“Ten down, ten to go,” Frankie had said, standing up and wiping her hands on a rag Anteros held out to her.
They’d started out with twenty rivals; soon they’d have none.
“What are you thinking about?” Frankie asked, cutting into the memories of earlier that day and holding his now unlatched holsters.
In response, Anteros got to his knees so they were face to face, slid both palms on either side of her face.
“You.” He dragged her to him, crushing his lips against hers in a fierce, determined kiss. She met him eagerly, tangling her tongue with his. Through heated, frantic breaths he growled, “Always you.” Frankie knotted her fingers in the fabric at his sides just as there was a knock at the door.
They parted and Frankie stood up, all business. Anteros followed suit, turning to face the window so he could readjust his erection.
“Come in,” Frankie said. The door creaked slowly at first, then a soldier appeared in the doorway. All their soldiers had “bad blood”—ex-cons living in a society that refused to rehabilitate them, homeless kids, and others who’d been tossed aside and discounted as useless. People like Beast and Frankie. Those were who they sought because they could promise them a better life.
And unlike Lucio, they’d deliver on the promise.
“Boss,” the boy said, looking at Frankie. “There’s something that needs your attention.” Their rivals scoffed at the fact that Frankie was also Boss, but Anteros didn’t give a shit about them. As long as Frankie still called him Boss in that low, throaty voice of hers, he was fucking happy. They could underestimate Frankie—it worked to their advantage. The man earlier that morning had underestimated her, and now he was dead.
Frankie finished talking to the soldier and came back to Anteros, sliding into his embrace. Anteros looked over New York City and reveled in the reality he’d never thought possible: he and Frankie ruling the underworld.
Anteros knew their ending wouldn’t be like the movies where they got everything they wanted and everything worked out in the end. Their happily ever after was bizzaro, dark, and twisted. Frankie had lost her real mom and best friend; Anteros had lost his empire, his Wolves, and Nikolai—who he reluctantly admitted had meant more to him than just a slave. In the end, though, they were together, and among the ruins of their old life, they built a fairytale.
Epilogue
Two years later
* * *
“Spread your legs.”
They fell open effortlessly as Anteros drew a line from one naked shoulder blade to the next. Tied to a chair, I stared out the window at the glowing, rainbow-colored Times Square Ball. It was New Year’s Eve, in the same hotel room where I’d first carved my initial into his chest. My heart still filled with the memory.
Anteros bent down, squeezing my shoulder. “Is Times Square more interesting?” I shook my head and refocused my attention on the room. On the champagne, on the black rose petals, on Anteros dressed in charcoal slacks with his dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his thick, muscled forearms.
And on the man—the stranger—sitting opposite me on the couch.
“Good girl.” Anteros stood up. “Sit up straighter so you can spread your legs wider. Get them as wide as you can. Until it hurts.” I spread my legs so far that I could feel my hipbones groaning in pain, groin muscles twitching. “Wider.” His voice was steel and unbending. “Don’t make me get the bar.”
“But I can’t go wider.” Anteros narrowed his eyes, the threat in his merciless bluegreen eyes clear. I sat forward, putting my feet on their tiptoes, sitting higher until air whispered against the skin where my back used to press against the chair. My arms were behind my head, wrists tied together.
I was absolutely naked.
He came behind me, bending low until his words teased my ear, sliding along my flesh, promising more. “Tell me what you feel.” I closed my eyes, sinking into him. When I didn’t respond, he slid his palm around my neck and squeezed.
“I feel my pussy splitting,” I gasped. “I feel the cool air against the lips.”
“Tell me what you want.” My eyes popped open, meeting the man opposite me on the couch. He was absolutely rapt, watching just me. I’d picked him out of the bar earlier that night when he’d hit on me.
“I want him gone,” I whispered. Anteros slid his right hand down the front of me, spreadin
g over my belly, cupping my pussy.
“You little liar,” he snarled, plunging a finger inside. “You fucking love this.” I did. I fucking loved it. Maybe it should have been gross and seedy, but all I felt was empowered. I had a complete stranger addicted to me, and that itself was addicting. The first time Anteros and I had done it, I’d been scared.
Anteros had walked me through it.
No jealousy, just his hot whispers burning my flesh and melting away my reservations. Now I was hooked on the feeling. On Anteros. On us.
“I can feel you pulsing around my fingers,” Anteros said, voice little more than a growl. His finger slid out of me and I nearly whimpered when his thumb and forefinger spread my lips. “Do you love letting me spread you while he watches?” I inhaled and thrust my head back, hitting the stone wall of his chest. “Or do you love him watching you come?” Anteros thrummed his thumb against my clit. “No,” he continued a few seconds later, a knowing laugh escaping his lips. Then he bent down and whispered so only I could hear him. “You love the power of holding his orgasm in your palm.” I groaned, vision going blurry, skin tingling.