by LP Lovell
Someone must have heard that. I imagine a worker will be coming in here at any moment so I slip into one of the stalls and lock the door. This is going to be a bitch, so I sit on the toilet and take a breath as I feel over the small stitches in my throat. My hand trembles as I place the glass to my neck and work the sharp point over the delicate threads. Jolts of pain radiate through me each time I accidently slice my skin. Blood slicks my fingers as I fumble through severing the stitches. They finally pop loose and warm liquid trickles down my neck.
The bathroom door creaks open. There’s the steady click of shoes as someone crosses the tile.
"Little kitty...” Ronan coos, “Come out, come out, wherever you are." The door to the first stall bangs against the wall and I cringe.
I press my fingers against the wound in my neck and take another deep breath. Forcing my nails into the cut, I ignore the churn in my stomach and the dizzy feeling in my mind. More blood gushes down my neck, gliding over my collar bone and catching on my dress.
The doors bang open one by one before there's a thud on the other side of the door I’m facing. "Jesus, I can't pee now?" I snap. I shove my fingers deeper into the gash until my nails scrape something tiny and hard. The pain is blinding. A sharp breath claws up my throat. Just a couple more centimeters.
He taps over the door. "Come out, Camilla."
I catch a hold of whatever the fuck he put inside me and try to pry it free from my neck, hissing at the pain. When I finally tug the metal chip out of my neck, I tear half my flesh away with it. I let out a heavy breath and collapse against the tank panting. The steady trickle of blood runs down my neck, and there's something oddly comforting about its warmth.
"Open the door."
I stand up and lift the lid, dropping the bloodied microchip into the water before I flush the toilet. I unlock the door and yank it open, coming face to face with Ronan. His gaze slowly drops to my neck, his cheeks reddening, and I can't help but smirk.
"You would..." He takes a step inside the stall, backing me against the cold wall. "I almost think you crave punishment." Grabbing both my wrists, he pins them to the wall above my head.
"As long as it's the old-fashioned way," I breathe. Anger and sheer dominance pour off him. My body hums in anticipation as he presses his body against mine.
One corner of his mouth tugs up. "Mm," he hums leaning in by my neck. The heat of his breath caresses the side of my throat, and I find myself closing my eyes at the feeling. "You want me to hurt you almost as much as I want to hurt you," he whispers before I feel his tongue drag along the side of my neck—right over the open wound. His hold on my wrists tightens, his fingers twitching as he places his lips over the cut and groans.
I bow against him, my head tilting to the side as a shameless moan slips past my lips. He's sick and awful, so what does that make me? I should be repulsed by him, but with each terrible thing he does, I only crave him more. He's a disturbing addiction that I wish I could quit, but know I would miss every single day.
His nose skims along my jawline as he drags his lips over my cheek. "Your blood almost tastes as good as your pussy."
My head spins, my legs tremble. I close my eyes and touch my forehead to his. "Show me," I whisper. I crave this toxic depravity. He's my downfall and I want him. I want it. His eyes dance with promises of pain and blood and everything I want so much, and then his lips slam over mine. Hard, brutal. His tongue brushes mine, and I savor the metallic taste of the blood staining his lips. I moan and then, he's gone.
I open my eyes and Ronan’s at the sink, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. And here I am, pressed against the wall because I'm afraid if I try to stand on my own I'll fall. Without as much as a glance in my direction, he steps into the hall. I go to the sink, grab a hand towel, and press it against my neck. He's like a tornado and I know I should move out of his path, but every time he approaches I find myself standing still, wanting to get swept up in those dangerous winds.
The door to the restroom flies open again. Ronan’s speaking to someone in Russian, anger lacing his voice before he steps back inside, holding my coat out. I slip my arms through the sleeves and he adjusts the collar, his eyes trained on the wound. "You do know that I'll just have another chip placed in your neck. If you rip that out. Another. And another. I will kill you, Camilla, but I won't do it just yet. How humane your death is, well," he narrows his eyes, "that's up to you."
I close my eyes, unable to look at him. "Please don't," I whisper. My eyes flash open. "Put a bullet in my head, fuck me, beat me, whatever you want. But please don't do that again." I awkwardly rub my hand over my forearm, and his eyes flicker with a sadistic pleasure. I hate that I'm reduced to begging— that this one, simple act bothers me so much and now he knows it. "We both know I’ll die here in your shitty country, but at least let me go down fighting." I look him over. "Or perhaps you like easy prey, Russian. I didn't take you for the type."
His finger swipes along my cheek, his eyes trained on my lips. "You are not easy prey, Krasivaya." Without another word, he threads his fingers through mine and leads me into the hall.
People stare as we pass. Even with the coat I guess they can see the blood. A man stops Ronan, speaking in muffled Russian as he flashes concerned glances my way. Ronan responds, and all I can make out is Anastasia's name. The man gasps and places a hand on his chest, and Ronan ushers me from the hotel and into the limo waiting outside.
The door closes and I glare at him. "If you just told him that bitch hurt me, I swear to god..." I press my fingers to my neck and they come away crimson. Jesus, how deep did he put that thing?
His fingers drum over his knee as he stares through the window.
"Why are you fucking her?" I ask, and he sighs in exasperation.
"Why did you fuck Jésus?" He turns to look at me. "You should understand..."
"Jésus was my enemy. I keep my enemies close." I glare at him. "I can't imagine Anastasia is your enemy, Ronan." I skim my gaze over his chest. "Maybe you just like the wifey types. You can tell me."
"Camilla," he leans across to me, "you truly know nothing about me, so how would you know who I consider an enemy?"
"Cryptic," I muse. "You're not very likeable. Surely everyone is your enemy, but I don't see you sinking your dick in half of Russia."
"You've yet to see me sink my dick into anything." He smiles before he turns his attention back out the window.
"With your taste in women...I'm good."
"Jealousy is not an attractive quality on you."
I laugh. "Russian, jealousy is an emotion experienced only over something one wants or is possessive of."
"Yes—I know." I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.
"You know,” I roll my eyes. “You should go and see someone about that god complex of yours."
In true Ronan fashion, he simply ignores me. I know he's angry. Hell, I'm surprised the people out on the street can't feel it, but he hides it behind semi-civil conversation. Heaven forbid anyone should know that his precious control is slipping. But I can almost see it, his fingertips clinging to that delicate edge. Again, the thought of how beautifully devastating it would be to watch him fray and splinter pops into my mind. He would be like a category five hurricane colliding with civilization, destroying everything in his wake without mercy.
Ronan can keep his secrets, but if that blonde bitch comes at me again I will snap her neck. President's wife or not.
Chapter 24
Ronan
“Control” - Halsey
Oh, the dilemma I am in...
Defiant doesn't touch what Camilla is, and, if I am honest with myself, I almost respect her will to rebel. Almost. I spend the entire ride home contemplating what to do with her, but what do you do with someone whose arrogance and pride override any rational drive to survive? Then again, Camilla is not stupid, she knows how this business works. She knows that once I’m done with her death awaits.
As soon as we�
�re inside my house, Igor takes her coat. I grab her by the elbow, escort her to my office, and lock the door behind me before I make my way toward the roaring fireplace. "You know there are consequences to what you've done?" But what consequences, I'm still not certain.
She sighs. "I'd expect nothing less."
If I put another chip in her she'll just dig it out. Then I’d be forced to kill her, and I’m not ready yet. I circle around her, trailing my fingers over her shoulders as I debate on the proper form of humiliation. Camilla is not the type of woman who will find degradation in being beaten or fucked. The things that would make most women cringe, she wouldn't bat an eye at, but... The ring on my right hand glints in the firelight and a sick smile works over my lips. "The next chip will be placed much deeper," I say, wanting nothing more but to wind her up.
"Then I'll cut that one out, too," she says through gritted teeth.
"What if I place it here?" I sweep my hand over the middle of her back. "How would you cut that out?"
"I'm extremely flexible, and I don't mind scars."
My eyes drop to the healing wounds on her chest and my cock swells. "You'd rather I beat you, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
I lean down by her neck. "Fuck you?" I ask, and she tilts her head to the side, inviting me closer. "What is it about that chip that bothers you so much?"
She whirls around and locks eyes with me. For a moment, there's a glint of vulnerability. "I want to die on my terms."
"There are only my terms here," I breathe against her neck.
Her lips graze over my jaw before her teeth scrape my ear. "A soldier's death then. You can give me that much, Ronan."
The way my name rolls from her tongue causes a slight groan to rumble up my throat. "The way you behave has everything to do with how you die." I grab the tongs from the fireplace and slip my ring from my finger, looking at the raised letters on its surface. My initials will look so lovely burned onto her skin, and she’ll hate that I’ve branded her like livestock. "Take off your dress. Bend over the desk."
Her eyes dance with defiance for a moment before she slowly unzips her dress. The material slides down her body until she's standing in nothing but a black lace bra and thong. The glow of the flames dance over her curves. She turns and bends over the desk, spreading her legs as she brushes her hair over her shoulder.
I move the fire screen and grip the ring with the tongs, holding it in the fire until the metal burns bright red. I step up behind her and place my palm over the side of her face, pinning her to the desk.
"What are you doing?" She thrashes against my hold. "Ronan, what are you doing?" Her voice rises with panic as I place the hot metal below her ear. The skin sizzles and pops, but she doesn't scream, she barely even winces as a small plume of smoke rises from her neck. She is strong, I'll give her that. I hold the ring to her skin, my eyes trailing over the morbid tattoo on her back.
I drop the tongs to the floor, staring at my initials blackened over her skin as I sweep my hand over her back. Instead of smooth skin, my fingers play over ridges. Scars from burns. So many layers to peel back. “How very pretty,” I whisper, fisting her hair as I lean over her. "It doesn't matter what I do because you’re not afraid of death, and without fear, you won't submit, which is admirable. It truly is, but you are defiant." I yank her head back. "So defiant, Camilla, and the thing that you have yet to understand is that you can do and say what you want, but at the end of the day you are mine. You want to die on your own terms, but that is impossible. How do you not see that?"
"Oh, it riles you, doesn't it?" she snarls, fighting against me. "That you can't control every facet of me, that you can't force my hand."
"That is where you are very wrong, Camilla." I laugh. "If you take your own life, it's due to me. It’s solely because of the control I have over you."
"Don't flatter yourself."
Her absolute disregard for death incites me. Her blatant disrespect enrages me. Her volatile personality entices me. I shouldn't enjoy this, but I do in every carnal way possible. "The fact that you are so powerless destroys you, doesn't it?"
"Maybe I secretly like it." She presses her ass against me, and the corner of her lips pull into a smug grin.
"I know you do," I whisper, sweeping my finger over the freshly burned flesh on her neck. She hisses out a breath. "Ownership does look so pretty on you."
"Men are so predictable. All of you wanting to own pretty things."
I simply smirk at her before placing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Such a pretty little pet," I say, wanting to provoke her anger, her rage. I want her mad because it makes my cock throb.
"I swear Russian,” she snarls and thrashes against me, “before this is all said and done, I will make you bleed."
"Such sweet promises," I whisper, trailing my palm over the curve of her ass. Her warm skin serves as such a temptation, but her anger even more. No matter how powerful a man may be, things as primitive as this—the scent of a woman's skin, the promise of her tight pussy—it's a weakness rarely avoided. Closing my eyes, I imagine her pinned underneath me, my hands on her throat as I bury myself inside her. But I can't give her that satisfaction. If anything, I want to rip the one thing she feels she has power over away, so I let my fingers slip underneath the lace of her thong. My finger skims her asshole and she moans. "When I take this, I will make you bleed," I groan, circling my finger over her hole before I slide it down to her wet pussy. "So aroused, little kitty," I murmur against her cheek, playing with her. Each swipe of my finger makes my cock ache for her, but this is about control. Power. Ownership.
I bury two fingers inside her so hard, so fast, she gasps. "I think you like to be treated like a dirty slut, Camilla. You crave the depraved." I nip at her ear before I place my thumb on her asshole and push it inside. She clenches around me, groaning and shoving back against me. Using my free hand, I smash her face against the desk as I finger fuck her, more than delighted at the way she claws at the hard wood between deep pants.
"Shit," she whispers. She tightens around my fingers. Her movements grow desperate. But I can’t allow her to come. I pull out of her and step away. She’s bent over and spread out on my desk on the verge of an orgasm she'll never have, and I find so much pleasure in that.
An exasperated breath rushes from her lips before she turns over and sits up. She scoots to the edge of the desk. I admire the lovely flush painted on her cheeks. She closes her eyes for a second and when she opens them there’s a wild flicker. "You know what they say…” Her legs spread open and her hand drops between her thighs, underneath the lace. “If you want a job done properly..."
Smiling, I cross the room and snatch her hand away. "That's not allowed."
"Oh, Ronan." She inches toward me, sweeping her lips over mine. "So uptight all the time." Her lips trail over my cheek, and then she pinches the skin of my jaw between her teeth. "Don't pretend you don't want to watch my pussy clench around my fingers, or better yet, feel it on your cock."
"Why would I want that, Camilla?" I pull her hand toward my lips and slip her wet fingers into my mouth, sucking the delicate taste of her pussy from them. I want nothing more at this moment than to fuck her... "Are you going to be bad?"
"I'll take those as rhetorical questions."
I walk around the desk and open a drawer, pulling a thin rope out. "Turn around," I say.
"You just happen to keep rope in your desk? Like a damn serial killer," she mumbles, hopping off the desk and turning around on a sigh.
I take both her wrists and loop the rope around them. I fully expect her to be out of these within the hour, but it's just the principle of it really. The degradation, the forced submission from such an angry jungle cat. "Now then. Let's go." I grab hold of the rope, escorting her from my office to her room.
When we reach her doorway she turns to glare at me, and I offer her a charming smile. "I do hope you have delightful dreams." And with that, I close the door.
Camilla
has added a certain level of...entertainment to my life. She makes me angry, she reduces me to the most primitive of wants, but in the end, I control her and that is immeasurably satisfying. It is so tragic to think I'll have to kill her once it's all over, but at the same time, I know she will be utterly beautiful when she bleeds.
Chapter 25
Camilla
“Hook, Line & Sinker” – Royal Blood
The door clicks shut and I bite back a frustrated groan. My shoulders ache, my neck stings, and my pussy throbs. God, he's an asshole. I glance around the room, looking for anything I can use to get out of this damn rope. I shove the lamp off the bedside table, watching as the ceramic base shatters. Glass dusts the floor and I crouch down, pushing my hands into the top of the broken lamp base. My teeth snap together when the sharp edges shred the side of my hand. As if I haven't bled enough today. I awkwardly rub the rope against the jagged porcelain, feeling it catch and loosen bit by bit. I smile when the rope finally pops free. My hands are covered in blood, and I have to pluck tiny bits of ceramic out of my hands and wrists. Ronan can go fuck himself—and he can watch me fuck myself. Not allowed, please! I walk to the corner of the room, hop up on the dresser, and adjust the camera until I’m pretty sure it's focused on the bed.
I strut back across to the bed and slowly slide my lace thong over my hips and down my legs. Blood from my hands and wrists streak my skin, but I don’t care. If anything, I like it. And I’m sure that sick bastard will like it, too. Lying on the bed, I spread my legs wide and angle myself toward that camera with its blinking red light. Ronan will probably never see this, but I’ll pretend he will. The thought of Ronan sitting in some dark room watching me stroke myself while I’m covered in blood...well, it shouldn't turn me on as much as it does.