Iflinch, pulling my cock out of her, glancing down. The sight of her bare thighs, her legs spread apart with one knee up, her pussy wet and swollen, makes me hard again. Her cunt is drenched with my cum which I can smell off her thighs. It’s intoxicating—the heavy scent of sex that fills the air.
I want to fuck her again. The sight of her blood coating my cock and staining her thighs excites me in some twisted way. I’ve never fucked a virgin before. I never wanted to before her. Whenever my brothers and I had a new girl join Myth, one of us, or all of us, would always fuck her first, make sure we got between that new pair of legs before any of our guests did. Being the Princes of Hell had to have its advantages. But when the girl happens to be a virgin, I lose interest.
It’s not something I’ve ever cared to analyze—the reason virgins put me off. Maybe it’s the stigma behind pure girls always falling for the man who takes their virginity and carrying a torch for him for the rest of their fucking lives. It would only complicate matters for me when it came to running the club when one of our girls has some…I dunno…feelings for me because she imagined some spiritual damn bond between us when I tore through her innocence.
Caelian prefers them fresh and unsullied, an intact cunt for him to break, not giving a shit if he leaves a pathetic crying woman behind—having no issues with it the way I do.
But Leandra, on the other hand, hers I wanted to break. And I did. The blood on my dick is proof of that, and fuck me if it doesn’t give me this sense of ownership over her. Possession. Not only is she my wife, her pussy is mine too now, and the thought makes me want to sink back into her and make sure she fucking knows it and never forgets it.
I look at her, still lying on the floor while zipping my pants. Her legs are still trembling, and she’s panting, trying to catch her breath. It’s evident by her subtle squirming that she’s not exactly comfortable, which is understandable since her pussy just got filled and stretched for the first time. For the first fucking time. By me. I allow my gaze to rake upward, admiring her naked body framed with the tattered mess that was a two-thousand-dollar dress a little while ago. Her chest is flushed, the flames spreading up her neck, her nipples still hard—ready to be sucked if I choose to do so. God, she looks so fucking good, all wrecked and thoroughly fucked, like she’s mine.
I want to ask her if she’s okay, but I don’t. Instead, I reach for the white tablecloth draped over the stand where Vicky had placed a bottle of champagne for us. I tear off a piece and lean forward. “Stay still,” I order, reaching out, placing a hand on her hip while smoothing the fabric between her legs with the other.
Her eyes shut, and she sucks air through her teeth, her body going rigid. For a second, I stop, spreading my fingers around her waist, keeping her in place before continuing. Slowly this time. Gently. Watching her face for clues that I might be hurting her. Seeing how vulnerable she seems right now, the idea of hurting her makes my stomach knot. And that doesn’t sit well with me. Why do I suddenly care? It’s unsettling.
After a few more strokes up and down her slit, wiping down her thighs, I stop and slip the dirty cloth into my pants pocket before standing. “Maximo,” I call.
“Yeah, I’m here,” he replies from the other side of the curtain.
“Tell Vicky we’re taking one of each item in her entire fall collection. Get it wrapped up so we can get the fuck out of here.”
“On it.”
“Oh, my God.” Leandra sits up on her elbows, her hair a sexy mess. “He’s been there the whole time?”
“Maximo is never far from where I am.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”
“I know how you feel about that.” I reach out and take her hand, helping her get on her feet. “Turned the fuck on.”
The torn emerald dress falls down her sides, and I bite my bottom lip, seeing that her nipples are still hard, her panties torn and showing her pussy.
She grabs the tattered fabric and crosses it in front of her, covering herself, and taking away my perfect fucking view. My first instinct is to scold her and demand she walks naked. But this isn’t Myth, and she’s not one of the girls on our payroll. Even if it’s just nothing more than an arrangement, she’s my wife. But judging the way possession now knocks at my skull when thinking of her blood on my cock, I’d say our arrangement just blew the fuck up, and I feel a whole lot of trouble headed my way.
“Is it true?” she asks, her confidence less now that she’s not tied in a sexual vise.
“Is what true?”
“That you don’t hate me, but rather the idea of me being your wife?”
My thoughts drop a fuckton of f-bombs, cursing the fact that my rock-hard cock throbbing with sudden lust for virgin pussy had me spilling out truths that I’d much rather have kept to myself. It’s easier that way to keep shit wrapped up and hidden inside my head and not have to worry about others wanting a complete goddamn analysis and a detailed description of what I’m feeling. Because the truth is, I don’t even know what it is I’m feeling right now.
I straighten my collar and brush my fingers through my hair, then wipe at my lips with the back of my hand before looking her in the eye. “I don’t need a wife.”
“Yet here I am.”
I press my lips together, unappreciative of her tone. “The Dark Sovereign empire is mine. I was born to rule it. Own it. Make it my legacy. And every goddamn minute of my entire fucking life, I’ve made sure that I’d earn it—which I have. On my fucking own.” I spit out the words as they burn my tongue. “So, imagine how fucked off I was when my father basically told me that everything I did, everything I fucking sacrificed—my childhood, my freedom—meant nothing if I do not marry.”
“Alexius—”
“So, no. I don’t hate you as a woman. But I fucking despise you as my wife because every time I look at you, I see all those goddamn sacrifices I made get flushed down the fucking toilet. Every Saturday spent with my father learning the family business while my brothers played football—worthless. Every time I chose to do what I was taught to be right over what I wanted to do means shit because my father decided having a wife is more important than my lifelong loyalty to this fucking family.” I wipe at my nose with my thumb, my heart about to tear from my chest from bursting anger. “I’m done with this conversation. Get dressed. I have business to take care of, so I need to take you home. And you have a new closet to arrange.”
Biting her bottom lip, her eyes downcast, she nods then disappears into the cubicle. A heavy exhale rushes from my lungs, and I’m painfully aware that my anger is misdirected, and up until now, Leandra has borne the brunt of it after I was the one who proposed the deal.
I don’t like what I’m feeling. I don’t appreciate the chaotic confusion this woman stirs inside my head.
Leandra comes walking out, clutching the torn dress. “Guess we should add this one to the bill since we ruined it.”
“Are you kidding me?” I grab the dress and toss it on the sofa. “I’m buying this boutique’s entire fall collection. This one is on the house since it’s the least they can fucking do.”
“At what age exactly did you start thinking that way?”
I fasten my belt buckle. “Thinking what?”
“That whenever you throw money at people and businesses, they owe you a fucking favor.”
“It’s called incentive.”
“No. It’s called self-righteousness.”
My spine goes rigid, and I pause, seeing the contempt in her eyes. The way she looks at me makes me want to fuck that judgmental look out of her. Maybe this time, I’ll make it hurt more.
Lifting my chin and straightening my shoulders, I close the distance between us, not lowering my head an inch, forcing her to crane her neck if she wants to look me in the eye—a subtle display of authority. “Where was that disapproving scowl on your face five minutes ago when my cock tore through your cunt?”
Her cheeks flush, and I smirk. “Oh, that’s right. Five minutes ago, you didn’t give a shit whether I’m self-righteous or not, just as long as I gave you what you wanted.” I lean closer. “My cock and a very fucking memorable first time, which just happens to come with an entirely new wardrobe.” I shrug. “Sounds to me like you got all the incentives here today. Does that make you self-righteous, too?”
She bites her lip and stays silent.
“That’s what I thought,” I hiss. “Be careful to judge a world you know nothing about, Leandra. And be especially cautious when making ill-informed assumptions of me.” I scoff. “My cum is still warm inside your pussy, and already you think you know me.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t know me. And that’s something that will never change.” I clench my jaw. “No matter how many times we fuck.”
“You’re not being—”
“We’re leaving.” I cut her short and turn, walking in the other direction. God, it amazes me how this woman has the fucking talent to get me all riled up. Whether it’s with anger, annoyance, or a fucking hard on—she seems to get my blood rushing every damn time.
“Alexius,” she calls after me, but I ignore her.
“Alexius, goddammit. Stop!” Her voice is sharp, angered—a tone that makes me stop and turn to face her. I don’t know what I expected to see. A woman with flushed cheeks and tears lapping down with a thousand and one regrets in her eyes, or a girl who hates herself for giving in and succumbing to the devil’s seduction, her expression molded with the miserable mistake she just made.
But I did not expect to see her glaring at me with glowing eyes, posture straight and strong, with a hand resting on her waist and one leg stretched to the side.
“What?” I snap, that one word sharp enough to cut through air.
“You say I’m not allowed to make ill-informed assumptions of you, yet you just gave me everything I need to come to the conclusion that you’re a fucking asshole.”
“Well, see, that I could have just told you and spared you the shock of realizing that I’m an asshole, and probably the biggest fucking one you’ve ever met.”
She scoffs. “Oh, believe me, that award has already been claimed, and you still have a really long way to go to even come close to comparing with him.”
I can practically feel the hate emanate from her words, and I narrow my eyes. “Your father.” It’s not a question. I know all about her father and how he’s a class lower than shit on this fucking Earth. I know about the lack of a stable home since he loved the streets more than her and the lack of food because he preferred to feed his veins rather than his child.
Raven curls hanging down her shoulders stir as she reaches behind her ear, something I’ve noticed her do when she’s nervous, scared, angry.
I observe her, searching for any sign of emotion so I can figure out what the hell she’s feeling now that he’s been brought up. I might know of her father, but now I want to see him through her eyes—have her paint me a picture of the son of a bitch who sentenced her to a life of poverty with no chance of a fucking future. “Tell me about him.”
“Why should I tell you anything about him when you already know? You know everything about me, remember?” Her lips pull in a thin line, the amber hues in her eyes burning with the kind of rage that reminds me of blood and agony. “So then you’ll know that if I can survive him, surviving you throughout the next six months will be a fucking walk in the park for me.”
Her words—it’s meant to be intimidating, a courageous display of strength. But I see it—the tiny crack in her armor, and it’s tugging at the small thread of my humanity not many have had the privilege of seeing.
As she slips on her shoes and shoulders past me, I let her be. I’m overwhelmed with the urge to grab her and make her tell me fucking everything because my gut tells me that her secrets, her scars, they’re not in her father’s prison file. And now…now I want to know what they are.
