Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3)

by Nicolette Hugo

  It was all animal noises now—the agony, the pleading, all incoherent.

  Killian leaned in close to get Romeo’s attention. The man flinched, but there was nowhere to go.

  “How many pieces do you think I can take off you before I’m through?” His voice was cold and calm, a hundred percent in control. “Your Fingers? Toes? Ears?” He drew the bloodied blade against Romeo’s cheeks, leaving a smear of the man’s blood. “Your tongue?”

  Romeo offered a muffled a wail as he tried to pull back. His whole body trembled except for that pinned hand.

  Killian grabbed between the man’s legs and squeezed.

  “How about your cock?” He ignored the choked sound. “When I castrate you, I’m going to feed it to you inch by motherfucking inch, right before I start taking your teeth.”

  Romeo was weeping as Killian stood back up.

  “When I bury what’s left of you, it’s going to be a very small box.” He used Romeo’s sleeve to wipe off the blood on his blade. “Make no mistake, I am eventually going to kill you, because as much as I want you to suffer, I also want you to die.”

  An eye for an eye didn’t come close; the finger was just a start.

  He was going to take Romeo apart piece by piece, and Black was going to keep him alive so he could do it.

  ***

  The first thing Jerricho noticed when he entered the old sandstone house was Killian—a hell-bound avenger burning with power and fury. Uncontained, the man was beautiful.

  Savage.

  Just like the violence in the room.

  He knew the man taking the beating had kidnapped Scarlet.

  He also knew why he was here. David had briefed him on the way after thrusting a paramedic’s bag into his hands. He knew the kidnapper had been injured, he just hadn’t known how.

  Until now.

  He looked at the blood on Killian’s shirt and hands.

  Conflicted.

  Killian put his knife back into his sheath and looked up at him.

  The show was over.

  Jerricho didn’t want to be here. Even as his feet carried him into the room, his head and his heart didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want the doctor in him to kick in.

  Medical favors. Just like Dado.

  And still he walked into the room, a war in his body fighting to go, fighting to stay.

  He came up to the desk and the kidnapper lifted his chin as he raised his gaze; the effort was visible in his grimace and the unsteady bobbing of his too-heavy head.

  The room swayed as the world tilted. Nausea burned up his throat and into his nose.

  “Fix him.” Killian held his gaze as the man wiped the sweat from his top lip.

  Jerricho froze.

  He’d been here before with Dado.

  Everything is his body protested moving forward. He didn’t want to be used and he didn’t want to fix the fuck who’d hurt Scarlet. For the first time in his life, he wished the Hippocratic Oath never existed.

  But he couldn’t stop a lifetime habit, couldn’t stop what had been woven into his fabric.

  He ignored the blood, assessing the main injuries. Broken nose, maybe a fractured cheek, hair matted at the back of the kidnapper’s head, and the hand—nothing life threatening. There could be internal bleeding, but Killian would have been too careful for that.

  It was only then that he took in the patient, his focus moving out to really stare at the man.

  His head jerked back, a wave of giddiness threatened to take his legs out from under him.

  He knew those eyes.

  Jesus, the irony.

  Now that Killian wasn’t the center of attention, he saw the man more clearly. He had been here with Dado before, with this very man. He’d pulled out the bullets and stitched the man up. Because of him, Romeo was breathing.

  Obligation.

  He was responsible for this life. Heaviness set in as he tried to mentally sort out the complications.

  Romeo didn’t seem to recognize him, but then Romeo was in a world of pain, just like he’d been the first time they’d met.

  He’d saved the life of Scarlet’s kidnapper.

  He looked back at Killian. The man was assessing him. Killian was always assessing, but Jerricho didn’t think he’d given anything away; he’d learned to keep it all in working in trauma.

  Professional.

  Impartial.

  Even when he wasn’t.

  Light and shadows played in the dying light of the day, sweeping across Killian’s features as the man waited for him to obey. A glimpse of savagery flickered under the man’s skin, but his mask of control was back in place.

  Cold. Hard. Distant.

  This was not the same man he’d held on the floor the night before. In that moment, Jerricho had been moved from witnessing something precious. There was only one other person in the world who got to see Killian vulnerable. It would be hard to deny the man from last night anything.

  Right now, Jerricho hated Killian.

  Hated himself.

  Hated the price he was being asked to pay if he wanted to keep Scarlet.

  Because that’s what this came down to, wasn’t it?

  Twenty-Nine

  Killian strode into the house and headed for the staircase.

  He knew what he looked like in his blood-splattered shirt as he began to take the stairs two at a time. He gripped the railing to pull himself up and noticed some dried blood on his knuckles. He should wash first. That would be the civilized thing to do. She deserved more than swollen knuckles and sweat.

  But fuck it.

  He’d never hidden from her, never pretended. He’d always come as he was. And what he was, was raw.

  He bound onto the landing, instinctively heading for Scar’s room. She would always be his north.

  No.

  Their room.

  Unlike the house in Sydney, she’d settled in the main bedroom here, as if she’d known.

  His strides were purposeful, as if guided by some magnetic line, because he wasn’t thinking anymore. Thinking had left the building.

  He’d stepped out of the old farmhouse with one thing and only one thing on his mind—not the bloodlust he given into in the room. something entirely different. Something deeper.

  Eager steps brought him quickly to the white-paneled double doors. He must’ve slammed them open because Scar dropped her book on the bed with a start.

  “Killian.” She scrambled to her feet. “Oh my God, you’re hurt.”

  She flung herself at him, frantic hands patting him down as tears started to fall. It took a moment for his rational brain to process what had happened. The blood.

  “Shh, it’s not me, baby.” He pulled her against him and hugged her tightly. “It’s not my blood.” His voice was stronger as he tried to still her hands.

  She grabbed his shirt white-knuckle tight. “I don’t like him here. The last time …” She couldn’t say it; she only cried harder.

  The last time he’d been in the same room with Romeo, Killian had been shot.

  He hooked his bent finger under her chin and made her look up. “This time’s different. Everything’s going to be different.”

  He bent down, his lips brushing across the soft yield of her mouth.

  Fuck.

  He wanted to take his time, slowly savor, but he was too ravenous to taste her.

  He crushed his mouth over hers. Hot and hungry, eating up her words, her breath, her essence.

  Deep, hard kisses as she pushed up against him with an urgency to match his own. They were both short of breath when he finally drew back.

  He hadn’t remembered how sweet she tasted. He thought he would; he thought he could never forget anything about her, but nothing lived up to the reality. Memory could never compete.

  For a moment, his stomach plummeted, a sickening freefall for the time he’d lost. A pain ripped right through his chest.

  “Stay with me?” Her hands were on his face.

  He b
linked then she was back in his world, vibrant and beautiful. And his.

  “Fuck, I missed you.” His voice croaked with emotion.

  She smiled as tears silently fell.

  “Don’t cry. I don’t want to make you cry.” He showered her face with small, fevered kisses, repeating the words again and again, until she sobbed with happy relief.

  He lifted her up and her legs wrapped around his waist. This time, it was her turn to kiss and taste his forehead, his nose, his cheeks.

  He carried her into the bathroom because he had to get clean. Stepping into the shower, he turned on the taps.

  Scar squealed as the cold water fell, and he turned, dropped her legs and trapped her against the wall to shield her.

  Water beat down on him as he leaned in and nipped at her lips with distracting bites of love, catching and swallowing her groans as the rain on his back turned warm, turned him warm as it soaked deeper than his clothes. He didn’t care if he was drenched … he felt alive.

  Killian bent lower, water splashing off him and onto Scar’s chest. He licked the drops running down her throat.

  Pure. She tasted so pure.

  The hunger inside him kicked. Wanting.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, the wet fabric clinging as he peeled it off his skin. The rest would have to stay on, his hands wanted to be back on her. He didn’t know if he was ruining the boots, but at least they had grip.

  As if she felt the same need to touch, Scar reached out for him, her hands sliding over muscles and slick skin. Nails scratched against the ridges of his abs. He hissed as his muscles clenched and nerves pulled.

  Grabbing her wrists, Killian raised her hands and pinned them against the tiles, forcing Scar to slow down. He wanted to savor her before he drowned.

  Minutes passed, their breath changing as the air mingled with steam as it rose.

  Somewhere in that mist they joined. He could feel her—feel her as real as a touch, feel her chest rise as she drew air into her lungs, feel his body flex and respond.

  She stared back with the same hunger, all heavy lids and parted lips.

  Desire.

  His cock throbbed, the beat of his heart no longer in his chest.

  He let go of her hands and ripped her shirt, popping the buttons.

  Fucking beautiful.

  He traced trembling fingers along the cup of her bra. Her skin was so soft and smooth. Hooking the fabric with his thumbs, he pulled the bra cups aside and under her breasts.

  Her flesh spilled free, still held and raised, nipples tight as he brushed the back of his fingers against the aroused flesh. A touch of love and wonder.

  And then he noticed some blood still left on his hands.

  Fuck.

  He started to pull his hand away, but she grabbed it, a vicious grip of nails and desperation as she pulled his hand back and pushed his palm flat against her.

  He didn’t know who shuddered harder at the electric touch. Her nipple poked against his hand, so hard it had to hurt. He lightly scratched his thumbnail over the sensitive point, and it ripped a groan from her throat.

  The sound threatened to snap his leash.

  “I’ve got to get clean.” He forced the words out, forced the restraint.

  Hair and clothes plastered to her body, she looked up into his eyes. There was so much love there. So much of what he thought he’d never have. So much of what he’d been taught he didn’t deserve. But looking at her, he did …

  “Baby, get undressed.” He reached for the soap.

  Impatient, she stripped her clothes as he scrubbed.

  Too long—it felt too long before he was backing her against the wall again. Too long before he was touching her again.

  Leaning forward, he swirled his tongue, tracing the pale pink areola. She trembled. She trembled so beautifully, her limbs no longer under her control. She tasted like the purest thing he’d ever known. He licked her nipple again. Her fingers sank into his hair and pulled as he lapped a third time. Just that was enough to weaken her knees.

  “Enough, Killian. I’m tired of waiting.”

  Tired of playing nice.

  He was aching to get inside her.

  He wanted her fast. He wanted her slow. He wanted her in every way for every one of the nights he hadn’t let himself have her.

  He bit the tender flesh.

  Her half cry, half yelp vibrated down his spine.

  This was how he wanted her.

  Aching and needy.

  He smiled.

  Moving his attention from one breast to another, he scraped his teeth against the puckered flesh.

  “Dammit.” Scar shoved him back against the tiles, her hands lashing out at his buckle and belt, frantic fingers fumbling as she tried to free his cock.

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

  Cheeks flushed, she snapped at him. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  He laughed some more.

  Finally she had his belt and zip undone. His cock exposed, straining toward her.

  “You find what you’re looking for?” But the teasing drawl was rough.

  She nodded, her lips moving but there was no sound in the ‘yes.’

  So had he. In this woman, so had he.

  A raw moan fell from his lips as he snapped her wrist and jerked her against him.

  No more playing.

  Hot, hungry mouths fed as if they knew what it was like to be starving. He grabbed her thighs, lifting her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and then he was inside her. The heat of her pussy ten times hotter than the heat of her mouth, and he had to hold still for a moment as her muscles twitched around him.

  He rested his forehead against her shoulder, panting as he struggled for control. When he could finally think straight again, he lifted his head. Scar grabbed his face between her hands.

  “Please don’t let this be a dream.”

  He lifted her slightly off his cock, her body clenching around him in protest before he slammed into her again.

  Her sharp intake told him what he wanted to know, but he asked her anyway. “Can you feel that?”

  She nodded.

  “Then it’s not a dream.”

  “Again. Do it again.”

  His lips curled into a cruel smile as he slammed into her again. And again. And again.

  When he stopped, she was panting. Her hips rocked as those erratic twinges in her sex jerked her whole body. A livewire ready to trip.

  “Tell me you love me, baby.”

  “I love you, you crazy fuck.” Her eyes shone with a fever of her own.

  He laughed again. “Such a sweet fucking mouth.” He caught her lips, swallowing her groan as he fucked her again, hard, unrelenting, mindless.

  It could have been her nails biting into his shoulder, or the way she bit his lip as she came, but his blood roared in his ears as his cock kicked and he came. Jesus, his hand was nothing like this; the heat and silk of her scrambled his brain. He chased the ecstasy, each thrust making his hips snap as if he couldn’t bury his cock deep enough, as if he’d never be too far inside of her.

  A maddening throb as he continued to come, nerves so sensitive it hurt. He burrowed into her neck, drawing the scent of her in, riding the pain as he shot into her.

  Next time, he’d take it slow. Next time, he’d make her come so sweetly she’d be purring his name.

  Next time, he’d pour so much love into her, she would weep.

  ***

  Jerricho’s body hummed as he looked around the deserted gym. Some free weights and bars, a treadmill, some Pilates tables. He didn’t know what he was looking for.

  The angry buzz under his skin was barely contained. He needed to vent. Still in his jeans and T-shirt, too hyped to go and change, even though there was blood on them now. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but doing damage.

  He’d patched up the kidnapper. In case of concussion or complications, David had stayed to keep watch through the night. The paramedic
bag was well equipped with everything he could need for basic medical care, except the pain medication, that was an inadequate supply of over-the-counter strength options to treat headaches instead of cracked cheekbones and amputations. Neither of those two facts came as a surprise.

  Fuck Killian.

  And fuck Scarlet.

  I want you to stay.

  He’d believed her. Believed she could be home.

  He’d gone upstairs to confront them, but stopped when he’d heard them through the door. She didn’t need him; he didn’t belong.

  Lost, he’d stumbled in here.

  The gymnasium was in a dwelling separate from the main house and not what he needed, not far enough away. The only thing the gym was good enough for was rage.

  A punching bag hung from a hook in the ceiling, illuminated by backlight as if it was calling his name.

  He clenched his fists before slowly unfurling his fingers and stretching them. He could still feel pain in the injured hand.

  It should heal. The therapist had told him. No promises, but, of course, he understood that. He knew that, as a doctor, a promise would never be made.

  It should heal. Don’t do anything stupid, and it should heal.

  The black of the punching bag gleaned as it beckoned.

  Nothing.

  He had nothing.

  Not Scarlet.

  Not his medicine. Not his freedom.

  Polluted. All of it was polluted. He’d just swapped one master for another.

  He paced the floor, each circle taking him closer to the bag.

  Scarlet.

  Under him, she felt like home.

  Fuck it. He should have known better than to buy into it.

  He should leave.

  Now.

  She didn’t need him.

  They didn’t need him.

  He didn’t belong.

  He punched the bag and pain exploded up his hand into his arm.

  Full fucking circle. Killian. Dado. Just the same.

  He hit the bag again. And again. And again.

  Each jolt of pain jarring his body like a man being beaten against the rocks. A siren’s call, there was always going to be a bloody end.

  He threw mindless punches—hand aching—steady angry slams into the swinging leather. Dull thumps punctuated his heavy breathing. Sweat trickled down his back as he danced on his toes.