Dark Queen

Both.

I want to fuck her pretty, pouty mouth, eat her wet pussy until she’s crying for mercy, all while fingering her tight little ass that’s no doubt never been touched.

“Shit,” I rasp, stroking harder. My balls tighten. Warmth spreads over my thighs and up my spine. Her hard nipples come to mind, pushing me over the edge.

“Fuck…” Ribbons of cum spurt pulsing from my bulging head. It’s not enough.

Dammit, I’m going to kill Marcello.

Chapter Fourteen

Alyssa

“How do you know him?” Hannah asks, offering me a towel. I’d rushed to the staff bathroom needing to clean the wound.

I watch her through the mirror placed above a large basin.

“He was at my ballet school the day I auditioned.” I inhale, trying to regain my equilibrium. He knocked me off kilter.

“Is he affiliated with Swan somehow?” I ask, breathless, clutching the sides of the basin to steady myself.

Crossing her arms, she shakes her head, leaning against the tiled wall, examining me. “Not that I know of, but the Leto’s have their name in everything, so who knows.”

She places a hand on my arm, her brow dipping low. “They’re dangerous men, Alyssa. Be careful, okay?”

Silence sits between us for a second and then she’s leaving, the door closes with her exit, and my head races.

What does she mean dangerous? In what way?

My hands jitter the effect of him still coursing through my body.

Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths before checking myself in the mirror, “you’re fine, it’s all fine.”

The bleeding has stopped, so I splash some cold water on my cheeks straighten my shirt and head back out to finish my shift.

I work the next hour, the constant feeling of being watched making my skin itch.

Every nerve in my body is raw. I just want to go back to my room and try to unpack everything that’s happened and make sense of it all.

Clearing my last table of wine glasses, I turn and almost drop them when dark orbs track my movements from a barstool.

Like Mr. Leto, this man is dressed impeccably, but his toothy grin is nothing like the predatory one belonging to his friend.

“It’s you,” I breathe, squinting my eyes at him.

“It’s you.” He taps his palm on the stool next to him.

“You’re a Leto,” I say, the pieces coming together like a lightbulb turning on.

“You’re perceptive, but no. We’re actually related through our mothers. I’m Marcello Benetti.” He offers his hand for me to shake, and I timidly give it a quick tug.

My hand is so much smaller than his, it becomes cocooned in his palm.

“But you are related,” I state. Slipping onto the barstool next to him, I fist my hands in my lap, wishing I had the little ballerina doll to jab into my thigh to relieve the anxiety Hannah’s warning left me with.

“Cousins, but more like brothers. I lost my father when I was a teenager and spent most of my time at Luca’s. He’s not always an asshole.” He tilts his head, his eyes dipping over my face.

He pauses on my lips where my cut throbs. Luca? He looks like a Luca—or a Lucifer.

“It’s been a tough few months for him.”

Silence, then, “His mother dying…that’s something you can relate to.”

The bartender, Joelle, places a drink in front of him, and he picks it up, taking a sip.

I scrutinize him, unsure if he’s trying to be sincere or let me know he looked into me, knows personal information.

Bringing up someone’s dead parent is ballsy and oddly intimate. We all have that in common, how poetic.

I don’t address it, opting for the question burning a hole through my brain like a red-hot poker instead.

“What’s his connection to Swan Academy?” I ask, hoping he’ll appreciate my no bullshit approach.

He picks up a handful of some fancy nut mix Hannah puts out on the bar. It’s an assortment of nuts and seeds mixed with these stick looking things. It looks like it belongs in a bird-feeder.

“Actually, he has no connection to that place. It was his mother, my aunt. She was an admirer of the ballet. Used to tell us there wasn’t sophistication in the world like there used to be, but ballet always enriched and we had to appreciate and support the arts.”

I wonder briefly about this woman.

Did she have a long illness also?

Was he happy she was gone?

“So, he’s a benefactor?” I ask, and the pit in my stomach opens.

The way he looks at me, dissecting, feeding from my movements, my reactions, makes me feel exposed.

He’s rubbing at the raw nerves left behind from my interaction with Mr. Leto…Luca.

He throws another nut to the back of his throat, then licks his tongue over his teeth. “Aunt Marissa left a donation in her will. Luca wanted to hand deliver it. End of.”

He side-eyes me, and although I don’t know anything about him, I do know he’s not telling the full truth.