I obey.
His head tilts, staring at my face.
Surprised.
Maybe stunned.
I don’t want him to see how overwhelmed I am, how small I feel in this castle of shadows, rules, and cold stone.
He steps forward until he towers in front of me again. His hand lifts and his fingers pinch my chin.
“Look at me.”
I do, though I don’t have a choice.
And then—
Gustav leans down.
His tongue slips out, warm and wet, licking a rouge tear from my cheek. It’s invasive and incredibly sensual, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
His eyes close for half a second, just half a heartbeat, as if tasting me does something to him he didn’t expect. His eyes search mine. His lashes are so long and black, accentuating those light gray, hypnotic eyes. His pupils dilate, a hawk fixing on his prey.
He snaps out of the trance and straightens, his expression darker and greedier.
“One day,” he murmurs, voice deep and haunting, “you will crave to sleep in my bed.”
He brings his mouth close to mine. So close, I feel his breath gently warm my skin.
“And you better hope,” he whispers, “I let you.”
Chapter 6
Gustav
Her door is locked.
Of course it is. She still has no understanding of what she should fear in this house. Locking doors only irritates me, and irritation is never good for her.
I slip the skeleton key into the lock and turn it with slow patience. The latch clicks, then clicks again. I push the door open and let the heavy wood complain on its hinges as I step inside.
Moonlight slices across the room in a pale diagonal, illuminating the massive bed in the center. She is curled in the middle of it, swallowed by a comforter.
So small. So cold. A delicate little thing trying to disappear.
Something moves in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Maybe anticipation or excitement at the thought of tormenting her tonight. I cannot tell, and I do not care to analyze it.
I walk to the edge of the bed and look down.
Her full lips are parted slightly, breath warm against the blanket. Thick brown hair spills around her like a soft halo, rich and glossy the way all the women in her family seem blessed with. Her olive skin glows faintly in the low light, lashes long enough to brush her cheeks.
She looks every inch the American-Italian mafia princess, beautiful, sheltered, and painfully unaware of the world she’s just been dragged into.
Oh.
A vision: Her tied to each bedpost, limbs pulled wide, ribs rising with each frightened breath. That pretty little hourglass body stripped of the bra and underwear she wore in the dining room. Surprisingly supple curves. A small pouch on her stomach that made her look real, warm. I liked what I saw, but mostly because she shook like a leaf.
If I wanted, I could make her scream, too. That would amuse me. It does. But it strikes differently now that I know what she is.
