Legs, I remember, wrapped around me like a vice, never releasing as I pounded into her.
Heat surges in my groin. Images flashing before me: her sounds, her hot, wet pussy clamping my cock like nirvana. She took me so beautifully amid chaos and blood, a fairy tale turned wicked.
“What did I tell you before?” I ask.
Lana stops inches before me.
“I repeat. What did I tell you before?”
Her brows knit, clearly not understanding. I collar her throat, enjoying her pulse jumping against my palm.
She whimpers, her body compliant. Submissive.
“Remember the club,” I rasp into her ear, and crush her frame to mine.
I groan and trail my finger down her neck—down, down, down—until I reach the swell of her cleavage. Then, I cup her breast, find her nipple, and twist.
She cries out, “Elias—”
My dick throbs in my pants, angling toward my stomach.
Yes, Elias is right.
Kian—the boy who dreamed of saving cats and dogs—would never treat a woman this way. He’d never experience the sadistic pleasure of seeing Lana’s eyes glazing over, her red lips parted, her hips automatically canting forward like she was seeking my cock.
“You feel this?” I ask, still kneading her breast. “This is what every man will think about when he sees you in that dress. It’ll tempt him to do very bad things.”
“And if they do…what are you going to do about it?” she whispers.
I want to hoist her over my shoulders, toss her onto the nearest surface, and have my way with her.
Screw the Benefaction, The Six, The Association.
But my thirst for revenge won’t quit.
I release her, backing away, every muscle protesting.
Before I turn toward the door, I pause long enough to answer.
“If anyone touches you, he won’t live to see another dawn.”
It reminds me of home.
And that horrifies me.
The ballroom of the Berisha’s estate is a study in luxury. Black-and-white checkered floors, marble imported from Italy like the ones in the Anderson Estate. Soaring ceilings, gold leaf frescoes of angels dueling with demons. Sparkling ornaments adorn the massive Christmas tree. Lake Michigan acts as a backdrop outside the windows, its calm waters deceptive.
Crowds are dressed in their finest.
This could easily be a function at The Orchid.
These people—I swallow my dismay as I recognize familiar faces and longtime Anderson clients—areourpeople.
And they’re monsters.
Soft laughter fills the air. An orchestra plays in the corner.
But I feel their gazes on me.
