Bad

by LP Lovell

  The howling wind wraps around me and I shiver violently. I slip the coat on and glance around, taking note of the men milling in and out of the guard house to the side of the drive. There are several SUVs parked in front of it, and I smile. Growing up, my brother and I would steal Papa's cars because they always had the keys in them. Certain occupations put you at a high risk of attack, and vehicles need to be ready to go. Ronan has a lot of enemies, so I'd assume those cars have keys in them. It takes me no time to run across the courtyard. I crouch next to one of the SUVs and try the door. It opens and I reach up, dropping the sun visor. Keys fall onto the front seat. I grab them and jam them into the ignition. The engine coughs against the cold before sputtering to life. The sudden noise catches the attention of a few guards.

  Ramming the rifle through the steering, I jam the accelerator down and wedge it into place. The engine roars and the tires scream. The guards are now jogging toward me, so I hurry to pull the pins from the two grenades and toss them onto the front seat before I slide the gear in to drive. I leap out of the way when the car takes off straight toward the guard house. It collides with the brick building, the engine whining as the wheels continue to spin. Then… Boom. An enormous wall of fire flashes, blinding me and knocking me off my feet. The angry blaze engulfs the car and the front of a building. Smoke rises into the sky. Dust settles, and Ronan's men look like broken dolls scattered over the courtyard. He can eat shit. Grinning, I push to my feet and walk over to one of the unconscious men. I remove the scarf from his neck, shred a strip of material from it, and wrap it around my cut wrist. Then I hop onto the hood of a car, taking one of the stolen cigarettes from my pocket and lighting it as I bask in the destruction. The heat from the roaring fire caresses my skin like an old friend. The flames leap and twist, crawling through the house and consuming everything. The distant screams of the men trapped inside the burning rubble are like a symphony accompanying the crackling of burning wood. It's beautiful. Mother nature at her finest; her most destructive and merciless. Burning alive is a nasty way to go, I’d think. The pain of being set on fire is unrivalled by anything; and yet, to feel your own skin melting from your flesh, bubbling and blistering is almost purifying.

  The crunch of tires over the snow comes from behind me followed by the screech of brakes. A door bangs shut, and awareness prickles up my spine. I know it's Ronan without even looking. Like I said, I can always sense a predator. Boots stomp through the snow, and I sit here smoking my cigarette, watching the fire.

  A hand snatches my arm, dragging me from the hood of the car. Igor snarls at me before grabbing the back of my neck and shoving me toward Ronan like a damn prize. My heart pounds in my chest, that little fissure of anticipation blending to fear. I bite my lip on a smile, wondering just what he'll do. This should be fun...

  Ronan's gaze drifts over my body. His eyes are completely unreadable. He holds up a single finger before he turns and glances at the destruction surrounding him. I swear, I see him fighting a smile before his gaze snaps back to mine and narrows. His hand drops to his side, and there's a tense moment of silence where all you can hear is the hissing of the fire.

  "Igor," he says, his voice barely restrained. "Leave."

  Igor’s boots crunch through the snow as he walks away.

  Ronan circles me like a tiger stalking prey. My breathing picks up, misting in front of my face as I stand completely still. Honestly, I want his rage, I want his fury. I want to watch him lose that ice cool façade because I pushed him to it. He stops behind me. "You don't like the bonfire?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder at him.

  He steps so close to me that he's literally breathing down my neck, and the sudden heat sends an involuntary tremor through my body. "Oh," he says, his fingers slowly dancing along my side as he steps in front of me, "I like fire very much." I lift the cigarette to my lips and his eyes focus on my bloodied wrist. "And blood."

  "Well,” I smile wryly, “we all have our vices."

  "So very true." He plucks the cigarette from my fingers and tosses it to the ground before he fists my hair, yanking my head back. "Are you going to tell me why you set my guard house on fire?" he asks. His fingers tighten in my hair until my scalp burns with pain.

  My gaze drops from his eyes to his perfect lips. I do so love these dangerous little games with him—not that I'd tell him that. "Because I can," I say. I tell myself that I'm doing this for a reason, a greater cause: to help my brother, to beat the Russian. But the truth is, I like this. I want to watch Ronan snap, to lose control and destroy everything in his own beautiful inferno. I want to dance in the flames with him and feel my skin peel away in the heat. I want to walk that fine line where power, life, and death all combine.

  "And yet, you stayed." He smiles. "Like a good little captive."

  I stayed. I could have taken a car and attempted to run, but his reach is infinite, his power unrivalled. Even if I made it back to Mexico, he would hunt me down, and I'm not equipped for a war on his scale. "Good, or just intelligent? There's no escaping you, Ronan, and I know that."

  "Mm," he says, releasing my hair and trailing his fingers, one by one, down the back of my neck. "Smart little kitty."

  Fire and smoke billow behind him, the flames reaching into the sky as if worshipping him like the god he thinks he is... like the devil he really is. "So, what now? Are you going to kill me?" I smile.

  "For what?"

  "I killed half your men." I lift a brow and point at the burning building. "Did you miss the fucking great fire on your front lawn?"

  "If a woman could put them down like dogs, why would I want them?" He shrugs. "You did me a favor."

  Damn. He's so ruthless, and the thought shamefully has my thighs clenching together. "Well then, glad to be of service," I say, sarcasm dripping from my tone.

  "Ah," he swipes a finger over my lip, "and now you are learning your place."

  I glare at him. "Careful, Russian, next time it will be your house—with you in it."

  And the switch flips. The smug smile disappears and his eyes flame, and suddenly his hand is on my throat. "Gods don't burn," he says, squeezing as he lifts me up. My feet dangle above the ground as I flail in his hold. I scratch at his hand, and his grip only grows tighter. "Empty threats make you weak," he says. "I am not Jésus. I am not any man you've known. You may not fear death, but you should fear me." I'm choking under his brutal grasp, fighting for a breath as my lungs burn and my ears ring. A sick smile works over his lips, and he drops me to the ground. I gasp, rubbing against my throat as I scoot away from him.

  He points to the raging fire behind me. "That is nothing more than a temper tantrum from a spoiled child. You are powerless to yourself, therefore you are weak."

  His words burrow under my skin, worming their way into my mind and gnawing away at my flaws. I fight with myself, unable to say anything while his eyes dance with humor. He knows he just won. I burned his guard house to the ground and somehow I'm the one who looks weak. What the fuck? I push to my feet and storm off, dusting the snow from my palms as I go. His laughter soars over the sizzling flames and it makes me all the more angry. Weak! I’ll show him weak!

  Chapter 10

  Ronan

  "Hands on the Bible" - Local H

  That time, I felt her heartrate pick up.

  Excitement swirls around me as I watch her storm off. She fascinates me the way, I assume, a collector is fascinated by a rare specimen. She's something I've never seen before, magnificent. Exotic. Endangered...

  I trudge toward the house admiring the crimson blood splatter on the snow. A few men lie here and there slumped on the steps. Such carnage. The foyer doors swing open to a bloodbath and I sigh. Bodies lay scattered across the marble. The blood laced scent of death hangs in the air, and I breathe it in, closing my eyes as I revel at the thought of her massacring these men like an angel of death. My pulse thrums with delight.

  A throat clears. Igor stands at the top of the stairwell surveying the scene of death
that lay before him. "She's angry," he says without emotion.

  "Yes." I smile as I step over a man with a bullet hole in the middle of his head. "She is."

  "Are you going to kill her?"

  "She'll calm down," I say, and Igor lifts an eyebrow. I motion for him to follow me as I head toward my office. "Has the meeting been set up?"

  "Yes, boss."

  Humming, I make my way down the hall. The glow of the fireplace catches my attention when I step into my office. I cross the room and stop in front of the roaring fire, dragging in the scent of burning timbers. I hear Igor come in behind me, but I don’t turn around. "What time are we to arrive?" I ask.

  "Midnight."

  I focus on the flames dancing over the logs. The wood crackles and splits, sending a flash of heat across my face, and a soft smile shapes my lips. Camilla is fire in every essence. Most people fear fire, but she has become it. Her beauty is in her destruction, rampant and hot. Her existence is grounded in the sole purpose to destroy. The very air she breathes turns into a sweet ecstasy that feeds her, makes her burn brighter—

  "Ronan?" Igor interrupts my thoughts. I’ve been so lost in the fire, in my thoughts that I've not heard a thing he's said.

  "What?"

  "What do you want me to do with her?"

  "Nothing." I dust ash from my sleeve and shrug. "And reiterate to the rest of the men, they are not to harm her. No matter what she tries."

  "But she just—"

  "Don't question my decisions, Igor. Now, tell her to get bathed and dressed. She'll be going with us to meet Anton." I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.

  Camilla is too unpredictable, and for that reason alone I should kill her, but until I find her boring I'll let her live. I watch the flames dance in front of me for a moment longer before turning and taking a seat at my desk. Calls are made, arranging the next shipment of ammunition to be delivered outside of East London. Of course I must touch base with my account and have payments sent to assassins—all the trivial things that accompany my job—and when it's a quarter to ten, I push up from my chair.

  On my way through the house, I think of how pretty Camilla would look draped on my arm at all those drab political meetings. All the men would envy me, and so I will take her tonight to test the waters. Anton is no one of importance really. No matter what fuss she makes, he'll still wriggle under my thumb like a maggot. I stop outside her room, adjusting my cufflinks before I shove the doors open. And just as I assumed, she’s not ready. Why would she be? Instead, she’s sprawled across the bed with a book in her hand, still dressed in her killing spree clothes. Oh, don't you look so beautiful in your blood-stained clothes?

  The door slams shut behind me, but she doesn't acknowledge my presence. As though she’s not a care in this world, she turns the page and sweeps her dark hair to the side. That’s when I notice the blood splatter on her neck I take a breath, suppressing the thought of how I could fuck her.

  I clap my hands and she jumps on the bed. "You're not dressed," I say.

  "It's late." She sighs. "Why do I need to get dressed?"

  "You were told to get dressed."

  "You're a fucking delight tonight. Where, pray tell, am I going?" She rolls her eyes before she sits up.

  "Get. Dressed."

  "Are we going hiking through the woods? Going to a party? What would you like me to wear, Russian?"

  My lips quirk up as I head to the closet. I grab a dress from the rack and toss it at her. "This will be fine."

  "You're not even going to give me a hint of where we're going?" Her gaze skirts over my face, and she smiles.

  I snap my fingers. "Put on the dress."

  "Oh, I see. You're having to watch me because the men you hire are too shitty to do it.”

  I glance at my watch before taking her by the wrist and dragging her to the edge of the bed. "I ordered them not to. Now, put on the damn dress." I groan as I let her go.

  "Well, basic self-preservation should override your orders."

  "I don't have time for your chit-chat. Get dressed before I do it for you."

  A wild spark dances in her eyes, and she pushes to her knees on the bed, bringing herself face to face with me. Such a fun thing to play with, I think as I ball the neckline of her dirty dress in my fists and tug. The thin material rips down the middle and she loses her balance. Her eyes flash. Her palm flies to my chest as she steadies herself. Much to my delighted surprise, she is completely naked underneath that dress. Her dark nipples tighten, her chest rises in one, uneven swell, and I struggle to restrain the animalistic urge gnawing through me. Begging me to throw her down and spread her legs apart.

  "Get," I place my nose inches from hers, "dressed."

  "Oh, Ronan." Her fingers trail from the collar of my shirt to my bare throat, and I clench my jaw as a flash of heat fires over me. "Such a model of self-control," she says, biting at her lip. "Shame."

  She's nearly unbearable like this. "Perhaps you prefer being dragged out into the cold, naked?"

  She scoots closer on her knees. Her breasts brush my shirt when she leans in, and I fight a groan. "Anyone would think you don't like me naked," she breathes against my lips. Lust bubbles beneath my skin. My cock swells. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to swipe over her bare pussy. And while she may be toeing a thin line of seduction, so can I.

  I sweep my lips over hers then trail them across her cheek on my way to her ear. "I don't like my women easy," I whisper. Smiling, I take a step back, grab the dress from the floor, and toss it at her.

  "And I like a man who takes what he wants. Like I said, shame."

  I chose to ignore her, allowing her the last word simply to hurry this process along. She slips into the dress, tugging it over her curves before walking to the mirror. The dress dips low in the back, revealing a large, intricate tattoo. Dark angels and demons, a scene of macabre violence. Her soul is dark, and such a contradiction to her beautiful exterior. Alluring and deadly, such a lethal combination. She stares at her reflection and gathers her hair to the side. Ah! The blood splatter. I go into the bathroom and wet a washcloth, checking the time once more before I step back into the room. Camilla turns from the mirror, glaring at me as I approach her. I sweep her hair behind her shoulder.

  "As pretty as this is..." I say, cleaning the dried blood from her neck. "I’m afraid it's not appropriate attire for the occasion."

  ______

  The neon light of Club Hades bounces off the window as the car loops around the building, parking between a Rolls Royce and a Mercedes. Igor climbs out and heads toward the back entrance. A mound of snow falls from the eave when he opens the door and disappears inside. Several of my men are already waiting inside the club. Some are positioned precariously on the rooftops of surrounding buildings, but a man such as myself can never be too cautious.

  Sighing, I glance at the stock report pulled up on my phone. Are you sure you want to sell 2,000,000 shares of Valiant Oil? I click Yes before closing the browser and slipping my phone back into my suit pocket. This sudden sale should give the stock market a nice little jolt, and then when all the other companies panic and sell, I'll swoop in like a vulture and seize them all. After all, the more companies I own, the more men I control, the more money I have to buy off the right people.

  The driver hops out of the car, and I glance through the window at Igor now lurking in the open doorway. My door opens and I step out into the cold night. Camilla climbs out behind me, her eyes shifting in every direction. Oh, the fearless Camilla appears to be spooked. "You seem uneasy," I say, adjusting my suit jacket as we approach the building.

  "No shit." Her breath turns to a puff of fog in the frigid air, and she quickly wraps her arms around herself on a shiver. "I'm surrounded by Russians, walking into whatever fun you've lined up, and I don't have a gun."

  "A gun," I laugh. "Why on earth would you need a gun? You're with me."

  She gives me a quick once over when we stop in front of the doorway. "I'm sorry,
Russian. I didn't realize you were bullet proof. I'll be sure to stay behind you then." Igor steps to the side and we walk into a dimly lit hallway. "At least tell me you have a gun," she whispers.

  "No." I feel her tense next to me.

  "Great,” she grumbles. “Just fucking great.”

  "I don't need a gun."

  "If you say you're god right now, I'm going to hurt you.”

  We continue down the hallway, and with each step, she bristles beside me. Oh, how her nervous energy sends a surge of adrenaline buzzing through me. In the world she grew up in, violence was the way to obtain power, but this is not the same world. I straighten my jacket when we approach the last door in the hall. "Don't speak unless I ask you to," I say, placing my hand on the knob, and she rolls her eyes.

  I am so very excited to see how she reacts...

  Chapter 11

  Camilla

  “Wild Thoughts” – DJ Khaled ft Rihanna

  The door opens and I'm led into a small, dimly lit room. A man in a suit sits at the lone table, his face cast in shadow. The door clicks shut and he jolts at the sound. Ronan crosses the room and pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit before he takes a seat beside me. The man anxiously drags his hand through his graying hair, then adjusts his red silk tie. He looks like any well-presented guy, and yet somehow, sitting across from Ronan, he seems so small and drab.

  "Mr. Cole…” The man coughs.

  "Ronan, please," he says with a smile that oozes charisma.

  “I didn't expect to see you." His face adopts a sheen of sweat as tension draws heavy lines on his brow.

  "With such an important task at hand, I thought it prevalent to discuss the terms of our agreement in person." The man nods so sharply I'm afraid his head might fall off. Jesus, this guy is like a dog barking 'how high, how high'.