suck the tight bud and lash at it with my tongue.
Mila chokes out a gasp, and she clutches my head, holding me to her. I feed from her breast with long pulls. She scores her nails along my scalp, and I growl low in my throat. She shudders from the vibration. I bite down on the hard nub making her cry out. I pull back and admire the bright red mark decorating her skin. The need to mark the rest of her beats inside my chest.
I finish pulling the shirt over her head and toss it away before giving the same attention to her other breast, marking it as well so they match in color. My gaze lifts to meet hers. It’s hooded with arousal. And some other emotion.
Keeping my eyes locked on her, I tug at the waistband of her pants and panties. She raises her pelvis, and I slide them down her legs. They join her discarded shirt. I stare down at her nakedness, drinking in those perfectly sized breasts, her flat belly, and bare, wet pussy. Her clit peeks out, the flesh engorged and begging for my touch.
I cover Mila with my body and claim her mouth again. She opens sweetly for me, her tongue meeting mine without me demanding it from her. I palm her breast and capture her moan, swallowing it down. The kiss goes on, going deeper as my arousal increases. Beneath me, Mila pushes herself into my hand. Needing another taste, I dip my head and pull the sweet little tip back into my mouth.
A part of me wants to tell her how good she tastes. How good she feels. To ask her to touch me like I’m touching her. But that’s something lovers do. This thing between us is about fucking. About me getting what I want. I’ll make sure Mila comes, but there won’t be any tender words exchanged.
My cock aches. I’m dying to get inside her. I want to feel how tight that pussy of hers is. She’s so small, it’s no doubt going to fit me like a glove. My hand glides down her belly until I reach her clit. Mila arches into my touch. I repeat the stroking rhythm I’d learned she enjoyed the other night. Every sound she made is branded in my brain.
I keep stroking until her body tightens and she cries ou
t in pleasure, her back arching off the floor. While she recovers, I grab my wallet from my pocket and retrieve the condom. Mila watches while I unbutton my pants and pull out my cock. I tear open the foil wrap and slide the latex down my length.
Our eyes meet, and there is something in Mila’s expression that hits me so square in the chest it nearly takes my breath away. She blinks, and the tears I swear had hovered there disappear. I can’t look at her any longer. I grab her hips and with almost no effort at all flip her onto her stomach.
With one hand, I yank Mila onto her knees while I snatch a pillow off the couch and shove it beneath her. She doesn’t make a sound of protest. My muscles loosen a fraction. No more sad blue eyes staring up at me. Seeing me. Begging me for things I have no intention of giving.
My body tightens again at the first full look I get of her entire back. Of the damage someone did to her. I will find out what happened, and who did that to her, but it’s a topic for another time.
I shove my leg between hers, widening her, and grip her cheeks, spreading them apart, showing me everything from her dripping wet pussy to her puckered asshole. My mouth waters for a taste. I imagine taking her every way. In every hole. Making her beg. I swipe my thumb along her slit gathering her juices then dip it into her soft opening. Mila moans and pushes back against me. The thick digit disappears deep inside her pussy.
She clenches down on it, trying to pull it in further. I pump it a few times until it’s glistening with her juices, then withdraw it. She makes a sound of protest I ignore. Instead, I glide it upward until I reach her other hole. Mila flinches and tries to pull away, but my fingers tighten their hold on her hips keeping her in place.
With a light touch, I do nothing but circle her asshole, not entering it. Just adding a slight pressure every so often. Minutes pass, and she finally begins to relax the rigid line of her spine. I almost think she pushes back against the sensation, but maybe I only imagined it. I line my cock up with her pussy and slowly enter, letting her adjust to my size.