Biting down on the inside of my cheek until that sweet, coppery taste floods my senses, I let out a low chuckle, bending so my lips brush her ear. She shivers, and it makes me nauseous.
“I’m not going to corrupt her,” I say, taking Carmen’s hands in mine, curling my fingers around hers. “I’m going to ruin her, and every time she bleeds for me, I’m going to think about how she likes everything you didn’t.”
Snapping my hand forward, I hear the distinct crack of bone splintering, and she lets out a high-pitched wail as I shove her away. She cradles her broken fingers to her chest, a harsh sob wracking her body, but I ignore it the way she once ignored my pain.
I don’t plan on touching Elena yet.
But Carmen doesn’t know that. Right now, she thinks the marriage is legitimate in more than just the legal way, and that’s what I need her to believe.
Revenge is an afterthought for the most part when it comes to my next steps, but I won’t ever pass up the chance to see Carmen suffer.
Throwing open the balcony doors, I find Elena still dressed in her gown from earlier, a little pink backpack thrown over one shoulder, one book held to her chest.
Her hair is a mess, makeup smudged beneath her golden eyes, and she leans against the railing with a bored expression on her face, not even fazed by her mother’s cries.
When she sees me, she sighs. “Took you long enough.”
Like she isn’t surprised I came after her.
Even more, when I produce the syringe from my pants pocket and uncap the needle, she tilts her head and pushes her hair aside, as if inviting me to take her.
The needle plunges into her skin smoothly, and I lean down, laving my tongue over the site, unable to help myself. She goes limp after a moment, and I scoop her over my shoulder, taking the book from her hand and trying to ignore the title.
Ovid’s Metamorphoses.
As I leave Carmen in a blubbering mess on the floor and carry Elena’s unconscious form to the car waiting outside, I recall Jonas’s question.
I don’t think Elena will be a problem—she already is one.
Chapter 6
The first thing I notice when I come to is how dry my mouth feels. My tongue sticks flat against the roof of my mouth, practically becoming one with the ridges, and I can taste the mint bubbly water I had on the ride to my parents’ house on my tastebuds.
The second thing I notice is the unfamiliar room; it’s cramped yet luxurious, with polished paneled walls and a stone fireplace across from the bed I’m tucked in. A dull ache flares at the base of my neck, where collarbone meets shoulder, and I sit up, stretching my arms above my head, working through the kink.
The third thing I notice, when the silk sheet falls away from my chest and bares my nipples to the chilled air, is that I’m topless.
Slipping my hand beneath the white sheets, I glide down between my thighs, sucking in a sharp breath.
Not topless.
Naked.
Clenching my thighs together, I cover my breasts with my palms, glancing around the room for my clothes. The backpack I had on at the house sits unzipped on a dresser beside the bed, empty.
There’s a single, circular window in the wall beside my head, and I reach out, pushing the shade up to look out, confirming what the dread in my bones already knew.
I’m on a plane.
My stomach leaps into my throat, blocking the air from my dry mouth; I struggle to inhale, an image of plummeting through the air playing on repeat as I stare into the white clouds, marring my view of the earth below.
Gathering the sheet around me, I slide out of the bed, standing still for a moment while my body gets its bearings. My knees wobble, my entire being rebelling against our airborne state, but also powerless against it.
Using the mattress as an anchor, I shuffle to the dresser and pull open the drawers, hoping to find something of mine inside.
But they’re all empty.
Why would he tell me to pack, just to take my things away?
Frustration spills into my bloodstream, bringing heat to my cheeks as I spin in a circle, trying to figure out what to do now. One peek into the bathroom shows an immaculate granite shower stall, toilet, and a compact sink in the corner, but again no clothes.
Well, not my clothes, anyway.
A single pair of black boxers and a black T-shirt hang on the shower door, the plexiglass wet with condensation. My belly cramps at the thought of Kal stripping bare and showering mere feet from my sleeping form.
He never fully undressed during our one night together, as if still trying to keep some of his mystery intact. It always made me wonder what he thought he was hiding.
I’d been flayed wide open, literally, while he’d remained as tightly wound as ever, making my body bend for his in ways I hadn’t known it would.
Flushing at the memory, I move so the inside of one thigh rubs against the other, sensitive, mangled flesh grating against smooth skin.
I should’ve run the second he drew the blade against me, but the slight pain it caused was erased by the immediate feel of his tongue trailing after, keeping me from bleeding onto my bedsheets.
All my life, I chased bruised cheeks and bloody knuckles, created brokenness beneath my fingertips because I thought it would make my Papá happy. That he’d see me as more than his little mafia princess, and maybe let me live the life I wanted.
Until last Christmas, I didn’t realize the pleasure that could blossom from having someone else do the breaking for you.
Swallowing around the lump of desire wedged in my throat, I move to turn away from the bathroom, immediately colliding with a familiarly rigid chest.
My heart thumps wildly against the ribs caging it in, keeping it from bursting free.
“Kallum,” I breathe, my eyes finding his even though I know I shouldn’t dare look. Not after everything he’s pulled. And yet, like a moth to a flame, I chase his heat.
His eyes darken, the mahogany color eclipsed with lust, flickering over me as his hand brings the meat of a Granny Smith apple to his lips.
When he bites down, juices sparking in various directions, I feel the crunch in my core. It echoes in my ears, my gaze falling as he pulls the apple away to chew, his mouth moist as it moves.
A pulse vibrates between my legs, the dangerous expression on his face making me dizzy.
His throat bobs as he swallows, taking a step closer even though we’re already flush with each other. Blood rushes between my ears, temporarily stalling the parts of my brain that process logic and reason, making me forget every single reason I have for being wary.
“Fuck,” he says, his voice little more than a husky whisper, “my name sounds damn good on your tongue, little one.”
“Wh—where are my clothes?” I stutter, amazed at my ability to form that coherent sentence, when all my brain can think about is his lips on mine.
“Unpacked and hanging in the hall closet. I didn’t think you’d be up before we landed.”
He takes another step, pushing me back over the threshold to the bathroom.
“My dress?”
A muscle tics in his jaw, making a dimple appear in his left cheek. “Incinerated. Took care of that before we left the airport.”
My mouth parts, shocked. “You burned my wedding dress?”
“I didn’t appreciate you marrying me in the gown you’d intended to be on Mateo’s bedroom floor tonight.”
I frown. “To be fair, I wasn’t planning on sleeping with Mateo. Ever, if I could get away with it.”
He takes another step, backing me into the sink. I put one arm behind me to keep from falling, holding tight to my bedsheet, and he leans in to place his hand on the counter beside my hip.
“No?” he asks, warm breath ghosting over my face. “So, you didn’t wear that skimpy lingerie for him? Didn’t shave your sweet little pussy just in case your new husband wanted a taste?”
Licking my lips as he fists the knot holding my sheet closed, I shake my head. My breathi
ng scatters as he shifts even closer, so close I’m not even sure we’re two separate beings any longer.
Chest tight, I glance up at him through hooded lashes, trying to keep my breathing even, dipping my toe in the pool of attraction trickling between us. “Maybe I wanted the dress to be on your floor tonight.”
Kal’s irises darken even further, a breath hitching in his throat. “Were you going to think of me when he fucked you?”
Not waiting for an answer, he tugs at the satin, uncurling my fingers with his free hand as he takes another bite of the apple. The obscene slurping sound as he pulls the fruit away sends a violent shiver down my spine, and I clench my thighs together as moisture pools at the apex, warming me from the inside.
With one sweep of his hand, the sheet falls away from my body, catching at my waist where I’m pinned against the sink. Kal lets out a shaky exhale as he chews, raking his hungry gaze down the length of my body.
“As sinful as I remember,” he mutters, setting the apple on the counter behind me, then reaching out with sticky fingers to brush the pomegranate tattoo beneath my breast—the one I got when he started calling me his little Persephone, as if I might be able to reach him with the symbol.
His touch is icy, devoid of the warmth his eyes hold, and yet it scorches me anyway.
What is wrong with me?
Just a few hours ago, this man blackmailed me into marrying him. Threatened the lives of everyone I love, just so I would become a willing pawn in some weird little game I don’t even understand yet.
I’m not sure I buy his story about being blackmailed himself, either—a man dubbed Doctor Death by everyone he comes into contact with is not a man who so easily bends to the will of others, so his immediate default to accepting the terms of his tormentor set off red flags in my mind.
But since I also have no other leads to go on, and know he doesn’t make idle threats, I’d had no choice.
That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy our little arrangement, though, and yet the longer he stares, the faster my resolve liquefies.
My hand grips the counter until it aches, the effort to keep myself from touching him back overwhelming.
His thumb glides over my tattoo, making me shake like a leaf, and he smirks, moving downward. It curves over my hip, grazing along my pubic bone, before dipping farther to caress my clit.
A small gasp falls from my lips, and his smirk widens, the lines at the corner of his mouth deepening.
“You didn’t shave for him, but I don’t recall you being bare for me,” he says, the timbre of his voice rumbling against my chest. “So, who have you been fucking in my absence?”
Tracing along my seam, he creates a repetitive sweeping motion, each time rubbing my clit on the descent. My throat constricts until it hurts, and I frantically suck in air, trying to keep myself from exploding.
One little touch from this man, and I’m already there.
“N-no one,” I answer between staccato breaths, swallowing the moan burning at the base of my esophagus.
He parts me, making a tsking sound with his tongue. “For your sake, that better be true.”
“It is, I swear.” There’s never been anyone else. My mouth opens to ask him the same, but nothing comes out, my mind blanking as it gets lost in the pleasure.
“Good,” he murmurs, that one word flooding my gut with liquid fire, making my pussy clench wantonly. “Just because we won’t be consummating this marriage tonight doesn’t mean you can try with anyone else.”
I blink, the haze of arousal around me popping. “What?”
“When we arrive at our destination, I’ll have to leave for a bit to take care of things. And the plans I have for you, little one…” His eyes rove over me in a slow stroke, making me shiver. “Unfortunately for right now, no matter how badly your pussy wants me, my cock won’t be filling it.”
Cocking a dark eyebrow, he revamps his efforts between my thighs, parting them to make room for his entire hand. Two fingers rim my entrance, prodding gently as if testing the waters; he grins darkly when he feels the wetness there, then plunges into the knuckle.
“My fingers, on the other hand…”
The sudden intrusion compresses the air from my lungs, and when he moves forward, grinding the heel of his hand on my clit while pumping in and out in a smooth rhythm, curling his fingers against my inner walls, I come undone almost immediately.
He grunts as I spasm around him, smoothing a hand down over the top of my head. “What a good little wife.”
My lips fall open on a moan, and he takes the apple from the counter, shoving it between my teeth. Bending down, he locks eyes with me as he keeps finger fucking, taking a bite from the opposite side of the fruit.
A gurgling sound catches at the back of my throat as our noses brush, my pussy clamping down around him as lightning licks up my spine, creating little fires in its wake.
Pulling back, Kal takes the apple with him; I bite a piece off, chewing and savoring the sweet tang on my tastebuds, knowing he gave me a taste because he knew it wouldn’t be enough.
My core throbs with the aftershocks of my orgasm, and when he withdraws, he spits the apple into a nearby trash can and brings his fingers to his lips, sucking off my juices.
Grinning like the predator who’s just caught his prey, he steps back so he’s standing in the bedroom, then gestures over his shoulder at the door.
Until now, I hadn’t realized it was open, and when I peek down the short hall, heat swarms my cheeks.
The redheaded employee stands at the end of the hall with her back to us, making drinks at a minibar.
“Make sure you get dressed before you join us,” Kal says, tossing me a wink. Mortification washes over me, and I reach down, yanking the sheet back up so it covers me. “We land in fifteen.”
Chapter 7
Elena doesn’t leave the bedroom until the second we land. I sit in the cabin with my legs crossed, nursing the scotch Marcelline handed me, waiting for her to enter and give me a piece of her mind, but the moment never comes.
A dull twinge radiates in my gut, thorns spiraling outward and clawing at the organ beating inside my chest. Something adjacent to guilt, brushing the corner of the feeling without letting it fully set in.
I haven’t felt bad about my actions in years, due in part to the fact that I engage in a lot of charity work at free clinics in order to absolve myself.
Not that it helps me sleep any better at night, but at least it keeps my mother from rolling over in her grave.
Yet now, considering the way I dragged Elena into my mess, and the way I’m leaving her half satisfied, shame worms its way into my brain, cloaking me in its vile shadows.
Downing the rest of my drink, I focus on the burn of the alcohol as it glides down my throat, dwarfing the sensation before it has time to grow roots.
The bedroom door slides open as soon as the pilot tells us we’ve reached Aplana International, and Elena slinks out, wearing black leggings and a thin white blouse.
Her leggings cover the K carved into the inside of her thigh, and my cock twitches at the memory of putting it there.
How she preened as the blade drew against her sensitive flesh, back bowing, pussy cresting around another orgasm. The way her blood tasted as it dripped down her pale skin, and how I lapped at its coppery essence like a man dying of thirst.
And I was.
Dying to drink her, to consume the young virgin the way she had me since the night she asked me to be her first.
I figured that night that it would be the only one we had. I hadn’t realized at the time that our quarters would eventually be so… intimate.
I’ve already broken my own unspoken rule to take things slow by driving my fingers into her tight, needy heat, helpless against the way she looked at me while I ate that fucking apple.
I bit into the soft fruit with more gravitas than necessary, trying to convey what I’d instead love to do with her pussy.
Feast on it, conquer it, ru
in it.
She looked like she would die if I didn’t.
It’d taken all my willpower not to drop my slacks, rip my dick from behind the zipper, and thrust into her right then, but these things have to be timed correctly in order to work.
Consummation has to wait.
Marcelline comes over and pops the jet door open, exiting without a word, probably desperate to get back to her regular duties.
Slumping down in the leather seat across from me, Elena leans her head back, staring up at the spotless wood paneling on the ceiling. I flip idly through the Better Homes & Gardens magazine in my lap, waiting for her to say something.
Pinching her eyes shut, she sighs. “You own a private jet.”
Glancing at the dated, yet lavish interior of the lounge area, I nod. “I do.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Figures.”
I bought the jet—a vintage 1987 McDonnell Douglas MD-87—at an auction a few years back, but since I rarely visit the island, I haven’t had much of a chance to use it.
Mostly, it sits in the private hangar I rent while I take public transportation from one jobsite to the next. Other than short flights from the usual crew and tune-ups, this is the plane’s first actual voyage.
Seems fitting, I suppose, using it as a way to transition my old life into the new.
Cocking an eyebrow, I fold my magazine shut and set it on the conference table between us. “Do you have a problem with private jets, Elena?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re toxic to the environment? Not particularly. I just wouldn’t expect someone like you to own one.”
“What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”
One golden eye pops open, sizing me up slowly, before snapping shut again. “Seems like something that would put you on the map, and isn’t that what all of my father’s men typically try to avoid?”
“I’m not some sort of vagabond. I do have material possessions. A house, even, as I’ve said before.”
“Does anyone else know about it?”
My eyebrows knit together above the bridge of my nose as I study her still form. There’s something off kilter about her, something broken and timid that wasn’t there just moments ago. Her hands clutch the armrests, knuckles bleaching as she tightens her grip, carefully drawing in deep, shuddering breaths.
Promises and Pomegranates: A Dark Contemporary Romance (Monsters & Muses Book 1) Page 5