by LP Lovell
He guides me to the end of the hall, through a door, and up a stairwell. Ronan presses a code into a keypad and the door beeps before swinging open into a circular room. The walls are nothing but glass, providing an unobstructed view of the club below. There’s a desk, a few chairs, and a small bar in the room. Nothing else. Ronan's men follow us in and close the door behind them. As soon as the door closes the room plunges into near silence. I can feel the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of the music, but can hear nothing.
Ronan takes a seat at the desk, then points to a chair across from him. "Sit," he instructs.
I do as told, and his men take up positions around the room, placing their backs to the glass. No one says anything, and my nerves are on edge. Just when I'm about to ask what we're waiting for, the door opens, music pours in. Three men walk inside, two in suits, the other is wearing a hoody and ripped jeans. The door slams shut, bringing with it that deafening silence, and the man in the hoody jumps. His gaze shifts anxiously around the room. Sweat beads on his brow as he drags a trembling hand through his messy, blond hair. The suits stop on either side of him, right in front of Ronan's desk. I can practically feel the fear pouring from him, and I almost feel sorry. He looks so young, so completely out of place here in the devil's domain.
Ronan drums his fingers over the desk before lighting a cigar, puffing away as he stares the poor guy down. "I'm very disappointed," he says. "Very, very disappointed." That's so not good for him.
"Mr. Cole. I don't...” the man chokes out with an American accent. “What did I, I’m sorry, I just—why am I here?"
"Do not speak to me directly again," Ronan says, his jaw ticking.
"Please," he whispers before breaking into tears. The guilty ones always break so fast. I have to wonder what this man could possibly have done to Ronan.
"Igor," Ronan snaps his fingers. "Tell this man what he did."
"Yes, boss." Igor says, stepping from the shadows. He moves in front of the man, standing like a soldier at attention. "You were required to complete a job for Mr. Cole, and paid well for your services. You betrayed him. Traitors are not tolerated."
"They made me. I'd have been arrested for treason!" He cries. "I'm sorry! I will do anything, just, please let me—"
"How cute." Ronan laughs before taking another drag from his cigar.
"Please, don't hurt me!" The man cries and pleads. Like a cornered, wounded deer, he knows the end is nigh. He is not dealing with any predator. This is Ronan Cole. He will find no mercy here.
"Igor, tell him that I own the FBI." Ronan laughs again, and a thick cloud of smoke billows into the air. "And do tell Mr. Thomas that I am not a man of mercy."
All I can hear are the man’s hysterical sobs. I huff out a breath and roll my eyes. Can no one die well anymore? Igor and the other men disappear through the door, and I catch Ronan glance at me from the corner of my eye. "Come here, little kitty." He scoots his chair away from the desk and pats his thigh.
I push to my feet and walk over to him, a small smile plastered across my lips even as suspicion crawls through me. I never quite trust Ronan, but especially not when he's inviting me so close. I sit on his lap, cross one leg over the other, and drape my arm around his shoulder.
"You seem annoyed." He smirks.
"A traitor should at least have the decency to die well, don't you think?" The man’s high-pitched squeals fill the room.
"Of course I do. However, Mr. Thomas here, I mean, look at him." Ronan points across the room. "So unkempt, he doesn't even take pride in his appearance. What makes you think he would take pride in his death?"
I brush my finger over the crisp collar of Ronan's shirt. "What do you expect? He's a traitor." I curl my lip. "To the fucking FBI of all people." God, I hate the American authorities.
"He's worked with terrorist organizations in the Middle East. Done deplorable things. Hacking missile codes and aiding in the death of innocent people…children…" Ronan glances at him and tsks. "He showed such promise as a hacker. Tis a shame."
I glance over my shoulder at the man now on his knees with his chin to his chest. "For him, yes." I turn back to Ronan, watching the way his eyes swirl with excitement.
Ronan can be an arrogant asshole, he can be selfish and narcissistic, but this right here is when he's at his most intoxicating. This ruthlessness matches my own, and it makes me want him in the most twisted of ways. My heart pounds. My pussy clenches, and I shift on his lap, trying to focus.
"Just think," Ronan says, resting his cigar on an ashtray. "Had you simply done as told, you could have been solely responsible for putting the next President of the United States into power. You would have been two-million dollars richer, but you allowed your selfishness to cloud your judgement and now…" Ronan shrugs. "You'll just die a dirty little traitor."
"Please! I can pay you..." the man says.
"Pay me?” Ronan laughs hysterically.
"Jesus fuck.” I snap. “Does he look like he needs money to you?" Stupid shit. Ronan's hand lands on my thigh.
"Tell me, what would you do to him, Camilla?" Ronan whispers, sweeping his finger along my jaw. My pulse thrums hard beneath his touch.
"My father once told me a traitor's death should be beautiful, memorable." Ronan’s fingers grip my thigh harder and he grins.
"All death is beautiful."
I trail my nails over the seam of his collar where it meets his skin. "Nothing is more beautiful than blood, such a vibrant color." I tilt my head. "So pretty." His hand leisurely moves over my hip, shifting me closer.
"So festive," he breathes against my lips, and for a moment I allow myself to get lost in the tension crackling between us. "How would you kill him? Tell me, Camilla." His fingers draw circles on my skin.
I shrug one shoulder. "Take a knife," I trace my fingers over Ronan’s jaw and up to his temple. "Start here, and cut." My fingers drift down to his chin. "And then, I'd dig my fingernails underneath the loose skin and slowly peel it away from his face." He grins, and I lean in, brushing my lips over his neck before I bite his earlobe. "But the real secret is, if you burn the exposed muscle they don't bleed out as fast." I force myself to pull back, because I'm so turned on right now.
One of Ronan’s brows twitches before his smile deepens. "You are so savage," he says. I can feel his cock swelling underneath my ass. "Tell me, is there much blood?" Another noticeable swell of his cock. He gets off on this shit, on the brutality and the violence, on the poetry of taking a man's life.
"Of course. If you really want a party, you can always cut out the eyes." I can't tear my gaze from Ronan. I'm drunk on him, on us.
He leans next to my ear. "This is what makes me want to fuck you, little kitty."
"Then fuck me," I breathe, raking my fingers into his hair as I tilt my head to the side. His teeth sink into my neck. His grip on my hips tightens and he hisses out a breath as I squirm on his lap.
The door opens, and I snap out of whatever daze Ronan has me in. The rapid breaths and desperate sobs from the man whose life is near its end return. Igor steps into the room, the noise from the club returning for only a moment before it's silenced again. Igor mumbles something in Russian to the other two men. They nod and cross the room, coming back with a harness which they lay out on the floor. Ronan pushes me to my feet before he stands and walks to the side of the room, humming. He fiddles with something on the bar, and the eerie sound of a lone cello comes crackling through hidden speakers. On his way back to his desk, Ronan moves his finger through the air like a conductor at a symphony. Power may be what he enjoys, but this is what he craves. A monster in his cave, the angel of death at a funeral.
Ronan grabs his cigar, once again puffing away as he stares at poor Mr. Thomas. The haunting notes wind around me as they crawl through the room. I sit on the edge of his desk as he comes to stand next to me.
"Is this...Nirvana?" I ask. Nirvana on the cello. Only Ronan.
"But of course." He grins. "Heart Shaped Box."
> "Of course."
His hand clasps the back of my neck, his eyes wild. "I do love the irony of it. The refined edge it brings to such a brutal act."
The men approach Mr. Thomas, and he fights his captors tooth and nail, as any animal fighting for survival would. Finally, after several punches to the face and gut, he's in the harness. Igor presses a button on a remote and a low whirring sound fills the room as the guy is slowly lifted by his legs into the air, suspended from a winch in the ceiling. He pleads and begs and cries, but surely he can see we're well past that? Beyond the glass windows people drink and dance in the club below. They revel in the simplicity of life while inside these walls, death rules supreme in the form of Ronan Cole. The king sitting on his throne. Lord of all he surveys. Nothing outside of this room is of consequence to him. We are removed from the meagre troubles of everyone else.
Igor steps up to Mr. Thomas and I catch the light glint from a blade. "Igor," Ronan says, "Wait." Igor halts. "Would you like to have the honors?" Ronan focuses his attention on me as he strokes my hair behind my ear.
I smile. "And I thought you were mean." To take a person's life...well it's an addiction that can never truly be cured once tasted. There's nothing like the rush that comes with watching a man's very essence leave his eyes. It's powerful, hypnotic, utterly exhilarating; just like Ronan himself.
Ronan holds out his palm and motions Igor over. Worry flashes across Igor's face as he places the knife into Ronan's grip. "Leave," Ronan says, and without a word, all the men vanish from the room. The lock to the door clicks, and Ronan moves between my thighs.
I hold out my hand, and he places the knife on my palm. "Just his face, or the eyes as well?" The sound of the music blends with Mr. Thomas' cries creating a beautifully haunting crescendo.
"Let me teach you how to make this into an art." Ronan’s eyes gleam. "Fine art is always refined." He slowly trails his finger across my throat. "One simple slice, and all the blood will drain from his body. So slow. So perfect." He grabs my chin and stares down at me. "Killing this way is what separates us from the animals."
"Well,” I smirk, “we can’t taint that distinguished image of yours now, can we?" I nip his bottom lip before I hop off the desk, walking slowly over to the man hanging upside down from the ceiling.
"Please! Please! Please! Please!" he says over and over, his words slurred and frantic.
"Shhh." I drop to a crouch in front of him and twist my head to the side to look at him. "Shhhh. It's okay." I press my fingers to his lips and he quiets, tears cascading over his temples. "You won't feel a thing." I grin and prick the blade into the side of his neck. He whimpers, and a drop of blood wells in the gash. I catch it and swipe my finger over his lips, coating them with his own blood as I draw a smile on his face. "Smile, you do get to keep your face." He chokes, and I slide the blade across his throat in one slow sweep. He screams and thrashes as a fountain of blood pours over his face. The gurgle of him drowning in his own blood sends a jolt of adrenaline down my spine before I stand and turn to face Ronan.
His eyes lock on me as he stalks toward me. He stops in front of me, hesitating for a second before he snatches the knife. My heart skitters and skips, because I have no idea what he’s about to do. Without warning, he grabs my shoulders and slams me against the glass wall, the tip of the blade pricking underneath my chin as he leans in. "How would you kill me today, Krasivaya?"
My breath catches. "Have you heard of death by a thousand cuts?” I swallow. “I'd cut you all over, and then maybe I'd fuck you while you bled for me." There’s the constant drip of Mr. Thomas' blood splattering the floor beside me.
"Would you?" he whispers against my lips. "I want to cut you so badly."
"Hmm." I scratch my nails over the back of his neck. "There's nothing quite like the feel of slick blood on hot skin."
His forehead touches mine and he inhales on a groan as the blade of the knife sweeps over my jaw. I tremble, and an unsteady breath leaves my lips. "I bet you're so pretty when you really bleed.”
“So…” I lean in, bringing my lips to his ear, "make me bleed." Adrenaline fires through my veins until I'm high on the danger, the thrill, brimming with lust and need for the man in front of me. He's my adversary and my reflection and I want him. Just once.
His eyes churn with sadistic urges, and he bites at his lip. The cool tip of the blade slides down to my collarbone. I watch his nostrils flare, his eyes focus, and then a searing pain floods my body as he slowly slices across my chest. Swallowing, he stares at the cut before leaning down and licking over the fresh wound, and I close my eyes on a moan.
"I should kill you," he whispers.
"You should."
He raises the knife to my throat and holds it there. His gaze keeps drifting to the cut on my chest, the sight, I think, gnawing away at restraint. Closing his eyes, he fists my hair as though to steady himself. The sharp edge of the blade pierces my skin again, and my heart pounds furiously. This is it. He’s going to kill me, but what a beautiful way to go...
The prick of the blade disappears. Ronan groans, dropping the knife before he grabs me and slams me to the floor. He swipes one hand through my blood, and rips my underwear off with the other. My legs fall shamelessly open for him, and he pinches my swollen clit between his fingers.
"You're bleeding for me, little kitty, but I want you to beg for me."
I fist his hair, pulling hard at the roots. "I don't beg, Russian."
A deep laugh rumbles up his throat as he yanks his belt open and reaches for the knife on the floor. The blade glints in the light as he brings it back to my throat. My heart slams against my ribs, my lungs struggle for air, and the rush of adrenaline makes me almost blind with need.
The music, the sound of a man dying next to me, the scent of blood in the air, the people on the other side of that glass so blissfully unaware... and Ronan, it's a heady combination that I don't have the will to fight. I want him. I want this, the depravity, the lust, the anger and the hate. His hand lands on my throat and the knife presses under my chin. He squeezes just hard enough to threaten my oxygen intake and make my vision dot. I can feel how close he is, riding that razor-sharp edge of control. He's every bit as mindless as I am, and I want him to fall with me.
He drops the knife again and grips the inside of my thigh as his body presses over mine, hard and heavy. Our eyes lock, and I see the promise of blood and pain. I'm not sure if he wants to fuck me or kill me. Perhaps both. Smiling, I spread my legs wider, an invitation. He growls before slamming inside me so brutally hard that it takes my breath away. Within a single moment, he consumes me and decimates me, and I know I will never be the same again. His tongue trails along my neck. "If only I could watch you bleed like that," he whispers, nodding toward the man hanging from the ceiling, gurgling through his last dying breaths.
I slam my lips against his, biting until the metallic taste of his blood fills my mouth. He groans, and I wrap my legs around him, forcing him deeper. So fucking deep—until I don't know where he ends and I begin. It's all one bloody, perilous mess. An endless pool of destruction that is sure to ruin us both. On a moan, I throw my head against the floor, and he fucks me harder, faster. His nails bite into my neck, a sweet threat and a deadly promise. My vision swims. My pulse throbs desperately. The room whirls around me as he tries to fuck himself into me. He's trying to claim ownership of my soul, and I'm not sure if he's going to kill me to take it. I love it. But I want it. I've never been so close to the ragged edge of pleasure and pain—life and death. I'm being possessed by the devil and he can have me. His tongue brushes mine and his grip on my neck flexes.
"You are so pretty when you bleed," he mumbles against my lips before shoving my face away. He shifts, and I feel the sharp prick of the knife at the base of my throat before he drags it down my chest, slicing my skin. Pain and pleasure blend together in perfect chemistry. My pussy clamps around him as an orgasm tears through me so hard and fast I'm not sure if my heart physicall
y stops beating.
His movements grow frantic and he drops the knife to the floor, wrapping both hands around my throat. "You are beautiful, Camilla. So fucking perfect." His hold becomes painful. He growls, thrusting into me so hard and fast that my mind jumbles, my lungs scream for oxygen and then everything goes black.
When I wake up, I'm lying in the same spot, my body aching in the most beautiful way. I sit up and glance at the body lightly swinging from the ceiling. The scent of blood and cigar smoke fill my senses and the floor vibrates to the low beat of club music pulsing beneath us. Blood slowly slides across the wooden floor, circling a small drain, and Ronan’s across the room, watching it. I push to my feet and skirt around the drain as I make my way toward Ronan. His eyes slowly roam over my body, stopping on my throat.
"You had a drain put in your office?" I say, my voice still hoarse from the brutal grip he held on my windpipe.
"Some men want plasma screens; I simply want a drain." He grins.
I push between his thighs and place a hand on his chest. "And a winch in the ceiling." I lift a brow. "Anyone would think you like to get your hands dirty, Russian."
He loosens his tie before slipping it over his head and placing the soft fabric against my chest. His eyes remain trained on the cuts while he wipes the blood from my skin. "My hands are clean, little kitty."
"Uh-huh." I glance pointedly at his blood covered tie.
Ronan slips his jacket back on and adjusts his collar. He combs through my hair, using it to cover the cuts on my shoulder and chest. "Come on."
He leads me across the room, and the second the door opens, the sound from the club surrounds me. One of the men waiting outside slips into the room and closes the door behind him, I guess to clean up the mess. Just like that, everything that happened feels like a deep dark secret that only those walls will ever know.
Ronan's hand grips my hip as we move down the stairs and through the club. He stops at the edge of the bar to speak to someone. People dance around me, laughing and grinding against each other. When I look over at Ronan, he's moved to a side door, going over paperwork with another man in a suit. Someone bumps into my side and I snap my head around to glare at them. My gaze collides with a broad chest, and I lift my eyes to the man now staring down at me with a lascivious smile. He says something in Russian as his hand lands on my waist, pulling me tight against his body and forcing me backwards across the bar. I snarl and shove against him until I feel a wall at my back. His hand goes to my thigh, pushing my dress up. I can't move. He's heavy, and pressed so tightly against me I can't even lift my arm, or knee him in the balls. His hand drifts higher and I panic. He growls something in my ear. I don't have to be able to speak Russian to know his intentions. How the fuck did I end up in this position?