Given to Madness: A Dark Romance

by Winter Fox

  You fucking held me down while he did it.

  Suddenly, I caught sight of an empty vodka bottle on the table next to Ilya’s head, and an idea quickly formed in my mind. Standing up, I prowled silently around the massive bed; until I was stood next to the sleeping man. My mind was blackened by thoughts of murder and revenge.

  Moving with a speed that surprised even me, I grabbed the bottle and brought the end down in an arc, until it smashed against the edge of the table. His eyes flew open at the sound, but I was already halfway onto the bed by then. I threw my leg over his waist—ignoring the fire which tore its way up from my abused opening and into my belly—so that I was straddling him, and I pressed the jagged point of the bottle against the Lieutenant’s throat.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” He hissed. But he didn’t move.

  “Killing you,” I replied, in a voice which sounded much calmer than I felt.

  He raised one eyebrow, before slowly lifting his arms up to rest his hands behind his tattooed neck. With his head laid on his hands, and his elbows sticking jauntily out at the sides, he couldn’t have looked less like a man with a broken bottle held against his carotid.

  “Really?”

  I pressed the bottle harder against his throat, and I flinched when the skin broke, expelling a small bead of redness. “Really,” I whispered.

  “There’s going to be a lot more blood than that when you kill me, milaya. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  He shifted beneath me as he spoke, and I became uncomfortably aware of my naked sex underneath the T-shirt—pressing down against his hard stomach. I shifted my hips, trying to lift myself off him, and he emitted an uncontrolled groan of pleasure.

  “You’re twisted,” I hissed.

  His black eyes became impossibly darker. “Yes, I am,” he confessed.

  In that moment I caught another glimpse behind the mask he seemed to always wear, and what I saw made me feel even emptier inside than I already did. I couldn’t explain how I knew it; but half of him wanted me to do it. Half of him believed that he deserved to die—welcomed it even. He hated himself, and he wasn’t afraid to die.

  “Are you going to kill me, milaya?” He spoke suddenly.

  “I should kill you,” I responded.

  He nodded slowly. “It’s what I deserve.”

  I frowned angrily. This was not how I had wanted this to go. I wanted to hear him beg. I wanted to hear him apologize. “You held me down while he raped me,” I spat.

  Those words elicited the first response I’d seen from from him which resembled shame. He closed his eyes, and exhaled a long, deep breath. “And if I hadn’t of held you, he would have called Sava to do it, or any one of the others.”

  “You have this fucked up idea that you’re so much better than them, don’t you?” I asked, bitterly.

  “Do you think they would have refused the offer to fuck you too milaya? Do you?” He roared.

  I flinched, pulling the bottle back from his neck, and he spotted his opportunity. He lunged for my hand, and using just his index finger and thumb, he applied a controlled pressure against the fragile bones in my wrist. He had hit a pressure point, and I howled in pain as I involuntarily lost my grip on the bottle.

  He quickly swept the weapon off the bed with his other hand, where it dropped and shattered against the hard floor, then he twisted my wrist to flip me onto my back. It was his turn to straddle me now, and with my hands pinned above my head once more I kicked out in terror—reminded of the horror of the night before.

  He bent down until his face was in front of mine. “Shh. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Then why are you holding me down?” I cried.

  He gave me a puzzled look. “You tried to kill me, milaya. What else do you expect me to do?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, but I stopped fighting. I truly didn’t sense any threat from him—not in the way that I did from Mariusz anyway. And I couldn’t realistically stop him if he did want to hurt me—last night was testament to that.

  “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “What?”

  “Milaya. What does it mean?”

  He shrugged. “Look it up.”

  “Well, shit, I left my Russian dictionary at home,” I snapped, sarcastically.

  He leaned ever so slightly closer to me, and his dark eyes suddenly glinted with a flicker of humanity—a hint of laughter. “I was so afraid that your mind would be broken today. You’re a fighter, Liselle. You’re incredible.”

  The reminder of last night hit me like a hammer, and my next reply died on my lips. I shuddered.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, suddenly.

  “For which part?” I whispered.

  He let go of my wrists, and I pulled my arms against my chest, massaging each limb, as though to check for damage—even though I knew he’d left none.

  “For what you’ve had to endure since you arrived here.”

  I studied him. His accent favored American, with just a hint of an interwoven flavor of Russian—which ran through his voice when he spoke. He was clearly a product of a mixed influence upbringing, much like myself—my own accent had almost no hint of Italian to it.

  “I’m going to have to endure it again and again, aren’t I?” I asked softly.

  He seemed to realize that he was still straddling me, and he suddenly stood up quickly from the bed. I watched him collect a T-Shirt from the back of the chair which was tucked under his desk.

  I sat up, and watched him retreat. He was only wearing boxer shorts, and my eyes roved over his body. He clearly worked out—a lot. His back was broad and rippled with muscle, as was his chest. His abs stood out in compact, defined lines, and his waist narrowed down into a lean stomach which was also solidly muscled.

  His arms and legs were solid, and had their own defined muscular set. But it was the tattoos which really stood out to me. From his waist to his neck, and all the way down to his wrists—he was covered in ink. There were a hundred images: animals, words, decorative symbols, and tribal styling.

  He was a walking work of art.

  He saw me looking at him, and he quickly pulled the shirt over his head. Then he grabbed a pair of jeans, and tugged them on—he didn’t have as many tattoos on his legs, but he still had more than enough.

  He came back to the bed then, perching on the edge as though to try not to frighten me.

  “You’re going to have to endure that, and more. You belong to ‘Mad’ Mariusz Sokolov now, Liselle. The more compliant you are, the less it will hurt. That’s the only advice that I can give you.”

  I bit my lip. I already knew it, but hearing it out loud somehow made it much worse. “You’re not like him,” I said confidently.

  Ilya’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I will help you, milaya. We’re both prisoners here.”

  I sat in his bed, wrapped in his T-Shirt, and blinked at him. I was genuinely surprised to hear him say that he wasn’t here by choice. “But you would help me. If you could?”

  Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door, and a voice called out. “Lieutenant, time for breakfast. We have plans to discuss.”

  Ilya looked toward the door. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, Anatoli.”

  I hadn’t realized that I had been holding my breath, until I heard the sound of the other man’s footsteps retreating down the hallway, and I suddenly huffed in fresh air.

  Ilya stood up. “Stay here.” He gestured to a second door on the wall opposite the entrance. “Get a shower. It might make you feel better. I’ll have your things brought up.”

  I tugged the hem of his T-Shirt down lower over my legs, suddenly extremely conscious of my lack of clothing. He pulled on a pair of boots, and made his way toward the door.

  “Ilya,” I called out.

  He was back across the room in less than a second. “Don’t use my name in front of the others, Liselle.”

  He was terrifyin
g, and I swallowed back my fear to nod once. He seemed satisfied with that. “I’ll bring your breakfast to the room. It’s probably better if you stay in here.”

  He was already back at the door, so I spoke quickly. “Why did you bring me here last night? Did we…”

  He growled. “No. I didn’t lay a hand on you once you were in here. I brought you here to try and keep you safe.”

  I looked at him sadly. “A little late for that wasn’t it.”

  His finely defined jaw clenched almost imperceptibly—obvious even through the scattering of dark stubble on his face. “Don’t push me, Liselle.”

  I wanted to tell him that I’d push him as far as I fucking wanted. He deserved it after all. He’d been as much a part of hurting me last night, as Mariusz had been. But before I managed to summon the courage to speak again, he was gone.

  11

  Ilya

  What the fuck was he doing?

  Ilya knew that bringing her to his room had been the only way of ensuring that she was safe last night. But waking up with a broken bottle to his fucking throat had not been the highlight of his week. He’d killed men for far less than that.

  She’s not a man though, is she?

  The words twisted their way through his mind as he jogged down the stairs—headed for the light, and airy kitchen where breakfast was always served. His stomach growled in anticipation of the food.

  He had to work out what the fuck he was going to do with Liselle, and quickly. Whatever way he looked at it, she was going to be Mariusz’s wife soon, and that meant she really shouldn’t be sleeping in Ilya’s room.

  His mind meandered back to the sound of his own name tripping off her tongue, and his cock twitched. God, he’d wanted to hear her whisper it into his ear while he fucked her.

  Ilya’s mask slipped easily into place as he walked into the warmth and bustle of the kitchen. Sava was the first to meet his eyes, and Ilya just knew that the other man was going to try and provoke him. He was starting to wonder if they weren’t all conspiring against him.

  Hmm, so apparently, he was paranoid now too.

  “Did you sleep well, Lieutenant?” Sava asked innocently.

  Taking a seat next to Mariusz, Ilya shrugged nonchalantly. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Nikolai told us you were putting Liselle up in one of the guest rooms last night.” Sava was far from finished.

  Pouring himself a coffee, Ilya helped himself to some bacon and eggs. Loading them onto his plate alongside some toast. “That’s what I told him.”

  “But when I went to check on her, she wasn’t there,” Nikolai said coolly. He was pissed because Ilya had lied to him.

  “I changed my mind.” Ilya spoke in a low growl. It was a warning.

  Don’t question my authority, you fuckers.

  “So, where did she sleep?” It always took Sava the longest to learn when to shut up.

  Ilya realized the outcome here was inevitable. He wasn’t going to sway them off the topic, and telling lies would be worse for her in the long run.

  “In my room.”

  A hushed silence fell over the room. Sava smirked, as he looked toward Mariusz. Clearly wondering what his korol would do with this new information. Everyone knew that the Lieutenant didn’t take women into his own bed.

  “Lieutenant, I am surprised at you.” Mariusz’s voice was so quiet, it was difficult to hear him.

  Pushing a forkful of bacon and toast into his mouth, Ilya chewed slowly. Buying himself some time.

  “She was a little worse for wear, korol. I’m sure you understand.” He tilted his lips up in a dark smile as he said it.

  Mariusz nodded thoughtfully. And Ilya pointed toward Sava as he continued. “I knew that dick wouldn’t be able to leave her alone, so I thought it made sense to keep her with me. I didn’t touch her.”

  Mariusz sat back in his chair, wrapping both hands around his coffee cup. “I have no issues if you did touch her, Lieutenant. I offered her to you remember.”

  Ilya fired a black look in Sava’s direction, and he knew that the other man understood his meaning perfectly.

  Call me out like that again, and I’ll snap your neck.

  Sava had the good grace to look away, even though he was obviously furious that he couldn’t get to Liselle.

  “Enough talk of women. I have an important guest coming to the city next Friday, and I need each and every one of you on perfect form.” Mariusz spoke seriously.

  “Who is it?” Kostya asked.

  “Carlos Ruiz.”

  Ilya tensed as Kostya spoke again. “The Carlos Ruiz? As in the Colombian?”

  “The Carlos Ruiz,” Mariusz confirmed.

  “What the fuck does he want?” Ilya asked.

  Carlos Ruiz was the current dominant drug lord of Colombia. And if the stories which had traveled up from the south were to be believed he had also conquered: Venezuela, Ecuador, Panama, and Peru. He was unpredictable and dangerous, and he was currently pissing the shit out of Dante Garcia, who was the reigning drug king of Brazil and also Mariusz’s current supplier in South America.

  In other words, Carlos Ruiz was trouble.

  “He wants to talk trade, Lieutenant. What else?” Mariusz stated matter-of-factly.

  “That won’t go down well with Dante.” Anatoli said what Ilya was thinking.

  “No, it fucking won’t,” the korol snapped. “But if I tell Carlos to fuck off, he’ll hold a grudge. He’s that type. It seems best to hear him out, and indulge his ever-growing ego.”

  Ilya nodded approvingly. If Mariusz disrespected Carlos, the Colombian could decide to wage war on them. And while Ilya was pretty sure the Russians had the numbers to win, he wondered what the cost would be. Sometimes it paid to be nice, even to assholes like Ruiz.

  Ilya snapped automatically into his head of security role. “Where will you meet him? We need to secure the location in advance.”

  Mariusz grinned. “I can always rely on you to plan effectively, Lieutenant. I don’t want the weasel-faced piece of shit anywhere near my house. I was thinking of meeting him in the club.”

  It made sense. Mariusz’s downtown strip-club—Lace—was in a much more public setting than the secluded mansion was. Carlos would need to be very careful of starting something there, if he wanted to stay under the radar. Plus, tits and ass always seemed to help negotiations to go more smoothly.

  “All right. We’ll spend the next week securing the club for the meeting. In the meantime, can we find out how many men he’s likely to bring with him? I want us to outnumber him without making him feel as though we don’t trust him.” Ilya spoke with confidence. This was his domain—he was most comfortable when he was planning for war.

  “We don’t trust him.” Sava laughed.

  “Nyet. But that’s not something he needs to know.” Mariusz stood up as he spoke. “Talking of the club, I have some things I need to take care of there. Sava, you can drive me.”

  Sava leaped to his feet—ever the dutiful little dog. “Da, korol.”

  The two men made their way to the door, and Ilya began piling a plate with food for Liselle. He paused when Mariusz spoke again.

  “I want Liselle there for the meeting.”

  Ilya frowned. If shots were fired the girl could be hurt, or worse, killed. Why would Mariusz want her there for that?

  “She might get in the way, korol.” He tried to sound casual, but he knew he was walking a fine line. He was too damn defensive of her.

  “She’s beautiful, and she could be used for persuasion. She goes.” Mariusz spoke firmly.

  “Yes, Mariusz,” Ilya said, defeatedly.

  Mariusz and Sava left the room, and Ilya was left to ponder what his korol had said about persuasion. Did the older man intend to let Ruiz fuck her, by way of bringing him under control?

  Ilya really hoped not. But what the fuck would he be able to do to stop it?

  He shook his head angrily. He would worry about that shit if and when it happened. Grabbing t
he plate of food, and a carton of orange juice, he headed for the door. She should have had enough time to shower by now, he thought.

  “Going back to your room, Lieutenant?” Kostya winked at him.

  “I’m going to feed the girl. I’ll meet you three down here in an hour. We need to plan a welcoming committee fit for a Colombian drug lord,” Ilya muttered darkly, as he left the room.

  He opened the door without even thinking about what sort of state of undress she might be in. He honestly hadn’t been trying to catch her out—he just wasn’t used to sharing his space with someone else.

  She was naked when he walked in. Just sliding a pair of black satin panties up her long, tanned legs. Her skin glistened with the dewy remains of her shower, and her dark hair was a shining obsidian waterfall at her back. She was a goddess.

  He was rock hard in seconds.

  Ilya started to look away from her exposed body, but then he was gripped by a dark insistence which tugged at his chivalrous resolve. It’s your room. And you’ve never been shy of a woman’s body before.

  He allowed his eyes to roam across her body, trailing from her beautifully bowed lips, all the way down to her pink-painted toes. She pulled the panties on, then stood unmoving while he scrutinized her body.

  Her words dragged him back to sanity. “You’re a fucking monster.”

  He caught the apology which came to his lips, managing to crush it back down inside him. And shrugging, he walked to the desk, dropping the plate and the carton of orange juice down. When he turned back to her, she had hurriedly pulled on a pair of yoga pants, and a gray vest from the trunks he’d had brought to his room.

  “I brought you breakfast.”

  He heard the rumble of her stomach as her eyes roved over the plate of food. He knew she had to be hungry by now. He went to the bed, and sat down on the edge—intentionally leaving her enough room to feel comfortable to go and eat.

  As she went to the desk and started picking at the food, she spoke. “Am I going to stay in this room with you?”