Stolen: Dante’s Vow

by Knight, Natasha

  My nipples harden and he draws back, watching me as he grinds his hips. His breath is short, like mine. And that hand on the back of my head shifting now as he closes his mouth over mine again, kissing me like he’s starved. That hand moves between us, and he lifts himself up just a little, just enough to slip his fingers inside my panties.

  I tense for a moment. He senses it. But this feels different than ever before. It feels good. And when he closes his fingers around my sex, I let out a sigh, a deep, guttural sound, an exhale contained for too long. His hand is rough and big and so good. So, so good.

  He draws back to watch me, and I bite my lip as his thumb moves over my clit. I glance between my open legs at the thick length of his erection pressed against his jeans.

  Tension builds inside me, something tightening, tightening, being rung out. I can’t catch my breath as he moves his fingers over me, inside me.

  I watch him, too, and this feeling isn’t just between my legs. It’s spreading through me, from my core out through my stomach, my chest, arms and legs.

  “Oh, God,” I mutter.

  He kisses me again like he’ll swallow my words, my breath. Like he’ll have it all. And all I can do is open my mouth to let him. To give it to him.

  I moan into his mouth as he pushes a finger inside me once, twice, then draws it out, smears my arousal over my clit. When I arch my back, his touch takes me over the edge, and I come undone. He watches me and I can’t look away, not when he’s looking at me like this. Not when I’m feeling this thing. This pure, electrifying sensation.

  Not when I’m coming for him.

  I’m breathless when it’s over and my body goes slack as he draws his hand out of my panties. He doesn’t speak, just looks at me. But then something changes. He blinks hard. His forehead wrinkles and after a very long moment, he shifts his gaze away.

  “Fuck.”

  He pushes off me, stumbles from the bed. Glances back once before taking two steps away and needing to grab the edge of a nearby chair to stay upright.

  “Fuck!” he roars.

  I sit, pulling the blankets up, my heart racing, a panic replacing that euphoria of moments ago. That strange calm I barely registered. The rightness of things.

  Boots rush down the hall toward the bedroom and the door slams against the wall, as Matthaeus and another man stand in the doorway. They look at him, then at me, then back.

  Matthaeus rushes to Dante. “Help me get him back in the bed!” he orders the soldier.

  I scoot out of the bed as they haul him back into it. Dante is fighting them like he doesn’t recognize them. Matthaeus curses when they finally hold him down enough that he can feel Dante’s forehead.

  “Keep him down,” he tells the other man who has a knee on Dante’s chest and his hands on his shoulders. I can see the bad one is bleeding again.

  “You’re hurting him!” I cry out, going to the soldier, trying to pry him off. Another one enters then, and I’m yanked off, held at the opposite end of the room, my struggles having no impact on him.

  Matthaeus opens a black medical bag I hadn’t noticed before and takes out a syringe and a small vial of clear liquid.

  “What are you doing?” I yell as he fills the needle then pushes the plunger to get rid of any air bubbles.

  “He needs to sleep,” he tells me without looking at me.

  “No!” I scream, propel myself forward, but the soldier won’t let go.

  He moves to Dante’s side and grips his arm hard so Dante can’t move. He pushes the needle into Dante’s arm and the stuff works almost instantly before my eyes. I wonder if it’s the same thing they gave me.

  “What did you do?” I yell, struggling against the soldier holding me back as I watch Matthaeus work on Dante.

  “It’ll help him relax. We need to get his temperature down,” he says calmly to me, in complete opposition to my panicked words. He takes the dressing off Dante’s shoulder. “Shit.”

  “You’re hurting him!” I managed to slip free and grab Matthaeus’s arm, but I’m caught again in the next instant.

  “Get her out of here,” he tells the man at my back when he’s done.

  “No! You’re hurting him! Let go of me!”

  Matthaeus turns, comes to me, his eyes fall to my throat.

  I stop fighting, reach up to touch it. It’s tender. I’m sure it’s red and I wonder if he can make out Dante’s fingerprints.

  “Did he do that?” he asks.

  I don’t answer.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “He was having a bad dream. I tried to wake him—”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t touch him when he has those dreams, understand?”

  “Why?”

  “Just don’t.” He turns to the soldier. “Take her inside. Make her some tea.”

  “I don’t want tea. And I don’t want to go inside. I’m not leaving him.”

  “You shouldn’t be in here. He needs to rest. Recover.”

  I look at Dante who seems to be sleeping peacefully now. But then Matthaeus turns back to him, presses against his wound. Dante winces because even in sleep it hurts as a line of blood streaks his arm.

  “Why are you hurting him?” I kick my heel into the soldier’s shin. He mutters a curse and as soon as his grip loosens, I lunge for Matthaeus.

  He spins, grabs me. He’s fast. They’re all so much faster than me. He shifts my arms behind my back and holds me tight, jerks me once.

  “You need to leave this room. Now. I don’t want to have to make you.”

  I glance beyond him to Dante, then back, registering what he means by making me “You can’t. I...” Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Let me go!”

  Matthaeus sighs, walks me out of the room, not letting his grip loosen once. “Mara,” he says once we’re inside and he directs me to one of the kitchen chairs. He keeps his hands on my shoulders and leans down so we’re at eye level. “You need to calm down and do as I say, or I can’t help him. Understand?”

  “You’re hurting him.”

  “I’m not hurting him. I wouldn’t hurt him. Ever. Do you need something to help you sleep?”

  I exhale, my lips tight, forehead wrinkling. I shake my head.

  “Drink a cup of tea. By the time you’re finished, I’ll be done, and you can see him. All right?”

  After a gesture from Matthaeus, the soldier who’d held me moves to make the tea. He takes a mug out of the cabinet and pours hot water in it from the boiler on the tap. He then opens another cabinet and takes out a box with a few tea bags in it. He glances at Matthaeus who nods.

  “You don’t need to look at him. Look at me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I turn back to Matthaeus. “I don’t want any drugs.”

  “You’ll sit here and drink the tea, understand?”

  “I want to be in there with him. He needs me in—”

  “You will sit here and drink the tea. Am I clear?”

  I press my lips together and glare at him. I hate him.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “Fine. Just until I drink the tea.”

  “Good.”

  The soldier sets the cup in front of me.

  Matthaeus is slow to release his hands from my shoulders, but he does, waiting until I pick up the mug to take a sip. “Good. When you’re finished you can come back inside.”

  I nod and I’d drink it faster, but the liquid is scalding hot. Matthaeus leaves the soldier with me and hurries back to Dante’s bedroom. I look up at my companion who is leaning against the counter watching me with his arms folded. I don’t know his name, but I’ll remember which one he is. I drink another sip, blink, my eyelids feeling heavy. The room grows a little fuzzy. I look down at the mug. The tea is half gone. When I look up at the soldier, he hasn’t moved. He’s still watching me.

  I take another sip, tasting something strange.

  “What is this?” I set the mug down, but when I try to stand, my knees give out. He’s at my side in an
instant, catching me. “What did you give me?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing bad.”

  My head lolls against his chest as he carries me down the hall. I pass out before I can even say another word.

  17

  Dante

  When I open my eyes, I’m alone.

  I turn to the window. It’s dark outside and I wonder how long I’ve been asleep. I move, wince at the pain at my shoulder. Two bullets will do that to you. Matthaeus has bandaged it up, but I can see the pink smear of blood. Lower on my arm is the healing scar from where the soldier’s bullet grazed me just days ago. On my chest is the entry wound of the one that saved Cristiano’s life. On my side and stomach are various lines and scars where the doctors did their best to stitch me back together after the explosion. It’s not pretty to look at. Worse to touch.

  But I did it. I killed Petrov.

  One down, two to go. For starters.

  I need to get back to the club and end his sons. I don’t even care at this point which of them touched her. They’ll both die.

  I lay back down because something else comes back to me then. Last night. The fever. The drugs that should have kept the nightmares at bay but only seemed to enhance their clarity. Like I was living it all again. The explosion. The pain. The thought that my brother was dying. That I was dying.

  And then something else.

  Her.

  Mara beside me in my bed.

  Mara beneath me in my bed.

  I swallow hard, breathe in a tight breath.

  A fever dream. That’s all that was. It’s all it can be. A fucking fever dream.

  But even as I think it, I know it’s not. I fucking know. I bring my hand to my nose, and I smell the faint scent of her.

  Fuck! What did I do? What the fuck did I do?

  I sit up, drag my hands through my hair.

  What did I fucking do?

  The door creaks. “How do you feel?” It’s Matthaeus.

  I turn, draw a deep breath in.

  “Dante?”

  “Like shit. I feel like shit. Where is she?”

  He looks at me for a beat too long before answering. “I put her in another bedroom. She’s sleeping.”

  I wonder if he knows. I nod. “Good.” She shouldn’t be in here with me. Not in my room. And certainly not in my bed.

  “Do you know who got you out?” he asks.

  “No.” I get up, walk toward the bathroom. “I need a shower.”

  “Petrov’s dead.”

  I look back at him. “You don’t say.”

  “Viktor has a bounty on your head.”

  “Good for him.” I can’t think straight right now. In fact, all I can think about is her. About what I did. About how I lay my broken, ugly body on top of hers. How small and vulnerable she felt beneath me. All I can imagine is her skin on my skin. My hand inside her panties. Inside her.

  And I remember how she looked when she came.

  “Fuck.” I scratch the scruff on my chin, walk into the bathroom and attempt to close the door. “Can you put the fucking doorknobs back on the fucking doors?”

  “What’s your problem?”

  I stop but don’t turn around. “I need a minute.”

  “Just fucking say so then.” He walks out of the room. I switch on the shower, strip off my jeans and briefs and take off the eye patch before stepping beneath the warm flow. I decide I’m not going to acknowledge the part of me that wanted one more draw of her scent before I wash my hands.

  But all that does is serve to remind me of her face. Her body. Her mouth.

  Her moan.

  And I find myself gripping my cock hard, jerking myself off in the fucking shower as I try to banish thoughts of her.

  I wanted to fuck her. To bury myself inside her. And I can’t think of anything more fucked up than that.

  She was kidnapped. Trafficked. Kept as a prisoner and used in ways I’m sure she’d rather forget. What the fuck is wrong with me that all I can think about is how her mouth tasted. How she opened for me. Came for me.

  How my cock would feel inside her.

  “Shit.”

  I stop. Switch the water to ice cold. That takes care of my erection. Too bad I can’t wash out the inside of my head.

  After making myself stand under the icy flow for a full minute I turn off the water and grab a towel. I dry my face and wrap it around my hips, then pull the patch on before I have to look at myself without it.

  I stand at the mirror for a minute taking in my reflection. I scrub my jaw. I should shave. I’ve got more than a couple days of growth, but I can’t be bothered right now. I go into the bedroom, dry off and get dressed in jeans and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt. I push the sleeves up, look at my scraped hand and arm from when that fucker tossed me out of the SUV.

  That thought in mind, I stalk out of the bedroom and into the living room, relieved when I don’t see her. I need to figure that part out, but I can’t think about it right now. Can’t think about her right now because all I want to do is think about her. Imagine her like she was last night. Remember it.

  No more than that.

  I want to fucking relive it.

  “Is there coffee?” I ask when I find Matthaeus watching me. Does he know? There’s not much he misses.

  “Same place it always is.”

  I grumble a curse, pour myself a mug and sit on the armchair in the living room. “Where are the guys?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Which bedroom did you give her?” They’re all taken if the men stayed the night.

  “Mine. You think I’d put her in with one of the men?”

  “She’s sleeping in your bed?” The thought makes some primal, irrational caveman-like part of me furious.

  “Not that they’d touch her, because they’re not animals.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Because I’m the only animal here.

  “And yes, she’s in my bed. To sleep. Alone.” He picks up his mug of coffee but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “I’m not stupid you know. Or blind.”

  I pause at that and take care not to break eye contact. How much does he know?

  “So, she just went to sleep in your bed?” I ask as memory returns. How she looked when I first realized what I was doing. Choking her. And then…after.

  “Not quite,” Matthaeus says as if he’d given me time to process. He sips his coffee, all seeing eyes on me.

  I raise my eyebrows and sip mine. “What does that mean?”

  “She got upset. I made her a cup of tea.”

  “You…ah fuck.” I know Matthaeus’s tea. It’s not tea at all.

  “I had to. She’s…” he shakes his head as he glances away, searching for the words. “She’s very protective of you, Dante.”

  Now it’s me who doesn’t have the words. But then my gaze catches on the card on the table. The one that makes my heart stop momentarily.

  “Where did you get that?” I’d found a similar one in David’s things when we were looking for Scarlett. Never did learn much about what it was and forgot about it eventually. But seeing it now brings it right back.

  “Your pocket,” Matthaeus says.

  I pick it up, turn it over. This one has a phone number in the same gold lettering as the front. I put my mug down, pick up my phone which is on the coffee table—I had left it here last night—and dial.

  Matthaeus shakes his head but doesn’t interrupt.

  “You get home in one piece?” comes the same voice as the man who walked me out of Red’s last night. The man who probably did save my life.

  “No thanks to you. What the fuck is going on?”

  “All thanks to me, actually. Even if you did fuck me royally.”

  “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m the man who needed Petrov alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you and me, Dante Grigori, we have a common goal. We both want Felix Pérez. And you just killed the man who would draw him out
of the hole he’s hiding in.”

  18

  Dante

  Jericho St. James.

  The St. James family has their hands in several ventures in the states and northern Europe. Some legal, some not. Jericho has no social media presence. No address on any record. All I know about him is that he’s thirty-one years old. His past is spotty at best. And in the last five years, he has vanished like a fucking ghost. In fact, apart from his birth certificate, high school diploma and a Harvard law degree, he doesn’t exist.

  And I’m about to meet him.

  Matthaeus and I walk into the large, noisy café of the posh hotel near the public library, and I spot the man immediately. Not that I got a clear look at his face last night. But I know it’s him the instant I see him from the asshole-grin on his face.

  And I already don’t like him.

  “Dante,” he says when we get to his table at the farthest corner. He rises to his feet.

  I recognize the man standing at his back, hands folded in front of him, wearing black from head to toe.

  St. James extends his hand to me. I glance at it, note the ink of a tattoo extending over his wrist and onto the back of his hand. He’s wearing a ring on the ring finger of his right hand. Left hand is bare.

  I shift my gaze back to his. “Jericho St. James.” I don’t shake his hand. I just take the seat nearest me, and Matthaeus takes the other one. “Who the fuck are you exactly?”

  “Something to drink, gentlemen?” he asks as he resumes his seat, and a waitress comes by. He gives her a smile meant to dazzle and it clearly does. The girl flushes, almost trips over herself to take his order for coffee for the table.

  He’s well dressed and the large ring on his finger bears an insignia I can’t quite make out from here. He’s as tall as me, built about the same but his face isn’t fucked up like mine. Although I have a feeling when I delve a little deeper his hands will come out as bloody.

  I lean toward him when the waitress leaves. “You threw me out of a moving vehicle.”

  “We slowed it down.” He smiles, scrutinizing me all along.

  “It was still moving, asshole.”