Sweet Retribution (Ruthless Games 2)

“And you accepted her bargain.” I force the words out past unwilling lips.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Marcus is alive. He’s alive.

The thing I prayed for, that I hoped for even when it seemed nearly impossible, is true.

So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?

“Yeah.” He nods, his face unreadable. “I did.”

“That’s…” I swallow, licking my lips. “That’s good. You should—”

Marcus growls, closing the space between us in three strides. His steps are a little uneven, and he grimaces in pain as his large hand wraps around my jaw, cutting my words off.

“No.” He sounds tortured. “Don’t fucking finish that thought, angel. Nothing about this is good.”

His hand is shaking, and I can’t tell if it’s from the effort of staying upright or the violent emotions cascading through him. His pupils are blown out, overtaking the blue and brown of his irises as his features twist with agony.

“There have been dozens of times over the past two weeks when I wished I hadn’t done it,” he says harshly. “When I wished I’d told her to go fuck herself and died in her goddamn back seat.”

He bares his teeth, his grip on my jaw tightening as he takes another step closer to me, his chest brushing against mine. He’s dressed in a tux just like the other men are, but not even a tuxedo can make this man look civilized.

He’s wild.

Rough.

Untamed.

His voice drops to a low murmur as he gazes down at me, a torrent of emotions raging through his expression. “But I couldn’t do that. I could never do it. I couldn’t let myself die without at least trying to live, Ayla. Because I had to come back to you.”

My breath catches, my heart pounding so hard and fast in my chest that it rattles my entire rib cage. A traitorous tear slips from the corner of my eye and slides down my cheek. “But you didn’t come back to me. You can’t.”

Something sparks in his eyes. Something feral and possessive and dangerous.

His arm wraps around me, his palm meeting the bare skin exposed by the plunging back of my dress, and he tugs me tight against him.

He’s hard. His cock throbs against my lower belly, hot and demanding as he stares into my eyes.

This man can barely stand, and yet he’s hard as a rock.

For me.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he lowers his face the last few inches, closing the small distance between us. When his lips brush against mine, all the dead pieces inside of me spark back to life, my entire body responding to that featherlight touch.

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear enough, angel,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over my skin with each word. “When I said you were mine, I fucking meant it. And I’m yours.”

As if that last word is the spark that lights the flame, he crushes his lips against mine, kissing me with such ferocity that I stumble back a step. He comes with me, following me until we crash into the shelving unit behind me. With the shelves at my back, there’s nowhere else for me to go, and Marcus takes full advantage of that fact, kissing me even harder as his body grinds against mine.

My lip is cut, or maybe his is.

Blood flavors our kiss, and the coppery tang of it reminds me of the blood that caked my body when I woke up on the ground in the warehouse district. It reminds me of the warm, wet feeling of Marcus bleeding out on top of me.

It reminds me of how fucking fragile we both are, how tenuous life is.

We’re nothing but blood and bone, and it takes so little to end us.

But Marcus is here.

He’s here.