Queen of Thorns: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 2)

by Lana Sky

  She starts to resist, stiffening her limbs against me, keeping the dress in place the best she can. Even so, a sliver of her breast peeks beneath the neckline, and an answering sound rumbles at the base of my throat. Enough. My fingers clench as if of their own accord and pull.

  Her eyes cut back to mine, and she’s a different person in an instant. A little girl, watching me with raw betrayal etched in her delicate features. A pain that I know in my soul I will never be able to erase no matter how many years pass.

  I’m back there all over again, a slave to my own twisted need for revenge. It damn near killed me to do it, but I did. All I could do in that moment was turn my back on her and keep walking.

  No! Gritting my teeth, I rip my gaze from hers, hunting for any tether to the present I can find. Slim fingers fill my vision instead, and I fixate on them. Long. Slender. Those of a woman at my mercy.

  This body is at my mercy, like nothing from that memory. Shapely. Slender. Beautiful.

  I know that much even before I grip both sleeves of her dress and rip it from her. Split down the middle, the entire garment comes away, and belatedly I realize it’s because she didn’t put up a fight this time.

  I still don’t look at her face, choosing to focus on the pale collarbone prominent beneath her skin. The swell of her small breasts, each capped by a dusky nipple. I cup the globe of one and groan through my teeth at the feeling—a sensation I haven’t felt in so damn long. Too long.

  Something other than drunkenness, or rage, or hate. And it’s potent enough to overlook everything else. Everything.

  Like her pink lips open and parted. Her pulse surging beneath her skin. The way her body recoils against my touch, trembling and fearful...

  “Fucking hell!” I release her and stagger to a row of counters, bracing my hands against them. A mirror hangs above, and I glare at the man watching me from the surface of the glass. Even without the blood, he’s a wreck. The sallow wreckage of a fallen soul.

  But with her scent in my lungs, it doesn’t seem too damn bad to fall.

  “Get in the shower,” I snap, but I don’t turn to see if she obeys me.

  I don’t have to. Her silence is a weapon, utilized more effectively than any screaming or pleading would be. It rings out, deafeningly loud, until she chooses to break it with a single, soft footstep.

  Then another.

  Shame sears through my gut before pure greed replaces it. Her body enters the range of the mirror, and the round swell of her ass is a pathetic distraction, but a welcome one.

  “No,” I warn as she reaches for the sliding glass door.

  She freezes, her chin raised, eyes staring straight ahead. In them, I don’t find the fear I suspect I should in a woman forced to strip before a stranger.

  Because you aren’t a stranger to her, you sick fuck, a part of me snarls. And you know it…

  But even the old, guilt-ridden Donatello has no power here. Not anymore.

  She isn’t Safiya; I know that now.

  The little girl is dead. Whoever remains in her place is a phantom, one I have no loyalty to. Owe nothing to.

  Can demand everything from.

  So, I demand, “Turn on the water.”

  She cocks her head, and as my voice echoes back to me, I realize why—that growl sounds nothing like me. Old, groveling, whining Donatello. He, too, is dead. My reflection proves it. Glaring at the monster in his place, I bare my teeth and bark, “I said, turn it on.”

  She reaches for the faucet, flinching as the spray pelts her. It must be cold. Frantic, she twists on the dial.

  “Turn it back down,” I snap without understanding why. Maybe it’s the rare way she displays unease—jerking motions she can’t control. It’s as addictive as a sip of booze, and I’m sick enough to push her further. Make her squirm. “Keep it cold. As cold as it can go.”

  Confusion mingles with alarm, contorting her mouth before she bites her lip, squashing it into a firm line. Again, her face does the speaking for her—Are you really this petty? This cruel?

  I am.

  And for the first fucking time, she falters, her fingers frozen over the faucet.

  “Did you hear me?” I question.

  Her eyes widen a fraction, and it’s like I hit a fucking bullseye. That grim satisfaction in me grows. Her unease is a drug ten times finer than the best damn whiskey. Heady and rich, every ounce floods my blood, drowning out the rest of the world.

  Just this remains—her and me.

  And my cock. It stirs as I turn around and face her directly. Her own reflection doesn’t do her justice. Slender and naked, glistening beneath the shower spray, she’s…indescribable.

  I think I’ve stopped myself from truly appreciating her body until now, unable to shake that lingering hate. Strip her of that, and she’s worlds apart from any other woman.

  She’s beautiful.

  Her body rides the line between too thin, with just enough curves to entice. Her hips narrow into shapely thighs, crowned by a thatch of golden curls. But as beautiful as she is, one feature draws my attention more than any other.

  Those eyes. Those rich, deep, incredible fucking eyes. They cast a spell. I stare into them, and the world stares back, or how I see it anyway. Cold, unwelcoming to me. Distant. Unafraid. Uncaring. Cruel.

  She stands tall, seemingly unbothered by my presence or the water raining down on her. Until I cross over to her and reach out. She flinches, her lips parting before pursing together as those eyes flicker away from me. Then downward.

  And my cock betrays me in every fucking way, twitching. Regaining control is as easy as reaching past her head, gripping the faucet, and wrenching it downward.

  The water goes cold damn near instantly. I’m close enough to feel a few stray drops speckle my skin as I withdraw my hand.

  But her? She jumps, her eyes widening. That brief break in her mask allows me inside her head as she wrestles with the instinct warning her to move. Her arms twitch as if she has to stop them from shielding her chest, keep her spine from contorting.

  Savage pride counters any remorse I might feel. I’ve won. Her lips press together with the knowledge of her defeat, and I feel mine widen. Break apart. Smile.

  So much for her childish little grasp at control. I rake my gaze over her, savoring every sign of unease. I almost miss the moment her eyes flutter, doing the same to me. They find my chest and linger there.

  Too late do I realize why.

  She’s reading, tracing the name forever etched into my skin. Every letter she spies does something to her. She stiffens that spine. Her chin goes back into the air.

  She’s defiant again.

  I swear I can feel her tiny hands, grappling for the upper hand the same way she fought me for the matches. The alarming part? I feel my hand flatten against my pec, obscuring her view. She’s damn near winning…

  Rage robs me of any mercy. I hear my voice bounce off the interior of the stall before I even register speaking. “Wash yourself.”

  She blinks again, her eyes gazing past me. The world transforms in the absence of her attention. Those whispers grow louder, the shadows looming nearby loom larger.

  Like an addict, I crave another hit.

  So I extend my hand, brushing my thumb along her chin, and I receive what I seek tenfold. She quivers against my fingertips, but it isn’t enough. I feel the need to push her further. As hard as I can. “Did you hear me, little wife? I told you to wash yourself.”

  Her eyes fly back to me, and I overdose on the sensation of her fear. What the hell did I even call her? That’s right, the promise I made half-drunk, numb with grief. A madman’s crazed boast.

  Make her give me an heir to replace Vincenzo.

  Did I mean it then?

  It’s not like she’ll stay here long enough to find out. As soon as it’s feasible, I’ll send her back to Mischa. Her life for Vin’s…

  But fuck it. A part of me loves making her squirm in the meantime. It’s the one thing other than b
ooze capable of helping me forget. God, I need to forget.

  “Show your future husband what he has to look forward to,” I tell her. “Do you even know?”

  She doesn’t. Good old Mischa kept her sheltered, from the ways of women and men. I can tell just from the color that paints her cheeks. Hell, I felt it for myself days ago in Havienna. That offending finger burns with the memory of her, and I almost can’t control the heat surging right between my legs.

  This isn’t about sex. It’s about power—and I have the lion’s share merely by toying with her ignorance.

  “Do you?” I taunt.

  She swallows, her breaths feathering for a reason that I suspect goes well beyond the frigid water she’s under. Now she’s afraid. Horrified.

  I press on her pouty lip, hard enough to sense her teeth chattering beneath. “Of all the ways I could use this mouth…”

  She inhales, and just as it had in the barn, her face betrays her—You’re insane, Donatello. And I hate you.

  “Good,” I tell her out loud, startled by how deep genuine relief resonates through my voice. “Hate me, little wife. Hate me so much you can’t fucking stand it. Hate me. Hate me!”

  I’m shouting.

  She’s gritting her teeth, looking past me again. Again, the loss of her gaze stings. Like an itch that doesn’t cease itching until I can make her look at me again. Speak to me again.

  Her silent fucking lips have conveyed the truest shit I’ve heard all goddamn day.

  “Willow,” I snap. Like magic, her eyes dart to me, and it’s clarity, so sharp I could get high off of it. I already am. Drugged off the rage burning in her eyes. Beautiful, life-giving rage transforms her into this unknowable creature—because the longer I hold her stare…the more I realize that it’s not my treatment of her that has her so angry.

  It’s that I’m not doing it well enough. All this time, I’ve been toeing the line when it comes to her—only someone who knew me well enough would be able to tell.

  Restraint.

  I’m just playing with her—I haven’t tortured her.

  As insane as it sounds, I think she’s furious at me for holding back, because as long as I do…

  She isn’t fully in control of me.

  “You like power, do you, little wife?” I risk submitting my arm beneath the chill of the spray a second time to grip the faucet. I wrench it high, too high. Steam hisses from the spigot, and if she had a voice, I know she would scream at the shock. Instead, her lips part, her throat contorting around a silent gasp. Just as quickly, she wrestles her limbs into control, standing stiffly even as her pretty skin turns an ugly shade of red.

  The sick fucker inside me should take pleasure out of this and rejoice at her faltering armor. Instead, I lower the faucet—all the way down.

  Biology is a tricky thing. Even if the mind remains strong, the body can’t disguise its instinctive reactions quite so well. She lurches to the balls of her feet, sucking in a startled breath as the steam dissipates and the water temperature plummets.

  Still, I have to give her credit. Written across her face is a single daring proclamation—Do you think this will break me?

  “I don’t want to break you, little wife,” I tell her, meaning every word.

  Being this close to her makes it somehow easy to set aside the rage for an instant and think differently. Mischa would love it if I ruined her. Tortured her. Like a hero, he could rescue her and put the broken pieces back together, then use her downfall as an excuse to drive me right into the ground.

  That’s probably been his plan all along.

  And, if I were truly sick, I’d use that arrogance against him. Play into the narrative that her coming here perfectly illustrates—he loves her, protects her.

  But I have her. I’m in her head, pushing him out. She’ll leave his perfect life behind just to follow me. A sick son of a bitch would test just how far she might go…

  I won’t. Still, I want to hear how it sounds out loud. “I’m going to hone you,” I say. “I’m going to bend you to my will, little bird. I’ll erase any identity you’ve had before me. As long as you’re here. You’re mine…”

  She frowns, trying to puzzle the meaning of the words. Hell, I don’t understand them my damn self. Inane ramblings of a mad man, but at least I’m still sane enough to recognize as much.

  She drives me mad with those watchful little eyes. They strip me down to nothing—in them, I’m none of my past selves. Not the fearsome Il Mostro or the Butcher. Not Donatello, the family man. Not even the dutiful Don who cared for another man’s child out of what little kindness dwelled within his heart.

  To this woman, I’m just someone to hate, and there’s freedom in that. And damn, she does hate me. With every word, her lips go flatter, thinner. Her gaze turns cutting. She becomes an open book.

  “You’re fantasizing about killing me now, aren’t you, little wife?”

  She is. I can see the images flicker in her mind like I’m watching a fucking slideshow. She hates being powerless. She hates how easily I can make her feel that way.

  I step back, taking her body in fully. The chill of the water forces a reaction from her I doubt I’d otherwise see. Her skin is so pale the bluish veins peek from beneath, feeding that frantically beating heart. Pink nipples stand erect, bared freely as she lowers her hands to her sides.

  If I wanted to mistake the action as out of fear, those eyes would prove me wrong. They cut into me, unafraid, blazing like coals.

  I don’t look away from them as I cross to the counter and fish a rag from a rack by the sink. Before I fully think the thought through, I throw it at her.

  “Wash yourself.”

  She crouches slowly, grasping the white cloth within her slim fingers. My breath catches—not because of her body. Just her expression. That face is more damning than the mirror, a broad reflection of everything I am. I’m in control of how she sees me, and I want her to gape. To stare open-mouthed as I lean against the countertop behind me and hold her watchful gaze.

  Though they aren’t true, I want her to believe every word I said.

  “Wash yourself, little wife,” I say, palming my hip with one hand while the other grabs my cock. I grunt, alarmed to find it already stiff as fuck. My eyes drift down to those breasts; they’re shapely enough to explain it. But no. I meet those eyes again and grit my teeth as a wave of fire centers right beneath my fucking hand. Fighting to keep my voice steady, I dare her, “Make it worth my while.”

  A good captive would cringe and shield herself—that’s what she is, after all. My captive. Mine. Though one determined to avoid the pretense of being my property.

  Holding the cloth securely in one hand, she inches backward just enough to grab the bar of soap from a built-in shelf along the wall. The same soap I used. Laboriously she lathers the rag, taking her time with no hint of fear to quicken her movements. Though she’s shivering from head to toe, it’s the water doing it to her. Not terror.

  If I doubted that, her eyes find mine through the damp strands of blond hair clinging to her forehead. Slowly, she drags the cloth along her body, jumping with every motion of the wet fabric against her skin.

  Only a monster would get off on this. Her gentle movements. Her tiny form that makes the stall I just stood in seem massive around her.

  Only a monster would want more.

  “Turn around.”

  After a second’s hesitation, she does. With her back turned, I can fully enjoy the sight of her. Without her judgment. Without that constant, blank stare.

  Unashamed, I lean back, resting my head against the mirror, and let my hand work. Slow strokes. Then harder, gripping my shaft to the point of pain. The longer I watch her, the more I can read her, even with her ass to me.

  Stripping her naked and on display for my benefit is one thing, but she hates this. The little witch loathes being out of control. If she can’t see me, she can’t manipulate me. As if aware of that fact, she inclines her head, and those eyes find m
ine again. In them, I see her anticipating my next words before I even voice them. Hell, she’s taunting me, goading me to say them.

  “Turn around—”

  “Donatello?”

  A knock resonates from the door of the suite, and I hiss through my teeth at the sound of that voice. Luciano. From his tone, I can tell he won’t be turned away so easily.

  But a flicker of motion from the woman draws my attention back to her. She stiffens, the rag falling from her fingers to slap against the floor of the stall, and I lean forward, my jaw clenched. I can sense her fear even as she turns away from me.

  I can see her naked, but she’s wary of someone else doing the same.

  As she should be, a part of me growls. I ignore it. I don’t owe her a damn thing.

  “Come in,” I call, loud enough for Luciano to hear.

  In the meantime, I cross over to a larger rack and grab a white towel for myself. Trust Antonio to waste money on a damn good towel. As I wrap it around my waist, I eye her again, my trapped little bird. She doesn’t beg me with her eyes this time. She doesn’t cower. Not even as Luciano’s steps advance swiftly through the suite.

  “Where are you?” he calls.

  “In here.”

  He’s paces away, his heavy sigh preceding him. With every inch he gains, the woman grows paler. Her hands creep along her ribcage, drifting toward her breasts, and a bitten lip betrays her rage at herself—she hates this weakness.

  “Here.” Another towel is already in my grasp. I throw it at her, not intending to watch her cover herself with it. I do anyway. She scrambles to wrap the material around her body just as Luciano coldly remarks from the doorway, “At least you finally took a shower.”

  He hasn’t seen her yet—a fact I’m sure of just from his tone alone.

  “Wait for me down the hall.”

  “Will do,” he says, already retreating. “I brought you some clothes, and something I found for your…‘friend.’ I’ll leave them by the door.”

  For me, he left another suit in a hideous shade of gray. Regardless, it fits well enough. As for what he brought for the woman…

  The style and cut leave nothing to the imagination as to the kind of women Antonio himself preferred. Black and velvety, it’s short with thin straps. Lucky for her, she’s small enough that the dress will cover far more than the designer intended.