The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“What consequences?” Clare squeaks.

Ignoring that, I take another sip of the drink, tasting the sweet freshness of lime and vodka against my tongue. Then I kiss her, letting the liquor mix between our mouths.

This time, Clare doesn’t pull back. In fact, she gives in to the kiss, like this drink is drugged with much more than a shot of vodka. My mouth is the drug, my breath in her lungs the irresistible anesthetic.

Clare is a true submissive.

She just never knew it until this moment.

She kisses me. And she swallows.

“Good girl,” I say.

Clare flushes pink.

“Stand up,” I order.

Clare stands, stumbling slightly.

“Hold still…”

Pulling a knife from my pocket, I flick open the blade. Before Clare can shy away, I cut the dress off her body with five swift slashes. I make the cuts quick and brutal, but I’m more careful than she could know to protect that baby-soft skin.

Now Clare stands in her bra and panties, black and composed of thin, gauzy material. I can see her nipples through the bra, standing out in hard, dark points.

She stares down at her feet, unable to meet my eyes.

“Turn around,” I say. “Show me what I stole.”

Slowly she rotates, giving me a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of her body. Clare’s figure is soft and surprisingly full. Her breasts are larger than I expected, well balanced by a plump white ass. Her waist nips in to form a pleasing hourglass shape, and her thighs are smooth and creamy. Every part of her looks gentle, vulnerable, exquisitely soft. She looks as if she’s never been touched by a human hand.

I want to touch her.

I want to mark her.

I want to make her mine and mine alone.

“Did you wear that black underwear for me?” I growl. “Don’t you fucking lie…”

Her cheeks flame and her legs tremble beneath her.

“Yes,” she hisses. “Before I knew what an asshole you were going to be.”

I grab her by the face, tilting up her chin, forcing her to look at me.

“You knew exactly what I was,” I say. “I warned you right from the start.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “You said you were a killer. But now you’re saying you were framed…”

“I was framed,” I growl, my fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her jaw. “By your fucking father.”

“Why would he do that?” Clare asks, her dark eyes wide and innocent looking.

She seems genuinely confused. But I’ve been around the block too many times to fall for a sweet baby face.

“That’s what you’re going to tell me,” I inform her.

“But I don’t know anything!”’

Her voice is practically a wail.

I let go of her face.

“That may be,” I say. “But there’s only one way to find out…”

Clare expects me to push her back down on the bed. Instead I shove her against the wall, where a bevy of shackles and bonds dangle from the ceiling, with manacles bolted directly into the plaster on either side.

If she were a man, we’d be handling this very, very differently.

Perhaps even if she were a different sort of woman.

But there’s something about Clare that brings out a new creativity in me—a torturer’s genius. She’s my muse, and this body is a flawless canvas begging to be painted every shade of pink, red, and purple.

I winch her bound hands overhead, tying them in place. Then I kick her feet apart, stooping to shackle each ankle in a spread position. Finally, I grab the blindfold from around her neck, covering her eyes once more.

“What are you doing?” Clare cries, turning her head helplessly to track my movement, even though she can no longer see a thing. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy this…”

I open the chest at the foot of the bed, perusing the tools at hand.

Clare flinches as the hinges creak open, her breasts rising and falling rapidly in the flimsy cups of the bra. Her nipples are harder than ever, from fear or anticipation.

I pull out a vibrating wand.

I flip the switch, the buzzing noise as angry as an agitated beehive.

Clare lets out a shriek, her arms stiffening overhead. She tries to close her legs but it’s impossible with her ankles shackled to the wall.

“Now tell me, Clare,” I say, making her jump as she realizes how soundlessly I’ve crossed the room, how close I’m standing to her. “Tell me who your father’s been meeting with. Tell me who comes to the house.”

“I don’t even live with him!” she cries.

“Don’t play stupid. You’ve seen something. Who came to your birthday party?”

“Uh… um…” she’s panting, hyperventilating, unsure what tool I’m holding in my hand, and what I’ll do to her if I don’t get the answers I need.

I zap her nipple with the wand, making her jolt as if she was electrocuted.

“Chief Parsons!” she shrieks. “He came to the party! I saw him go into my father’s office…”