Dirty

by Stevie J. Cole

  "You're going to kill me," he says, his head still down, "so get on with it."

  She whirls around, a manic grin on her face. "So eager to die."

  A pained laugh slips past his lips. "Your father cried when I killed Emilio."

  It's like watching a match touch gasoline. The uncertainty she wore only moments ago disappears, and a beautiful wave of anger replaces it. She storms over to Sebastian, her hips swaying with each step. She yanks the blade from his shoulder and plunges it into his chest. His head lifts, his eyes go wide. She stabs him again and again, like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Blood covers his white shirt, the table linens, the walls. Sebastian's body slumps forward in the chair, and though I'm certain his heart must no longer be beating, she keeps going, driven by unseen demons.

  When she finally collapses to her knees with the bloodied knife clutched in her hand, she's gasping for breath. I've seen Camilla kill for sport, she takes pride in the torture, the pain. This–my gaze drifts from Camilla to Sebastian–this was driven by hate. This man hurt her. Broke her possibly, and the thought makes my chest go tight. I crouch down next to her, wiping at the crimson drops splattered across her cheek. "You look so pretty dressed in the blood of your enemy, krasivaya."

  She glances up before grabbing my face and slamming her lips against mine. There's a sense of desperation, of need in this kiss. Something I shouldn't want, but do. I fist her hair. The kiss grows deeper, harder. Our teeth clash together, bringing the brutality we both crave before she breaks away from me and rests her forehead against mine.

  "Thank you," she breathes, scratching her nails along my jaw. "You have no idea what you just gave me."

  "Enlighten me." I cup her cheek and she pulls back to stare at me.

  "He killed my family."

  There is so much pain within her words, and while I often revel in the pain of others—I cannot revel in hers. Dare I say, I feel sympathy, compassion for her, and oh, what a dangerous thing this is. She weakens me in the most destructive of ways, pulling me within her violent waves and blood-soaked promises. I do believe I am falling for her, and what does a man such as myself do when someone poses such a threat? Kill them or make them your slave...

  The wait staff knocks on the door. I glance up to find them staring wide-eyed at the massacre before them, our plates in their hand. This is, after all, the first time I've had someone slaughtered at my dinner table.

  "I'm quite famished," I say, rising to my feet and offering Camilla a hand.

  The staff watch as I pull Camilla's chair out, then my own, and unfold a blood-splattered napkin, laying it across my lap. I nod toward the table and they reluctantly file in, placing our plates down. One waiter stands frozen, holding the third plate. I motion toward Sebastian. "Just put it over there."

  He takes a deep breath and quickly sets the China on the table, scooting it in front of Sebastian.

  Camilla cracks a smile, shaking her head. "So morbid."

  I grab my knife and fork, cutting into the pheasant. "Tell me about your family," I say. Her brow wrinkles, her head tilting subtly to the side as though she doesn't understand why I'm asking. "It's just casual conversation, Camilla. Tell me, what was it like growing up in Colombia?"

  She shrugs one shoulder. "It was perfect...until it wasn't." She takes a sip of wine. "Did you grow up in this life, Ronan? Or did you find your way into it?"

  "Both..."

  "So cryptic." A slight smile works over her full lips. "For me, it was both as well. I was twelve before I even realized what my father did was...unsavory."

  "For some of us, bloodshed is normalcy." I glance at Sebastian before I take another bite of food, dabbing the corners of my mouth with my napkin.

  "I was my father's princess. Protected. Sheltered." She leans back in her chair, clutching the wine glass in front of her. "But a drug lord's daughter will never be safe. I'm not sure if he was naïve or arrogant."

  "My father was arrogant." I stab the meat. "Arrogant and very naïve..." I lift a brow as I shove the piece of juicy pheasant inside my mouth.

  "It seems to be the flaw of powerful men," she says, tracing her finger around the edge of her glass as she glances toward Sebastian. "Why did you kill your father?"

  "He did not deserve the little power he held. He would have run the Bratva into the ground." I take a breath. "And most importantly, he would have stood in my way."

  She nods slowly. "Did you love him?"

  "No." My gaze sets hard on hers. "I had no respect for him."

  "Love and respect are not the same thing, Ronan. And well, a child's love is heavily engrained, is it not?"

  I take a sip of wine, letting the heavy tannins coat my tongue. "You act as though you believe I have a conscience. I assure you, little kitty, I do not."

  She leans forward and braces her elbows on the table. "I consider myself ruthless, but I have my loyalties. Everyone is motivated by something, Ronan." She taps her nails against her glass. "I refuse to believe that you truly have none."

  I laugh. The motivations I have, she will not understand because she has too much heart. "Self-gain is what motivates me. That and that alone."

  "And what happens when you have it all? When the world bows at your feet, what will you do?"

  I glance at her untouched plate growing colder by the second. "Lost our appetite, have we?"

  "I prefer to drink after revenge, and you are avoiding my question."

  "I imagine I'll vacation in Fiji." I grin wide, pleased with my ridiculous response.

  "You in swim shorts..." she laughs, "in Fiji. You might turn to ash in the sun." She pushes up from her chair and rounds the table. Goose bumps prickle my arm when she rakes a single nail along the collar of my shirt. "Of course, the view would be spectacular." Her lips press against my throat followed by the scrape of her teeth, and then she's walking through the door.

  I sit, eating my meal with Sebastian's body at the head of my table. Once I finish, I bid him farewell, ordering the servants to clean up the room on my way to my office. I've barely sat down at my desk when I hear Chopin echoing loudly down the corridor. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and listen to the haunting melody wondering what she's doing.

  After the prelude, I push up from my chair and follow the sound toward the library.

  The door's cracked and from the hallway I can see Camilla perched on the piano, pretending to conduct an orchestra with one hand while the other tips back a bottle of vodka. When I push the door open, my jaw tenses. My records lay scattered over the floor, several cracked and broken. I adjust my cufflinks and clear my throat as I make my way toward her. "Camilla?"

  A sassy smile flickers across her lips when she glances over her shoulder at me. "Ronan," she sings while slamming the near empty bottle of vodka onto the piano top. I cringe at the sound of a crack, although... I revel in her loss of control.

  "Why are my records scattered about the room?"

  "I was looking for music. You need more variety, Russian."

  I hold out my arms and toss my head back as I listen to the enchanting melody. "There is no other music than this."

  She laughs and spins around on the piano top to face me, patting my chest. "You're so cute," she slurs. The smell of vodka wafts through the air causing my nose to wrinkle.

  I grab her hand, thread my fingers through hers, and pull her down from the piano. She snatches the vodka before I move her to the chaise at the side of the room. "Drink with me," she says, thrusting the almost empty bottle toward me.

  "No."

  "You're no fun." She tips the bottle back, finishing the last of it.

  "How did Sebastian kill your family?" Is that terrible of me to ask? Possibly, but my curiosity has been peaked, and honesty flows with alcohol. Tragedies and traumas shape us, and I want to know every bit of darkness that shaped my little kitty.

  She stands and staggers back to the piano, struggling to lift the shiny top. She shoves her hand inside the crack and retrieves a new bottle.
"I need more vodka for this conversation," she says, unscrewing the lid and taking a large gulp. "He shot them."

  "How original..." I sigh. "Why were you and Gabriel spared?"

  "Spared?" she laughs. "No, we ran. One of our Mexican maids got us out of the country. If not for Maria..." She waves the bottle through the air, vodka sloshing over her hand. "I would be dead. No cartel for you to steal, and then I wouldn't be here. Cheers, Maria!" she says, spreading her arms wide as she lifts the bottle in a sloppy toast.

  "I must send this Maria a thank you card."

  A lopsided smile dances over her lips as she saunters toward me, tripping several times before she stops in front of me. Her arms wrap around my neck and she straddles me, leaning in close to my face.

  "Maria's dead. You're pretty," she whispers, grinding against me. I glance down at her thighs, watching as her dress slowly rides up.

  "Why are you drunk, Camilla?" I trail my finger along the curve of her neck, and she closes her eyes on a groan.

  "I'm revenge-celebration drinking. It's good for you."

  "I see."

  "You should try it." She clumsily swipes her thumb over my bottom lip. "Let loose a little."

  I grab her wrist and squeeze. "Ah, but that would mean I'd lose control, and trust me, you don't want to see me lose control. You may not survive."

  "What if I do?" Her eyes flash. "What if I don't care?"

  A short laugh slips through my lips. "Oh, I don't think you do..." I fist her hair, yanking her head to the side. "Your life depends on my holding onto that sliver of control, take that away and I know I will bleed you dry. I won't be able to help myself." I drag in a deep breath, my cock swelling at the thought of her ruby blood spilling over the floor, the perfect sound it would make, dripping in harmony with Chopin.

  Her fingers rake into my hair and she presses her forehead to mine. "Why do you like to cut me, Ronan? What is it about the blood that makes you so hard?" she breathes against my lips, the scent of vodka on her breath.

  I think back to my childhood. To my own tragedy that left me scarred, depraved. "The metallic smell," I whisper, my pulse steadily ticking up. "The taste. The feel of it." My grip in her hair tightens and I breath in a shuddering breath. "It feels so comforting. Warm and wet, a tangible bit of life leaving someone's body."

  "Have you always liked it?" she asks quietly, stroking her fingers over the back of my neck.

  "Since I was seven years old." My jaw clenches at the memory, the horror. The complete lack of control.

  She lays her head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice full of sympathy.

  There's a moment, a vulnerable moment, where I want to tell her what happened. That terrifies me. Secrets are best kept hidden. Vulnerabilities never admitted to... I gently push her off of me and stand, smoothing out my shirt. "Come..." I head toward the door, but when I glance over my shoulder Camilla is still sitting on the chaise, glaring.

  She tips the vodka back again. "Such a dick," she mumbles.

  I snap my fingers and cock a brow. She lifts a middle finger. I sigh before throwing the door open and calling for Igor. "I'll see you shortly," I say before leaving the library and heading to my room.

  11

  Camilla

  Igor deposits me on Ronan's bed. "Russian asshole's, all of you!" I shout.

  Igor leaves and Ronan just stands there with his arms folded over his chest and a smug smile on his face. "Defiant savage," he winks before stripping to his boxers and climbing into bed.

  God, I hate him, but I want him. Always. Groaning, I roll over and tug the covers away from him before straddling his body. He cocks a brow. I smile. "You like me savage. Now..." I shove my hand down the front of his boxers and grip his hard cock.

  He snatches my hand away from him and tosses it to the bed. "I do not fuck inebriated women. It's..." he gives me a once over, his eyes narrowing, "distasteful."

  I laugh. "Not if you've fucked them before, it doesn't count. I want you." I trail my fingers down his defined stomach.

  "And here I was, thinking you were above groveling for such primal pleasure." He smirks and I'm tempted to slap that look clean off his face.

  "Ah," I wrap my hand around his throat and inch my face toward his, "but if not for primal pleasure, then why are we here, Ronan?"

  "Desperation does not suit you," he sighs as he rolls away.

  He asked me about the darkest parts of my life and I told him, yet got nothing in return. I'm every bit as much his toy now as I ever was, I think as I yank open the bedside drawer and take out the knife he keeps there. His rejection stings more than it should and his infinite control irritates me. He thinks himself so strong... I press the tip of the blade to the hollow of my throat just as he turns to face me.

  "I wouldn't..." he warns.

  Using the very tip of the blade, I scratch it down my sternum in a burning trail—just enough to draw a little blood... A feral growl rumbles up Ronan's throat before he pins me to the bed with his forearm as his chest presses against mine. I can feel his heart pounding through his chest. Hard. Uneven. He moves his mouth to my neck, swiping his tongue along the fresh cut. "As much as I want to fuck you right now," he whispers by my ear, his cock grinding against me, "you don't deserve it."

  I feel his wavering restraint before he shoves me into the mattress and stands, grabbing his robe from the stool at the end of the bed and leaving the room. The door slams shut behind him, and I pick up the lamp from the bedside table, hurling it at the closed door with a scream. I try to grapple with what just happened, but my mind is swimming with vodka and I can't think straight. My pussy throbs and my pulse races. Blood trails down my chest, soaking the material of my dress. I strip out of the clingy material and lie naked on the bed, allowing the soft sheets to caress my skin. When the blood starts to trickle down my sides, I smile because I can just picture Ronan's face when he sees his blood-stained sheets. Fuck him.

  ______

  I roll over and groan at the pulse reverberating around my skull. Light pours through the huge window, and I wince against it like a vampire. I try to recall anything from last night and am met with the sobering memory of Sebastian. My rage. Me killing him. And then...vodka. Lots of vodka. Oh god.

  I stumble out of Ronan's bed, staring down at the freshly scabbed cut decorating my chest. Dried blood coats my skin and Ronan's expensive sheets. Bits of the smashed lamp lay scattered over the plush carpet by the door, and Ronan is nowhere to be seen.

  There's a knock on the door. "Mr. Cole requests your presence in the dining room," Igor says. Really? I'm still getting Igor messages.

  "Yeah, yeah," I grumble, staggering into the bathroom. I need a shower and lots of coffee.

  By the time I make it downstairs, my stomach is churning and my headache is ten times worse. I find Ronan reading a paper in the dining room. He gives me a fleeting glance as I drag out the chair across from him, sit down, and place my forehead on the table.

  "Have we regained our sense of control?" he tuts.

  I lift my middle finger.

  "Refined as always I see." I hear him flip the page of the paper.

  The aroma of fresh coffee surrounds me, and I lift my head from the table just as one of the maids pours me a mug. I smile at her like she's the virgin Mary herself before I take a sip and hold the beloved cup close to me. "Did we fuck last night, because really Ronan, the amount of blood—"

  "No." He glares over the top of the paper.

  I frown. "I'm not even going to ask. I remember very little, so therefore, any questionable behavior technically didn't happen...by my recollection." I take another gulp of coffee.

  "I see..."

  "You're a delight this morning." I scoot my chair back and stand, bring my coffee with me as I head for the door.

  "Come back here, Camilla."

  Rolling my eyes, I turn around. "I can't do funerals or dinners, or anything that involves people right now."

  "Was it worth it?" He folds th
e paper and places it in front of him on the table.

  "If I could remember, I'd tell you, but seeing as I was here," I spread my arms wide, "I'm going with no." He crooks his finger and I hesitantly walk back to the table, stopping beside his chair.

  "You allowed your emotions to overtake you." His gaze drags over my body, a hint of disgust snarling his lip. "You allowed them to make you vulnerable."

  I don't realize I'm clenching my fists until my nails bite into my palm. "I am not vulnerable!"

  He smirks, his eyes fluttering shut for only a moment. "Don't lie to yourself, Camilla. I'm only trying to help you."

  "What, would you have me, completely cold? Even in the face of the man who killed my family?" I frown. "I'm not you, Ronan."

  "Cold to those who harmed you; who want to harm you." He pushes up from his chair. "By having a reaction, you give them power." He leans down by my ear. "Even after you killed him, Sebastian still held power over you." I drop my gaze to the floor as a strange sense of shame washes over me. He grips my jaw and forces me to look at him, his eyes studying me as always.

  The truth is, no one has ever helped me aside from Gabe. Normally I resent handouts, but Ronan gave me the unattainable: revenge. I buckle under his scrutiny as the full gravity of what he did for me sinks in. And so begins my slow descent into hell, a slippery slope straight into the arms of the devil.