Bratva Beast: A Dark Romance

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I broke out and threw myself forward.

Peter slammed his fist into Mack’s face. Mack grunted, grinning. His gums were bloody. He spit into Peter’s face then hit him hard in the chest, making some space.

I dove between them, throwing myself out into the hall. I smashed against the far wall as Mack punched Peter again, and again, and again, but Peter backhanded Mack across the face so hard that he nearly lost his feet.

“Enough, little shit,” Peter roared.

I picked up the gun.

Mack ducked out of the way of a massive fist. Peter hit the wall behind him and grunted as Mack glanced back over his shoulder—

And his eyes went wide.

I threw him the gun.

It was stupid. You shouldn’t throw guns—I mean, that’s probably something they teach in gun safety.

Not that I’d know. The Doyle family wasn’t huge on being safe around guns.

But Mack grabbed it out of the air, and as Peter managed to rip his fist from the hole in the wall, Mack shot him twice in the skull.

The giant slumped sideways like a train car smashing into a cliff.

I slid down the wall and stared at the blood and brains that coated my carpet.

Mack stood panting, staring down at the giant. He sighed and tucked the gun into his pants and turned away.

His eyes felt like a spotlight.

“Are you okay?” He walked over and crouched down.

“I’m okay. Is he dead?”

He nodded once. “Dead. Very dead.”

“That guy. He was massive. What the hell was he?”

“His name was Peter. We were friends.” He put a hand on my thigh.

I flinched away, looking down at the carpet.

I helped Mack kill that man.

God, what was happening to me?

“I’m sorry, Fiona,” he said softly, hand on my arm. I looked back at him. Blood trickled from his mouth and from a cut on his forehead. “For earlier, especially. I found out that they were sending Peter, and I was upset.”

“You knew that guy was coming?”

“I thought he was still in Russia.” His face clouded over. “There’s a lot I don’t know these days, apparently.”

Peter, his dead friend Peter.

Suddenly, earlier made a lot more sense.

I could see the struggle in his eyes. Going against his family, going against his friend—all to keep me alive.

“I’m so sorry.” I pulled him close, hugging him tight. I held him and expected some sign of emotion—

But there was nothing.

His lips pulled back, brushed along my cheek. Lingered inches from my mouth. I stared into his eyes.

This man, this killer. He’d do anything for me. The thought sent a spike of horror down my spine, but excitement pooled between my legs in a confusing contrast. I was a wave of emotions I couldn’t really explain or understand, and as much as I wanted Mack, I was terrified of him.

I watched him kill his own friend.

I helped him do it.

He pressed his lips softly against mine.

I groaned and pulled him tighter.

I tasted blood on his tongue. I didn’t care. His arms pulled me tighter, then he stood, pulling me up onto my feet, up into his arms. We stumbled back down the hall, kissing faster, and he pushed me down onto the couch.

I stared up at him, eyes wide and buzzing with want and fear. Not twenty feet away, a corpse pooled.

“You shouldn’t want this,” he whispered and slowly, excruciatingly pinned me down against the couch. He was heavy, so massive, and I couldn’t imagine trying to fight something like him.

But I felt the old panic again. For a moment, I got away—I managed to outrun the closet, outrun the self-hate and loathing.

As soon as he held me down, it all came tumbling back, and I was trapped.

“No,” I gasped, scrambling away. I pushed him back, putting distance between us, but he grabbed my ankle and pulled me back. “Mack.”

He held me there, grip like iron, and pinned my right wrist up above my head. His lips brushed against my throat. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. But before you open your pretty lips, think about the last time you let me touch you.”

“Stop,” I whispered.

He leaned down, lips to my ear. “Just this once, princess. I’ll listen just this once. But the next time you look at me with your mouth hanging open and those eyes begging me to slide my cock between your legs and ruin you, I’m going to taste your dripping wet arousal. Do you understand me, Fiona? Just this once.”

Then he pulled back and released me.

I sat there breathing hard, body ringing for him. Just this once. He stood panting above me for several long seconds before disappearing into my bathroom. I leaned my head back and groaned, my skin tingling with need for him, and hating myself for it, hating myself for wanting that monster, hating myself for letting more people die for me—hating myself for thinking only about how good it would feel to let him slide between my legs.