My mind shifts to the small house I had built on Mikhail’s land, the cozy place I designed to my very specifications.
Does Bane have somewhere like that here? I only saw his butchery beneath the floors. Dirty and damp.
Nothing at all like I’m used to.
But then again, he is nothing like what I’m used to.
When he showed up like a stowaway in the back of a car and masturbated outside my window, directly onto my plants…I knew I was going to have a problem on my hands.
And I have.
I’ve had many fucking problems since meeting him.
Not to mention the way my heart twists and hurts every time I think about what he’s been through. The trauma. The pain. The things he divulged while I tied him to the bed and slowly wrung them out of him.
And don’t even get me started on the accrued expenses. Getting that ass trademarked cost far more than I was comfortable with, but it had to be done. The tattoo only solidified it.
Something inside me twists when I think of Bane taking cock from someone else, that hole stretching around another.
No.
Absolutely not.
Mine.
Blyat. I don’t want this burden, and yet here I am—saddled with it anyway.
My dick twitches slightly when I recall the way he writhed against the bonds I trapped him in as I tattooed his perfect ass.
The way he moaned. Begged.
He has a hair trigger. I like it more than I thought I would. I usually like my fucks to be controlled, disciplined. Bane is anything but.
He’s chaotic. Wild.
I step outside of the house, the door swinging closed behind me as I take in the expansive property. There are a lot of guards walking around, guns on their waists, and a few with machine guns strapped to their backs.
I appreciate the attempt by Anthony to keep those who live here safe, but it’s not good enough. Not when Henry can sneak in and attack what’s mine without anyone noticing.
“Georgiy, you have a delivery,” Casey says, looking at me suspiciously. He has a keen eye. Mikhail making him the head of security will be much better than when his brother, Ivan, was running it. Ivan, in my opinion, is a waste of air.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting a man who is lugging several suitcases up the driveway. He’s slightly out of shape, judging by the way he’s heaving and sweating.
Men like this are always a problem.
They always cry when I take them apart. Usually, it’s better to just knock them out first and get to work.
Gives me less of a headache in the end.
“Is it all here?” I ask him, and he nods, sweat beading on his temples.
“Yeah. Suitcases full of rocks? Fuck, man. What do you have in here?”
I meet his curious stare. “Dead bodies.”
He blanches, chuckling slightly, thinking I’m kidding. And I am…mostly. But he doesn’t know that. Icouldhave a dead body in there. I’ve done it before and will most likely do it again. Suitcases are a great way to dispose of a body.
“Yeah, all right, man.”
