machiavellian
(n.) wicked, villainous, deceitful
MILA
“You could have at least tried to make an effort,” Ronan said like he was disappointed in me, examining the photo he took.
This man was disturbed.
The devil walking the streets of Moscow.
He put his phone in his back pocket and dropped to his haunches in front of me. Untying the ropes on my wrists, he absently ran a thumb over the raw skin beneath. Those little caresses convinced me only yesterday he cared for me, but maybe that warmth was just a secret villains passed down to one another as a means of drawing their prey in before stomping their hearts beneath their feet.
“Is your papa as demented as you?” I asked tonelessly.
He looked at me, amused. “Not sure. Never met him. But if it makes you feel better, my mother was just as sadistic as yours.”
My eyes flashed with resentment, but his expression and the fact he was close enough to slap me again held my response in. His gaze contained a warning within before he rose and turned off the amateur porn on the TV.
I rubbed my wrists and stood, wincing at the ache in my muscles, and watched him cautiously as he leaned against the dresser, his attention on his phone. Probably sending that stupid photo to my papa.
He could have put a lot more power into that slap earlier; a red handprint on my cheek would have made a better selfie. I wasn’t so convinced he wanted to hurt me. Maybe I could make him see reason. Maybe I could get out of this with my soul intact.
Though, sadly, all of my confidence fell to the floor when he spoke.
“Your clothes,” he said, eyes still on his phone. “Remove them.”
I stared at him, my breath going cold.
He’d already seen all I had to offer—had recorded it to watch whenever he wanted—but that wasn’t the point. Every nerve in my body fought against submitting to his will. The pacifist inside of me wanted to obey. My brain ordered me to strip, now, but my pride and somehow my heart pulled me in the other direction.
Swallowing hard, I took a step back. The movement brought his dark gaze to mine.
I wouldn’t hand this devil my soul.
If he wanted it, he’d have to rip it from my chest.
“No.”
His eyes hardened, holding mine as he set the phone on the dresser beside him and gave me all of his terrifying attention. My resolve wavered like a plucked string. I backed up until my legs hit the bed.
“Kotyonok,” he warned, taking a step toward me, “‘no’ is no longer in your vocabulary. When I tell you to do something, you’ll do it with a smile. Don’t, and things will become very unpleasant for you. Take. Them. Off.”
I needed to know what he had planned for me. My imagination was a scary place, and it was thinking up a myriad of disturbing ways he might exact his revenge. The unknown twisted my lungs in a tight grasp. I wanted him to do his worst now, or the anxiety would eat at me until I was physically sick.
Heart racing against my ribcage, I held his gaze.
“No.”
He watched me for a second, and then he was on me so fast a scream rose up my throat.
Ronan threw me onto my back on the bed, dropping his body on top of mine. I twisted against him, managing to knee him in the groin. A human man would fall to the floor and grab his junk, but this monster merely paused for a second, closed his eyes, then let an animalistic sound escape between clenched teeth.
I took advantage of his distraction and turned onto my stomach to crawl away from him and up the bed, but he grabbed my ankle, dragging me down and underneath him, then rolled me onto my back.
“You’ve managed to piss me off,” he growled. “Not a good move.”
When he straddled my hips, I tried to buck him off, but I couldn’t find even an inch of leeway. He ripped my blouse open. Buttons scattered across the bed.
He was so heavy, so unmovable. If there was a God, he’d done a huge disservice to the world by putting this man’s soul in this body.
I fought Ronan with everything in me, my blunt nails catching his neck. He growled and slammed my wrists above my head, holding them with one hand while he jerked my skirt down my legs. I sank my teeth into his forearm.
“Careful,” he threatened, “you’re turning me on.”
The evidence of that was suddenly glaring and hard against my stomach. The idea of what he might do to me once he won this fight—and he would win—took ahold of my lungs. A cold rush of fear doused the flame in my chest with a weak hiss.
I went still, to his amusement.
My body trembled as he pulled the rest of my clothes off. He worked me like a doll, turning me to unclip my bra and remove my arms from my blouse. He slid my thong down my thighs, and out of instinct—or maybe just to feel like I held a semblance of control—I lifted my legs so he could pull it off.
I lay naked except for the star pendant between my breasts.
Straddling my hips, his hands holding my wrists above my head, Ronan took in my body beneath him. He wasn’t even breathing hard, yet I gave it my all. Resentment expanded in my chest. I needed to see a human response from him. I needed to know I had a chance at surviving him.
He leaned in and rested his body on mine. He felt hot to the touch, and I knew it was because he burned with the flames of hell. Pressing his face into my neck, he nuzzled me, his voice rough with restraint.
“Do you know how they tame falcons?”
I remained silent, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
He ran his lips down my throat. “They lock them away, cover their eyes, and hand-feed them.”
“I’d rather starve.”
His chuckle was throaty, punctuated by his hips pressing into mine, his erection hard between my legs. Obviously, the novelty hadn’t worn off completely. Our bodies fit together like they were made for one another. What a joke that was.
I wanted to show indifference, but my nerves prickled with anxiety, each touch from him flaring with sensitivity. The mere brush of his shirt buttons against my skin sent a shiver scattering across my body.
He slipped his legs between mine, released my wrists to grasp my thighs, and dug his fingers into the soft flesh, spreading them wide so he could press his hard-on fully against me. The grind against my clit sent a sliver of heat through me, penetrating the dread like a hot trickle of water.
My heart began an odd gallop in my chest, the easy reception my body gave him tightening my stomach. I grabbed his hands, and he let me pull them away from my thighs—but only because he was already where he wanted to be, releasing a very human breath between his teeth.
Of course, it had to be lust that was his only mortal weakness.
I held his hands in my own, trying to stop them from touching me and disturbing my senses, though the act suddenly burned with intimacy, and I dropped them.
“Please don’t do this,” I breathed.
He wasn’t listening to me. He was running his palms up the flare of my hips, gripping my waist and pulling me harder against his erection, which sent another flare of heat up my spine. Haziness and something bright shrouded the darkness in his eyes as he watched his hands on my body. He was somewhere else—somewhere Vikings went in the throes of bloodlust while pillaging and raping women.
I shouldn’t have fought him. Or maybe I shouldn’t have given up until the end. But it was a futile, ridiculous fight I’d never win, and I was preoccupied with a battle of my own: the warmth of his touch trying to cloud the resentment in my mind.
He braced a hand beside my head, leaned in, and kissed my neck, biting down on the skin before he sucked it into his mouth, undoubtedly leaving a hickey behind for another infamous selfie. My breath hitched. He cupped my breast and squeezed, running a thumb across my nipple. I rebelled against the hot sensation, a cold sweat of conflict rising in my blood.
I didn’t want this.
But my body wasn’t convinced as he kissed a path down my neck and ran his mouth between my breasts. He was surprisingly gentle. So gentle, I resented it.
I wanted him to hurt me.
I wanted pain.
Because then, I could feel only hatred.
He drew a nipple into his mouth, and a rush of fire swept to the empty pressure between my legs. I tried to push him away, but he grabbed my wrists, pressed them to the mattress on either side of me, and shackled them there in an iron grip. He moved to the other breast and scraped the taut peak with teeth before sucking. I bit my cheek to hold in the moan that wanted to escape.
His head moved lower, the wet heat of his tongue dipping inside my navel. My body tightened like a bow string when he pressed his face between my thighs and inhaled. His warm breath brushed my clit, and a fever unfolded inside, liquefying the tension in my muscles like melted butter.
“Kotyonok,” he said, the low rumble of his voice making my entire sex throb. “I bet you taste as sweet as you smell.”
I never thought this would be his intention when he won.
Fisting the comforter on either side of me, I fought the urge to lift my hips toward the wetness and heat. This was just another way for him to humiliate me; to pull my body to his will while my mind still despised him.
Begging and fighting hadn’t stopped him, and as panic whirled within, my mouth spat out the first words it grasped onto.
“What kind of sadist are you? You consider this torture?”
He placed an open-mouthed kiss on my inner thigh, and I heard a slight smile in his voice. “I don’t feel like torturing you right now. I feel like seeing how fast I can make you come with my mouth.”
He was obviously confident he could do it fast, and I hated knowing, even now, he probably could. My body didn’t seem to have forgotten he gave it pleasure and food; how he evoked a desperate want inside of me that finally made me feel alive. It still grabbed on tight, unwilling to let go.
Shame expanded in my chest and burned the backs of my eyes.
I hated him.
He’d degraded me. Used me. Ripped out my heart. And when he got what he wanted—my papa’s head—he’d throw me out with the trash.
Tears running down my cheeks, I went somewhere faraway. Somewhere desolate and numb. He must have felt the sudden surrender in my body before he put his mouth on me because his eyes lifted to my face. He watched me for a long, suffocating moment, and then he pulled away from me.
I gazed at the ceiling, my body suddenly shaking with each breath of relief.
When he returned a few seconds later, he grabbed my wrist and began securing it to the iron headboard. I didn’t resist when he moved to the other. He probably thought I was pathetic; limp with submission and tear tracks on my cheeks. But I no longer cared what he thought.
He gripped my chin and turned my face so I looked at him. “You’ll be tied up until I know you can behave.”
I was staring through him. He noticed, and the strain in the air tightened my lungs—then released, settling to the floor as calm and languid as still water. I exhaled when the unexpected brush of his thumb skimmed across my cheek. It slid over my lips and pulled the bottom one down slightly. A soft caress, heavy with possession.
“Don’t tell me I’ve broken my pet already,” he said thoughtfully.
All of the emotion locked tight by years of obedience rose to the surface, and my eyes flashed. “Go to hell.”
He smiled. “Sleep tight, kotyonok.”
