by Lana Sky
“Did you?” The question comes softer this time, directed solely at the lacy black panties that shield me from his gaze. His hand lowers, the stained gauze wrapped around his wounds clashing against the ebony fabric. Once again, he waits until my legs part for him before seizing the waistband and sliding his fingers underneath.
My reply rides a jagged gasp as he trails his touch over aching flesh. “Did...D-Did you want me to?”
He frowns, sliding a finger inside of me, but if he finds me wet and gaping...it’s from him. I’m still suffering from this morning. I didn’t wash. I didn’t erase his scent from my skin. I can feel his teeth if I walk too fast. I still feel the broadness of his tongue.
Lucifer tests me carefully anyway, easing his thumb through those inner parts of me only he knows how to navigate. He takes his time, seeking out any sign of another predator in his den. Any bite marks he didn’t make. Any scent apart from his own.
When he doesn’t find it, he slowly withdraws, though he can’t seem to stop himself from bringing his hand to his mouth, snatching my taste from his fingers with his tongue, just to be sure. A pitiful whine breaks loose from between my lips. He thinks it’s out of pain and he recoils, dragging his hand from his lips, his eyes dark.
My own mouth twitches, aching to throw out more questions than I have the energy to ask. Did he want me to go along with Mack’s plans and “fuck” someone like Donahugh? Did he expect me to? While Lucifer differed from Vinny in some ways, I would have thought that all monsters were united in the terms of their possession: they didn’t like to share their toys. Was Lucifer a different breed?
Looking at him I can’t be sure. He’s tasted my answer, but he’s not benevolent enough to reveal whether it satisfies him or not. And suddenly, I need to know. Curiosity burns a trail through my body and makes me bold in a way I could never be around Vinny.
“Did you want me to fuck him?”
Lucifer flinches. His eyes drift down to his hand, the fingers glistening. He makes me wait for forty-four seconds before finally giving me an answer. “No.” His frown deepens as he removes his free hand from my neck and catches the bottom of my chin with the pads of his fingers. He tilts my head back, forcing my gaze to meet his again. I can’t read the emotion I find lurking there. A part of me really doesn’t want to. Mystery and Lucifer go hand-in-hand, anyway. “No,” he says. “I didn’t.”
I should leave it at that. He didn’t want me to be used by Donahugh, not even to further his own plan. A good captive might take some kind of comfort in that. I think deep down...I’m insulted.
Lucifer doesn’t react when I reach for his hand with one of my own—but it’s a trained sort of stillness. He’s the cautious wolf who learned not to pounce at the slightest movement, but he watches me warily, his fangs at the ready. One wrong move, and he won’t hesitate to kill me.
I’m careful as I grip his wrist and raise his hand to my lips. I smell hell on his fingers. Blood and violence and sex and need and...me. He watches me with a question in his eyes as I use my other hand to ease his thumb away from the rest. I aim it toward my mouth like a bullseye and let my tongue shoot out to lick the damp tip. He stiffens, but if I’m not mistaken his thumb jerks, and suddenly more of it is between my lips, seeking out my tongue. We’re a sordid, acquired taste—his blood and my essence mingled together.
Maintaining eye contact, I swipe my tongue along his thumb again, a little bit more greedily than the first time. A man owned by no one makes his promises in blood. A woman devoid of any possessions makes hers with this: sweat, and liquid lust. It’s all I have left to offer him...
But my loyalty is a gift that not even Vinny could possess—at least not since the morning he made me wake up an orphan. Lucifer accepts it without any hint of acknowledgment. He merely pulls his hand away. The moment is broken when he turns, spotting Donahugh who cackles on the floor. He watched our entire little exchange. Grinning, he winks at me.
“I tried to make him talk,” I say, my voice rough. “He wouldn’t.”
Only now does Lucifer seem to comprehend what I mean. His eyes slowly rove over to the empty syringe resting a few feet away, and I can almost hear him putting the pieces together in his mind. Once they click, the grin he flashes is wicked. All teeth and curled lips.
“You volunteered to get the information,” he says as if he only now understands the literal interpretation of those words: I never told Mack I’d sleep with the man. Lucifer’s amusement is gradually replaced by something else that makes his eyes gleam. He holds out his hand, flexing the fingers expectantly. “Get the knife.”
I hasten to obey, crossing the room and bending down to fish my weapon from the floor. Donahugh finally has the nerve to look afraid when I approach Dante and place the blade on his empty palm.
“Make sure the doors are locked,” Dante tells me, his voice cold. Once again, I do so without question. I test the latch on the door to the suite and tug once just to make sure.
“It’s locked,” I call back.
“Good.” He jerks his head and waits until I appear dutifully at his shoulder. He stands tall, holding the knife loosely within the fingers of his left hand—the same one that sports my cut. He makes sure that Donahugh sees him clearly—the darkness in his eyes—but he doesn’t react when I take a step forward and sink down into a crouch, allowing the poor man to make eye contact with me instead. This is my game, and like any good participant, the devil is willing to let me go first.
“Where are the girls?” I ask while my hands reach for the buttons of his shirt. I undo them swiftly, freeing a chest covered in greasy, graying black hair. Biting back disgust, I run my finger along his sternum as if imagining the perfect place to cut and I dig my nail in hard enough to make him flinch. Then I glance back at Dante and attempt to mimic the devil’s low, steady tone. “Tell us where they are. Every last one.”
Stacatto’s bitch is still a thrill seeker, touching pointy objects with no idea as to what damage they might cause. It’s easier if I believe that—easier if I ignore the practiced confidence she wields that knife with. Her beloved “Vinny” has molded her well. I don’t think she even realizes just how much she enjoys the tendrils of fear she inspires in the prick lying beside her.
“Dante.” I clench my jaw at the way her accent caresses the syllables of my name; I liked it better when she didn’t call me a damn thing. “Would it hurt much if someone cut a man’s cock off?”
Her tone counters the shock of hearing those words come out of that prissy little mouth. She doesn’t sound like she’s bluffing. She’s thinking. She’s curious. Would it hurt?
“Yeah,” I grunt. “It might.”
Standing above her, I see the way she seizes her lower lip between her teeth, those hazel eyes thoughtful. “Would it hurt more if you used a butter knife?” One of her hands slides down the man’s beer gut, and two slim fingers dance over the hem of his tighty whities. Even I have to flinch in sympathy.
“Damn right, that would hurt.” I flex the hand holding the knife. “It will be messy,” I admit, though even I hear the excitement dripping through my tone.
The girl shrugs, her bare shoulders flashing like ivory in the light of a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. “I could find a towel.” She starts to rise as if she’s eager to do just that, and the man moans out a stream of words.
“Fuck...little bitch...kill me...he’ll kill...”
I frown, taking a step closer. I tower over him now, and he has to make himself cross-eyed just to avoid looking at me. “He’ll kill you,” I repeat, stressing that single word while I nudge his side with the toe of my boot. “You wouldn’t mean Stacatto, now would you?”
The girl flinches, withdrawing her hand as if stung, and the bastard seems to realize that he said too much. He shakes his head while sweat beads over his brow. “No...no...”
“And this little video,” I add, making my voice as level as I can, “You wouldn’t have been planning to take the girl for yourself af
ter you were done...‘directing’ it, now were you?”
The sharp jerk of his chin gives me my answer. Bingo. Trust fucking Mack to walk right into a trap...and trust Vinny Stacatto’s little princess to spring it. I don’t know if it’s admiration I feel when I glance over at her or just plain irritation; a wolf doesn’t like to be out-foxed by his own prey. Though I was the one who’d voted against the damn plan in the first place. For all I knew, Stacatto could have had a legion waiting to rush in if this fucker didn’t check in, with the girl in tow. For a second I inhale shadow and see red. I almost don’t recognize the cool sensation that falls over my fingers until I glance down and see her hand there, gingerly brushing the one that holds the knife.
Clarity comes back, but it’s almost too sharp. Colors are brighter when she touches me. Her eyes are green and gold, swirling around two black holes. I shake my head, jerking my hand away. Then I raise the knife and eye the dull edge.
“Come here,” I tell the girl, and she rises to her feet, taking a step toward me. She doesn’t fight when I pull her closer. Her bare back hits my chest, and my hands cage her in. I slip the one holding the knife beneath her arm and raise it, allowing her to clasp the back of it. Then I snatch up the fingers of her other hand, manipulating them one by one.
“Hold the knife like this,” I tell her, showing her the proper grip—at least if she was going to enter the cage.
She copies me like an eager student, her fingers flying to the proper positions as I guide them there. Only then do I remember what she said about playing an instrument. Cello. I don’t know too many musicians, but she has the hands of a dagger-thrower I met once, quick and slim. They’re not fit for pounding and smashing the way mine are. She’s a fluid little assassin, and I’m the animal.
“Hold it tight,” I explain, showing her how. When I yank on the blade, she doesn’t slack her grip and something that might be a smile tugs at my mouth. Once again, she proves to be a fast learner. “Now when you cut him—” I glance over to find that the bastard is watching every bit of this little lesson. “When you cut him, he’ll fight a little, but once the blood loss sets in...well, it will be like carving a slice of birthday cake.”
“Okay,” she breathes out, but there’s no ounce of disgust in her voice. She’s memorizing every word, her eyes watching my fingers move with hers. “Cake.”
“The first cut will be the trickiest,” I explain, shifting closer so that I have a clear view over her shoulder. I flick my wrist sharply, slashing the blade through the air. “You need to get it in as deep as you can.”
She nods and deftly pries the knife from my hand. She wields it just as well as any cage-fighter, pointing the blade at the sky. Then she jabs, ripping into her enemy. “Like that?” She sounds breathless. Eager. Ready.
I take a step back and steer her so that she’s facing the man on the floor. “Like that,” I tell her, my mouth near her ear. “But it will be messy.”
I can’t see the motion fully, but I...know that she licks her lips. I can feel the wet slick of her tongue. I hear her throat work as she swallows. I sense her smile. “That’s okay.”
My hands move to her shoulders, guiding her like a coach leading a boxer to the ring. We only manage to take a step closer before the man begins to thrash.
“All right! All rrright!” He practically bucks in an attempt to get away, and a stream of words and letters shoot from between his lips. It takes my brain a second to process what they are: addresses. “Pen,” I snap, scanning around for one.
The girl’s already on it. She lunges across the room, grabs a customary pad and pen from a desk, and scribbles until the man finally goes silent.
“Is he waiting for you?” I demand while the girl tears a page from the pad and crumples it in her fist. “Stacatto?”
The man grunts, shaking his head. “No...gonna sell her.”
“Ah, I see.” I rub my chin as the fucker’s plan becomes clear. “You were going to use her to try and weasel your way back into Stacatto’s good graces. The video was your insurance.”
The man says nothing as his eyes struggle to focus. The girl gave him Mack’s best; he won’t come off cloud nine for a long, long while. The true extent of his fuck-up won’t even sink in until then.
I rove my gaze over to the camera. A red light’s flashing. It’s still recording. I don’t take my eyes off it when I reach for her and jerk my chin toward the lens. “Say hello,” I tell her. “Your fiancé is watching.”
She stiffens. Her eyes delve into the camera, and I doubt that her entire soul fully comes back out. She takes a step forward without seeming to realize it as she processes my taunt. Say hello. She turns to me, and I see the knife slash through the air. I don’t know why the hell I don’t fight. Why I don’t even flinch when the blade grazes my cheek as she hooks that same hand around the back of my head and draws me in. Her lips meet mine, that’s what I know. Warm. Wet. Soft. I move against them solely out of fucking instinct.
Before my teeth come into play, that is.
Whatever this is...it’s solely for his benefit. I tell myself that while I lash at her lips with my tongue. Pry them open. Shove my way inside. Bite her. Claim her. Kiss-the-living-fuck out of her.
It’s for his benefit, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t put on a damn good show. That I can’t draw on her lower lip until she moans. Crush her to my chest with one hand against her spine and cradle her ass with the other.
Stacatto may be watching.
But that. Doesn’t. Mean. Shit.
For five seconds, she’s mine. I taste her. I own her. I make her bleed.
It’s five fucking seconds that I know she never gave to him.
And it’s only five fucking seconds that I have to save myself the same way I starved my veins of heroin and spent those first weeks writhing in agony while in the Pen. Withdrawing from her brings its own irritation, but I ignore it when I shove her back and wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand.
“You won’t say a fucking thing.” I direct the threat at the man on the floor and wait until he nods. “You say a word to Stacatto, and I won’t only show him this video—” I gesture to the camera with a wave of my hand, “but I’ll find you. I’ll bring her with me. And next time...I’ll teach her how to cut a man’s dick off using nail clippers. It’s not very efficient, but I’m sure it’s doable.”
“Though messy,” the girl pitches in, shaking her head. She sounds so deadpan she could be serious—though, fuck it, maybe I am as well. I’d take her with me to hunt the fucker down. I’d show her a brand new way to inflict pain and watch her get off on yet another way to get back at Stacatto. It’s more tempting a thought than I’d like to admit. I grit my teeth and curl my hands into fists, willing back the heat that creeps up them.
“Understand?” I demand of the man. He nods again and ignoring him, I spot the girl’s clothes—or what little she’d worn in—across the room. “Get dressed,” I tell her. While she does, I head for the camera and rip it from the tripod.
“How many men do you have?” I ask the man as the girl heads for the door. A rich businessman, with a hard-on for Stacatto, planning to kidnap the man’s fiancé from an asshole like Mack on his own? Bullshit. No man would form a plan that fucking stupid without sufficient firepower. When he doesn’t answer, I take a step closer. Then I lift my boot and slam the sole of it down on his chest, applying just enough pressure to make him wheeze. “How many?”
Rather than speak, his beady eyes roll in the direction of a cell phone lying a few feet away. I reach for it and swipe my thumb across the home screen. Three text messages pop up, un-opened and from a blocked number.
In the wings, says the first message.
Say the word, reads the second.
It’s all shit code—the hallmark of a cheap mercenary, but the last message is a little more specific. No answer, we come in. Ten minutes. The time stamp says the message was sent eight minutes ago.
“Shit.” I look at the girl
and cut my eyes to the door. “We need to go.”
But not without taking out the trash first. I grab the bastard by the sleeve of his suit and drag him to the first closet I find, barring the door with a chair.
Tucking his phone into my pocket, I brush past the woman and peer out into the hallway through the peephole. With one minute left, I open the door, dragging her out after me. I only have a split-second to think before I throw my arm around her shoulders and pull her close. For appearances, a woman wearing a black trench coat and a man who might have a gun in his pocket may seem less threatening if they walk down the hall like two patrons of the hotel rather than criminals. In theory.
She wobbles on the heels Mack made her wear and has to hold her arm awkwardly against her chest to hide the knife in her hand. Somehow, we manage to make it to the lobby using the stairs. I don’t catch sight of any mercenaries rushing past on our way out either, not that we stick around to get a good fucking look.
Mack’s still waiting in the van out front—at least the fucker hasn’t run.
“How’d it go?” he asks without even craning his neck to look at the woman I shove onto the backseat of the van. The front seat is still open—his men chose to sit in the very next row, hunched over and tense—but I don’t know what makes me climb in after her, pressing her slender body against the opposite door. I don’t miss how the act takes her out of Mack’s line of sight. He doesn’t either.
“Dante?” There’s a hard note in his tone. The Mad Dog’s used to barking out his own orders these days. He doesn’t seem to remember when he and “Kitty” fought and clawed over the exact same scraps. “Did she go through with it?”
“No.” I slam the door shut and the overhead light clicks off. Mack’s men perk up instantly, feeding off the hostility that laces the air. It’s a bitter, cheap drug, hatred. I let them get high off it and rise to action, readying for the moment Mack says jump. Then I replace it with a harsh dose of reality. “It was like I said: you walked right into a fucking trap.”