by LP Lovell
Suddenly, he stiffens. His eyes widen, his body goes rigid tense, and he groans. There’s a snap as his head twists violently to the side, then he hits the floor. Ronan’s right in front of me like an avenging angel. My gaze drifts from Ronan to the guy at my feet—dead—his neck snapped.
He smooths a hand down the front of his jacket and holds out his hand to me. People around us panic and scatter, but Ronan is all I see. Taking his hand, I step over the body. I can feel the rage radiating from him, see the blood lust and death dancing in his eyes like the very flames of hell. I always want Ronan to lose control, but right now, as I look at him, I'm not sure I want to see this beast out of his cage. And I know he's rattling the bars, because Ronan just got his hands dirty. For me. To protect me. No one has ever protected me. Shit.
Chapter 28
Ronan
“Eye” – Smashing Pumpkins
Adrenaline jolts through me like a live wire as I usher Camilla through the club. My pulse throbs in my jugular and I clench my jaw, fighting back the urge I have to slam my fist through a wall. I just snapped a man's neck simply because he touched her. I lost control, but my god, it seems the pits of hell have opened up to offer me this woman…
I push the exit door open and step into a flurry of snow. The waiting car pulls toward the exit as I walk down the steps, Camilla following behind me. The car stops and the driver nods as he hurries around to open the door for us. Once inside, I take a breath and stare at her. Neither of us know what just happened, who won or who lost, and that's not a situation I like to be in.
"I had that under control," Camilla says, breaking the silence.
I swallow, attempting to calm my racing pulse. "You never know when to shut the fuck up, do you?" My teeth grind together, red flashes before my eyes. She glares at me, and I grab her by the throat before placing my face directly in front of hers. "Do not think for one second that you mean anything to me. Me fucking you means nothing." Her pulse thrums beneath my fingertips, calling to the monster inside.
"Good." Her breath caresses my lips. "Then remember, I'm not a fucking damsel, and you're no prince."
"No, you aren't a damsel, because in the stories the damsel is always saved, isn't she?" I smirk. "And you will never be saved, little kitty, because I'm the man who will end your life."
She groans. "God, you're such a dick." She grabs the front of my jacket and slams her lips against mine, her tongue thrusting inside my mouth.
My hold on her throat tightens. I shove away from her, my grip growing stronger by the second. I close my eyes and all I can see is the image of her covered in her own blood, the way her eyes danced when she was handed the blade to slit that man's throat. My eyes flash open.
"You could just end it right now." She dares. "Just squeeze a little tighter, Russian.”
A surge of adrenaline courses through me, and I squeeze just a little harder. All she does is close her eyes and smile. I watch her fight it. I watch her beautiful skin pit around my fingertips, and that fine line of control I cling to snaps like a frayed string. I strangle her until she chokes for a breath, and then I slowly inch my face toward hers. "Is that tight enough?" I whisper against her lips.
She chokes again and I can't help but kiss her. Hard. She meets me blow for blow, tongue and teeth and rage. The way she unhinges me— I want to kill her for it just as much as I need to fuck her, and I find my grip loosening. She moves and straddles my thighs, pushing up on her knees and forcing my head back over the seat. Her teeth sink into my bottom lip before she breaks away, pressing her forehead against mine. Clinging to the last semblance of control, I move my hands to her waist, gripping them as though she may keep me rooted.
"Thank you," she whispers, placing a trembling hand on my jaw before she kisses me again. The rage and hate retreat like a rising wave melting back into the ocean. The warmth of her lips sends a calming flood through my veins, and even though I hate that she has this control over me, I relish in it. The warmth of her body, the scent of blood in her hair—it’s nearly too much. Suddenly, she breaks away, staring at me as her brows pull together in a frown. And then, she climbs off me, putting as much space as possible between us.
When we arrive home, she walks straight into the house, disappearing down the hallway without a word. She’s lost inside her own mind, much like myself, I think as I retire to my office.
The fire roars in the fire place, the kindling popping and crackling under the heat. Dragging a hand down my face, I fall back in the chair. I watch the red flames lick over the logs, thinking, questioning. Tides shift often in life, I'm just not certain whether I like the new direction I'm being taken.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at Anastasia's name flashing over the screen when I pull it out. "What do you want?" I ask, my gaze still fixated on the fire that reminds me so much of my little kitty.
"Ronan.” She’s crying. “I love you. Please, please..."
"I don't have time for this any longer, Anastasia. Don't call me again."
I disconnect the call and immediately block her number before I place the phone on my lap. Soon enough my plan will be tied into a nice, neat bow, and maybe then my head will clear.
_____
The setting sun spills through the stained-glass window, casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the Ruger on my desk. I haven’t seen Camilla since last night, since I watched her slit a man’s throat and fucked her in her own blood…
A video call dings on my phone and I accept it, waiting as the blurry image of Kristoff's face comes into focus. Behind him the Mexican landscape spreads out like a canvas, the sun high over the now empty lake.
"What do you want me to do with the Mexican?" he asks.
"Just let him be."
His brow furrows. "You have no use for him now? No?"
"No, but he'll eventually get himself killed off in one of his petty little cartel wars. Thank you for overseeing the project, Kristoff."
"Of course." He smiles, and I disconnect the call.
I have absolutely no use for Gabriel Estrada or the Juarez cartel now, but he does not know that, and he never needs to. Glancing through the open doorway, I watch Camilla leisurely stroll into the living room and grab the decanter of brandy. I could very easily keep playing this game. Continue to have the cartels smuggle ammunition into America. I'm sure, to them, it would be a legitimate enough reason for me to hold Camilla. They, of course, have no idea what my plans truly are, so I could keep her if I wanted.
And I do want to, but therein lies the problem. I should not want to keep her. She will constantly fight me and hate me, and it's just a distraction, a form of amusement that could cost me gravely. Camilla is too unhinged—much like I was before I learned to control that monster lurking inside. Too unhinged, yet she is too magnificent to blot from existence.
Stop it! I slam my fist over the desk before I drag my hand down my face. Lust is powerful, I am well aware of this, and that woman strips me to nothing but animalistic urges. She makes me want to hurt her, fuck her, own her. I snapped a man's neck simply because he touched what I deem as mine, and a man such as I cannot afford an emotion that inflicts such rash decisions. Closing my eyes, I remember how she let me cut her and fuck her, how beautifully twisted her mind is. God, she is ruthless. A queen fit for a king... But not every king needs a queen.
My gaze drifts back through the doorway to Camilla. I don't need a queen, but goddam it, I want that one, because there is no other woman who could stand a chance at holding equal power. But I could never trust her... My mind is doing numbers on me. I'm on a pendulum, swinging back and forth between my desire to kill her and my will to keep her. I watch her move around the den, my cock swelling with each passing second. My gaze drifts back to the gun. I could let fate decide. Empty a few bullets and pull the trigger once. A heads or tails toss of the coin, except with a gun...
The intercom crackles and a guard's panicked voice shouts through the speakers. "Anastasia is here!"
; "Send her away," I say shoving the gun into the drawer.
"She rammed through the gate, sir. She's already at the door. We thought of shooting her, bu—"
"Shooting her? Since when has having the President's wife shot on my property sounded like a good idea?" I push up from the desk. "I'll handle this."
Groaning, I roll my eyes and head into the foyer just before someone pounds angrily over the door. I sigh, shaking my head as I yank the door open. Anastasia comes barreling inside, her blonde hair in disarray, mascara smudge below her eyes, and I can just make out the fine mist of blood across her pale cheeks. Wonderful. Derevichi must be dead.
"You have to help me," she says before breaking down into sobs and falling dramatically to the floor. I roll my eyes again and shake my head.
"You shouldn't be here, Ana."
"I killed him! For you!" she shouts as she pushes to her feet. "I killed him for you, Ronan, because I love you. We can be together." She paces the foyer, combing her hands through her hair. She stops by the doorway and stares at me with wild eyes. “We can be together!” This is what the weakness of love does to people, it drives them mad. It takes away their control. I can't help but smirk at the thought.
The tap of heels over the marble echoes into the ceiling. Ana glances behind me and glares. I spin around as Camilla crosses the room, her dark hair swaying with each seductive swish of her hips.
"Ana," I say, still staring at Camilla, "leave."
When I turn to look at Anastasia she's still glaring at Camilla, her chest rising in ragged swells. "Ana, do not—" I go to step toward her, and that's when I notice the bloodied blade clasped tightly in her hand.
On a growl, Anastasia throws herself at Camilla, wildly swinging the knife. Camilla doesn't flinch or move, simply back hands Ana across the face with such force that her head snaps to the side. Effortlessly, Camilla snatches the knife before fisting her hair and yanking her head back.
"I fucking warned you," Camilla says, slashing the blade over Anastasia's throat. Beautiful ruby blood spills from the gash and Ana’s eyes go wide as she chokes. Camilla smiles and pulls Ana close, the blood drenching her.
Several of my men storm into the room and I hold up a hand. "Leave," I say to them. Camilla brushes a piece of Anastasia’s hair behind her ear, whispers something in Spanish that I can't quite make out, and then she lets go of her. Ana's body crumples to the floor in a pool of blood. My pulse races, my skin catches fire first with lust, then with rage.
The freshly murdered President's wife lays slain in the middle of my foyer. Within a matter of seconds, Camilla has ruined my perfectly orchestrated plan, creating a mess for me to clean up. Flashes of red dance in my vision. My chest grows tight with fury. "Camilla," I manage to say calmly as I step over Anastasia's body. "Come with me."
Tis a shame to slaughter such a pretty little thing, but to all things there must come an end.
Chapter 29
Camilla
“Bury Me Facedown” – Grandson
Ronan’s fingers dig into my arm as he drags me to his office. I can literally hear his uneven breaths when he shoves me inside. The door locks behind me, and I clutch the knife in my hand so hard that my knuckles throb. A vein in his temple pops and thumps, his lips lay flat on his face, and his eyes… they’re flaming like the inner circle of hell. I've never seen Ronan so mad, not when I've pushed him, not when he killed that man in the club last night. He's practically boiling over with it.
"What was I supposed to do?" I ask, already plotting how I can rationalize with him on this.
His eyes flutter shut. "Years." He takes a breath and his jaw tics. "I fucked that woman for years for this very night, and you ruined it all because of your lack of control!" he shouts, his voice booming into the rafters. "And now, now I have to formulate an entire new plan to get rid of her fucking body, fake her disappearance." He drags a hand through his hair. "All while I am trying to ensure the American election goes accordingly." He shakes his head. "Can no one do anything right?"
"Fine. I'm sorry, but I'm sure your world domination will ensue." The mad rage in his eyes makes me take a step back.
"You do not understand the art." He storms toward me. “The beauty in the way something is executed. It was planned perfectly and you just shit all over it!" I take several steps away from him and grip the knife harder, pressing it into the folds of my dress. He's going to kill me. I've always been prepared for this eventuality, unafraid even, but when faced with the reality of your death...well, survival instincts scream awfully loud. "You are stupid," he grabs my chin, squeezing hard. "And defiant. And not worth the air that you breathe."
"Fuck you, Russian," I snarl and swing the knife at his neck. The blade meets the side of his throat and he ducks away, but not before the satisfying sight of blood greets me.
His hand goes to his throat. When he pulls it away, he stares down at his bloodied palm, and then a smile reminiscent of the Cheshire cat slowly inches across his lips. "You made me bleed," he says, pleasure dancing in his tone. "How exciting!" That wild look in his eyes makes me nervous and, for the first time in my life, I truly feel like cornered prey.
I take another unsteady step back, eyeing the door and Ronan's position. He smiles like the devil, his white collar quickly turning crimson as blood runs down his neck. "What a shame, I missed the artery," I say, my voice shaky even to my own ears. My flight instinct finally overrides everything else, and I dart around him, slashing the knife in his direction. I scream when he catches me by the hair. My head snaps back and burning pain rips over my scalp. He yanks me toward him and my chest hits my back. His other hand grips my wrist squeezing so hard that my fingers flex and the knife clatters to the floor. "Are you going to kill me, Russian?" I laugh.
"God yes," he says with a deep groan.
I struggle in his hold, my heart pounding in my chest. "Then do it!” I struggle to turn my face toward him, the blood from his neck smearing across my cheek. The pain shooting through my scalp suddenly subsides, and then I feel a single finger swipe across my cheek. I watch his bloodied finger lift away, then hear him suck it into his mouth.
"So good," he moans. And without warning, he spins me around and shoves me facedown onto his desk. "I'll give you everything you want, Camilla. Me and death all at the same time." He slams a palm over the side of my face, crushing my cheek against the hard wood. My heart beats in a desperate pleading rhythm, demanding that I run, that I survive, but like the sick addict I've become, I crave him, even at his worst. Especially at his worst. If Ronan Cole is going to kill me then I want to buy a favor with the devil one more time before I die. I reach back and slowly inch the hem of my dress up my thighs and over my ass. A low chuckle rumbles from his throat. "What a compliment. I'm going to kill you, and you still want to fuck me..."
"Don't pretend it doesn't turn you on, the violence of it all.” I grin. “The blood."
"Oh," he drags his hand down to my throat, one by one wrapping his fingers around it before he presses his cock against me. "You have no idea."
My mind freefalls down this morbid little rabbit hole Ronan has dragged me to. Down, down, down I go until all I want is him, to dance with the devil, to corrupt my soul so entirely that only he could possibly want it. "Then fuck me, one last time. And make it good."
From the corner of my eye, I can barely catch him swipe his finger through the blood on his throat, and then he rubs it over my lips and up my cheek. "Such a shame," he says before I hear the clink of his belt buckle, "I almost thought I'd met my match." And with that, he slams into me so hard and deep that I gasp. My nails claw over the wood of the desk. He grabs my wrists and pins them together at the small of my back, forcing my back to bow. He slides impossibly deep, forcing a sharp bite of pain as he jerks my head back. My spine aches as he thrusts into me. It's cruel and brutal in the most blissful way.
"We could have made such a perfect pair," he says, leaning over me and slamming his mouth against mine.
&nbs
p; "We'd burn everything around us to the ground." We would. We'd be like a spark in a world built of tinder wood. We'd destroy everything.
"Sit on thrones of skulls and bones..." He bites my lip. Hard. The bitter taste of blood fills my mouth. "But I could never trust you, and you could never trust me."
He thrusts harder, making me moan. "I'd kill you," I gasp.
"That's a lie." He buries himself inside me, holding himself there. He releases my wrists and wraps his hand around my throat and pulls me up, bringing my chest away from the desk. "You crave this,” he whispers against my ear. God, I do. So much.
I turn my head, nipping at his jaw. "We often crave that which kills us."
His hot breaths fan across my neck; his hand tightens around my throat. He fucks me like he's trying to kill me and save me at the same time. Like I'm worthless, yet irrevocably precious. I know I'm going to die. I can feel it in every thrust, every threatening squeeze of his fingers, every whispered kiss over my neck. This is the end of our bloodstained road. The final battle.
Without warning, he pulls out of me, flipping me over on the desk and pulling me up. I wrap my legs around his hips and he slides back inside of me, slow. Steady. His eyes lock with mine. "Tell me how I should kill you." He kisses my lips softly. "How do you want to die?" His tongue swipes up the side of my neck and he bites my shoulder. It's brutal and raw and soul shattering.