by Fox, Logan
Her hips bucked, and in that moment, Kane gave his cock a last, hard tug. It pulsed once before covering her in cum. Her climax ratcheted up another notch at the feel of it dripping from her, and he shoved his fingers inside her too. She gasped out his name, a prayer to whatever gods were listening, and fell back onto the bed with a groan he must have felt through the fingers he still had inside her.
Kane stroked the last few drops of cum from his dick, watching her with something approaching hunger as a shudder went through him. He pumped his fingers a few times, moving slower and slower.
“Mercy, I’d have liked to keep you,” he murmured, lowering himself on top of her. He was so heavy, she struggled for breath. So comforting, she never wanted him to roll off.
His breath tickled her neck as he kissed her throat, her ear, her cheek. His softening dick slid over her pussy, sending chills through her at its proximity.
Maybe now he would—
His hand slid around her throat again, cutting off the thought.
“But we both know I gotta kill you.”
* * *
Cora laughed. Kane drew back a little, giving her a small smile.
What the fuck did she think was so funny?
She squirmed under him, her breath washing over his face. “You can keep me,” she said through another laugh. “But only if you actually plan on fucking me.”
He slid off her, absently wiping at the cum on his stomach where his shirt had hiked up. He shoved his dick back inside his pants, watching her warily under lowered lashes.
What game was she playing? He didn’t doubt for a moment it would be a fun one, but there was precious little time. If he’d had more time… oh fuck, if he’d had more time.
“Listen, you little cunt,” he said, swiping the back of his hand over his forehead. “Maybe you’re not getting—”
“Don’t call me that,” Cora said, her face solidifying.
“I’ll call you whatever the fuck—”
But he couldn’t finish his sentence because she kicked him. She fucking kicked him right in the face.
Pain burnt out the light. He fell back with a yell, hands wrapping around a nose that felt surely broken. But before he’d recovered, something elbow-sharp crashed into his sternum.
Air left him all at once. He croaked for breath, falling over on the bed.
Cora scrambled up, sending a glare his way as she faced him. “That all you got?” she yelled. “Calling me names? Throwing your weight around? Think I haven’t had enough of that in my fucking life?”
Christ, the girl was mental. Standing there, her dress having settled back into something approaching modesty - if you didn’t know the wet marks on the fabric was his cum.
He could taste copper on his tongue and gingerly touched the tickling skin under his nose.
Blood.
She’d broken his fucking nose.
He roared, surging off the bed, straight for her.
Any normal person would have turned tail and run. That’s what they did when they were scared, out-gunned, out-maneuvered. But, apparently, La Sombra was none of those things. She stood her ground, stepped forward to meet him, and drove her fist into his sternum again.
He collapsed, more in surprise than in pain. And his throat made an awful sound when he tried to draw breath back inside him. Cora came closer, her eyes widening the closer she got.
“Kane?”
He gurgled at her, clutching his throat.
“Kane!” She fell to her knees, and that was when he snatched her. She was on her back a second later, struggling furiously to get out from under him. But he held her pinned with knees and hands, straddling her before settling his full weight on her pelvis.
“You don’t understand,” he said. He heard his own words coming back to him. Could hear the hint of an accent on his lips. An accent he despised almost as much as he despised the cartels. “Kane’s long gone, bitch,” he said, putting his face lower so blood dripped over her lips. “You’re playing with Simon now.”
Her face blanched. Had it not been for the spatter of blood by the corner of her mouth, she would have looked downright ghostly under him.
“Simon says,” she whispered, but as if she had nothing to do with the words leaving her mouth.
“Yeah, now you’re getting it,” he said. He reached behind him and hiked up her skirt with one hand. “Simon says, spread your legs, bitch.”
Cora convulsed under him. It was the only word he to describe how her entire body wracked as if she was retching.
“No,” she murmured, tears springing into her eyes. “No, no, no—”
“Simon says, stop your whining.” He grabbed her cunt in a hand, squeezing her so hard she gasped and bucked under him. “If Kane’s gonna be too much of a pussy to fuck you, then I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
She bucked again, her teeth in a rictus grin that did nothing for that pretty fucking face of hers. His dick was still soft, but just the thought of sinking it into her was making it harden again.
Kane might need a quarter of an hour to recover — Simon needed mere minutes.
She yelled and went for his eyes. He knocked away her hands, grabbed her by the hair, and dragged her back onto the bed so fast she barely had time to scream before she thumped onto the mattress.
The hedonistic, delicious sound thrilled through him, and brought life to his cock. She struggled, but if she wanted to get away, she was doing a half-ass job of it. There were no more kicks to his gut. No trying to gouge out his eyes.
Tying her up with a torn-up sheet was easy enough. Getting a gag in her mouth, far too simple. In the end, she lay there breathing heavily, limbs spread eagled and eyes heavy lidded.
Perfect.
He’d noticed a video camera on the coffee table earlier. Well, Kane had. The fucker was observant like that. It was one of his few redeeming qualities.
Lifting the camera, he switched it on.
Cora’s response was immediate. She struggled — for real, this time — her eyes wide as she mewled through the gag.
Hmm… interesting.
He opened the video camera’s flip out screen and rewinded a little.
“… this, Baby Girl, is your nursery,” said a familiar voice. “By the time you’re old enough to remember anything, though, it won’t look like this.” The video panned the room they were in.
A nursery?
His eyes flickered up, fixing on Cora where she lay tied to the bedposts. She’d stopped struggling. Her breathing was shallow now, panicked. And she had a death grip around the ties binding her arms to the top posts of the bed.
He fast forwarded. The video blurred as if it was being jarred. Then a handsome face — one he remembered all too clearly — came into focus.
“Don’t worry — plenty of time to edit. Years, even. I’ll make sure you don’t have to see—”
He rewinded some more.
Cora appeared. She had a coy smile on her face. “We’re all alone, Lars. Finn’s outside, Bailey’s gone to the shops…”
The man operating the camera held up a hand. “Get back, Satan!”
Cora’s smile flickered, but she renewed it. “Lars, come on. It’s been weeks already.” She laid her hands on her belly, stepping closer and dropping her voice to a whisper. “The baby will be fine. You can be gentle.”
She lifted her skirt, showing him she wasn’t wore nothing underneath.
“That’s messed up.” Lars’s hand twisted to block her pussy from the camera. “How do you think your daughter’s gonna feel about that?”
Cora’s smile froze in place. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Both hands turned into fists.
Lars — he seemed to recall that was the man’s name — turned the camera to face him.
“Don’t worry — plenty of time to edit. Years—”
He ran the tape to the end, set it to record, and balanced it on the backrest of the sofa.
“Ready for your close up?”
Cora watched him. Silent. Unmoving. Eyes wide and wary.
“Seems your lovers have been neglecting you,” he said, voice low as he began undoing the buttons on his shirt.
The girl shifted, eyes darting left and right as if searching for escape before settling on him again.
“Don’t I feel a right fucking super hero?” he said as he crawled onto the bed.
He straddled her again and leaned down so their mouths were but an inch apart.
Strangely, he wanted to kiss her. Was that Kane, pushing back? Fuck that shit, he was in control now. And just like hooker’s didn’t kiss and tell, he didn’t kiss and fuck.
The girl’s lips pursed in expectation though. And then thinned when he didn’t.
Entitled little cunt.
His switchblade was in his hand. Couldn’t remember how it got there, but whoever’s idea it was… he loved it. Flicking it open, he held it to the girl’s slender throat, staring entranced as her windpipe moved with each swallow.
He ran his hand over her belly. There was nothing to feel though — just a slightly raised stomach.
“How old is she?” he whispered, his eyes flickering back to Cora’s eyes.
But she couldn’t reply, of course. He’d gagged her. She shifted, letting out a muffled whimper.
He sliced the knife over her throat and watched blood seep from the shallow cut. She squirmed, screaming through the gag as she squeezed her eyes shut.
“Shh…” he breathed. “It’s just a little scratch. Don’t want you bleeding out before I get a chance to fuck you.”
A tear sparkled in her lashes. He licked it away first and then drew his tongue over the red stripe on her throat.
Fucking delicious.
He smacked his lips, gave her a wide grin, and sat up. He touched the point of the knife to her belly, glancing up for her reaction. Her eyes went wide, but not in fear.
No — it was as if she dared him.
Another red stripe appeared on her skin as he drew the tip over her stomach. It was as shallow as the first, but this time she didn’t move a hair.
He ran the pad of his thumb through the cut, smearing that blood over her skin. Then he unzipped his fly, wrestling out a cock twice the size Kane’s had ever been.
She seemed nonplussed, which made no sense.
Maybe he was just misreading the terror in her eyes. It was funny like that — horror. It would shift and change in an instant. All those seven stages of grief? Well, those cropped up right before you died too. He’d seen it in their eyes — those who he’d forced to pay their dues.
Shock.
Pain.
Anger.
Bargaining.
But he loved resignation most of all. That acceptance that came with knowing you were going to die, and there was sweet fuck all you could do about it. It made eyes sparkle. Lips turn into sad smiles. Bodies go limp.
And, most of all, he loved watching the light fade from their eyes. And knowing… knowing he’d cleansed the earth of another sinner.
Another murderer.
Another fucking villain.
34
Art
The smell of blood hung thick in the air. Sweat and cum too, but mostly blood. Ronan smelled it on his hands. Coming off the body sprawled in front of him. Everything.
Ronan let the belt drop from his fingers. His breath burned his throat. He used his handkerchief to blot at his brow, and it came back stained with blood and sweat.
Owen lay panting under him. He was still on his stomach, having collapsed moments ago after coming all over Ronan’s sheets.
It didn’t happen often, but it pleased him when it did. He was the furthest thing from a fag, but it gave him a secret pleasure when he made a man come with his belt.
Owen’s shirt was ripped in places. Those gaping tears clung wetly to him — dark with blood where they weren’t transparent with sweat.
Fuck, he wanted to jack off. He always got hard during a session, but he rarely let himself come.
Owen hissed through his teeth as he heaved himself up onto all fours. He was naked from the waist down — his pale skin red and torn.
Art. That’s what it was. It was fucking art. Ronan admired the weals and bruises, the scarlet rivers that fanned down the man’s thighs as he struggled to get his body under control.
Ronan climbed off the bed, grinning as he watched Owen attempt the same. His fingers found a half-filled tumbler, and he downed the liquid. It left him breathless and reeling, but he fucking loved it.
There was a knock on the door and Ronan’s mind snapped back from the foggy heaven of pain and suffering he’d been frolicking in for the past half hour.
That had happened before; the knocking. But he’d dismissed it. His arm had been pulsing with vibrations from every blow he’d laid on Owen’s back.
Everyone in the house knew not to disturb him. Not now. Not like this.
He dragged the back of his hand over his mouth as he twisted to look at the door. His ears whined at him then as if he’d turned too suddenly. He blinked hard and headed for the door.
“Sir, Ronan. Don’t—”
But he ignored Owen’s pathetic plea and jerked the door open a few inches.
Will stood outside, eyes wide and pale face splotched with crimson roses.
“What?” Ronan barked out. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Will’s face paled even more.
“B-Boss, I’m sorry to, I’m sorry—”
“Spit it out,” Ronan said through his teeth.
Will swallowed and ducked his head as if he expected Ronan to cuff him.
Fucking stook.
“He’s gone, boss. Bailey. He’s gone.”
Ronan absently ran a hand down the front of his tacky shirt. He glanced at himself and wished he hadn’t.
Sprays of blood painted the front of his shirt.
More blood splattered over his pants.
And not just blood. He pressed the door closed, till only a crack remained. Will didn’t notice.
“Where. How?”
“Earlier. When… when the power went out?”
Ronan’s mind scrambled for a moment. Yes, he remembered. But he’d dismissed it — Mallhaven was notorious for power outages, especially during thunderstorms. Something to do with the veins of copper threading the mountains. It drew lightning like a magnet drew filings. And that, in turn, placed a heavy strain on the power grid.
The generator had been up seconds later, anyway.
“We think he had outside help.”
“Of course he had outside help,” came a strained voice from behind Ronan. “I thought I told you to double his guard.”
“He went out the window. What was—?”
“And the cameras?” Owen swept past Ronan, buttoning one of Ronan’s shirt as he walked. Will slid aside, cast Ronan a confused look, and then tailed Owen without a backward glance.
Ronan sagged. The triple shot of whiskey he’d downed had gone straight to his head, mixing with a euphoria that was sweeter, lasted longer, and came on a thousand times stronger than any orgasm he’d ever experienced. It was succumb or drown… although he had a feeling they were the same.
He moved stiffly over to the bed, sank down, and stared up at the ceiling.
Slowly, his thoughts solidified. He heard shouts. Doors opening and closing. But they were all distant.
He’d won.
He was victorious.
So what if Bailey had gotten out? His heroin was secure. Gaffer would surely place him at his right hand, his successor when the old man finally stopped giving Death the finger and accepted his fate.
Unless…
Ronan sat bolt upright, despite how strained muscles complained at the harsh movement.
She’d played him like a fucking fiddle, hadn’t she? Of course, he knew she’d gone to the hotel. But that was all he knew. He had nothing but the word of a plugged slag to go on. She could have had a few drinks and come straight back.
H
e’d never even questioned her.
Never even hesitated to believe her.
Was he honest to God that fucking desperate?
He pushed to his feet and almost made it to the door before he remembered what state his clothing was in. Grimacing fiercely, he poured himself another tot of scotch and hurriedly changed his clothes.
No one in this life made a fool of Ronan King. No one that had lived to tell the tale.
35
Lust. Love
Cora’s heart thumped a hard, deliberate drum beat as if it would keep her alive through sheer determination.
She got another kick to his body but that mattered little to this man, whoever the fuck he was.
A man that was no longer Kane. Kane had sharp intelligent eyes.
Simon’s eyes were dead. Evil. Malevolent.
She wanted Kane’s eyes on her again, not Simon’s. But did she have a choice?
He’d used strips ripped from her bed sheets to tie her to the frame of her four-poster bed. The burn of those bonds both terrified and aroused her.
She must be some kind of sick.
Some kind of twisted.
But did it matter anymore?
Cora’s head lolled to the side, and she spotted Santa Muerte’s altar against the wall.
The saint no longer granted her protection. Was it because Cora had sacrificed nothing lately? Because La Flaca felt she owed the saint something?
She had nothing left to give.
Cora’s eyes flashed down to her belly.
Nothing she was willing to give.
Simon had a strip of sheet in his hands. He stalked closer, a mad light in his eyes that made him seem both handsome and feral at the same time — like a psychotic werewolf.
But perhaps it was just hunger she saw. Hunger for her… hunger to end her life.
She had no doubt that’s what he planned to do. She’d thought he’d been lusting after her.
After all, that’s what men did, right?
Lusted.
Loved.
This was something new. Something else.