“Revenge.”
My head jerks, so I can look him in the eye. “For what?” I ask, the desperate feeling bringing me to the brink of being sick.
“For getting us ambushed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I smooth down the bottom of my little black dress. My fingers don’t shake, but inside I’m quaking. How does he know? How much does he know?
“C offered you our help. Instead you betrayed us.”
It wasn’t like that. I swallow hard, shaking my head.
My gaze darts around the empty room. I can’t believe this is happening. I know it’s my fault, in more ways than one, but I still can’t believe it.
“Sasha—”
“Don’t,” he growls. “It’s Sir. Or Master.”
My eyes widen. I’ve heard rumors that the founding members of C Crue dabble in BDSM, but I thought it was their dirty secret, only revealed firsthand to their play partners.
“I’m not calling you either of those things.”
“You won’t call me anything else.”
I shiver, then let my gaze rest on him, fully seeing him for the first time in a long time. He’s six and a half feet tall and solid muscle. He keeps his dark brown hair buzzed and a shadow of a beard covers his jaw. There are a couple of small scars on his face and others that are hidden along with his tattoos. I know his body better than I should from the time when he was injured. When he was unconscious, I studied his tattoos, trying to puzzle out their cryptic messages. The truth is he’s always fascinated me.
“When you were wounded, I took care of you,” I say.
“Yeah. That was your second mistake,” he says.
* * *
Anvil
Anger and lust war inside me, fighting a battle that’s been going on for three years.
Her blue-black hair is stark against her pale skin. The light brown eyes stare up at me, framed by a fringe of wispy lashes. I’ve seen the curious expression on her face in hundreds of pictures from the Instagram account. She’s got delicate features, always painted to perfection to feed the masses. So fucking exquisite. That face haunts my thoughts; it stalks me in my dreams.
I can’t remember much of what happened from when I was wounded, but the things I do remember are all her. And that’s what feeds my resentment. She’s five-foot-three and a hundred pounds. My biceps are bigger than her thighs, but she laid me out. And later, she coaxed me back from the brink of death. She put her cool fingers on my burning skin and stole my fucking soul.
I stand, my muscles tight with tension. “Frank brags that he’s giving Alberto Leone his virgin daughter. Leone brags that he’s getting the virgin Palermo princess that hundreds of thousands of guys worship. He says he can’t wait to pop your little cherry on your wedding night. I hear it over and over. That from the asshole whose hired guns killed friends of mine and delivered the gut shot that me made weak for months.” I haul my shirt off.
Her eyes drop to my chest. Good. I want her looking at my body. I can dead lift five hundred pounds. I want her to know that when she’s under me she’ll be helpless.
“Sasha—”
“What did I say?” I ask, a sharp edge to my voice that matches the knife I slide from my boot.
She becomes very still, the way prey does when it senses a predator drawing near.
My gaze slides to the edge of her dress and her legs, my thoughts skidding to the place where they join together. Does she shave that little pussy? Or is there a puff of curls? If so, are they brown like cinnamon, her natural hair color? My cock goes hard at these thoughts and because I smell her, a perfume that’s light and sharp and makes me want to lean closer.
I lower myself to kneel on the mattress, leaning over her. I cut the lower edge of her dress. She sucks in a breath and tries to draw back. I grab the fabric and rip it open all the way, exposing her indigo bikini panties and bra.
She raises a hand in protest, her eyes wide.
“Arms down, Raven.”
