Bound by Vengeance (Born in Blood Mafia Chronicles 5)

His grip on my wrists didn’t loosen. He did nothing except stare. I knew I should look away. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do if you were faced with a dangerous dog? But I was not just trapped by Growl’s powerful body but also by the terrifying look in his eyes. His breathing was calm, no sign of our fight. For him this was nothing. One of his hands moved lower toward my stomach. My shirt had ridden up during our struggle and revealed the skin beneath. I tensed when Growl put his hand against my stomach. What was he doing? He stared intently at his hand resting against my paler skin. His fingertips and palm barely touched me. Slowly his gaze rose again to meet mine.

Growl was watching me like I was an unknown species, something he couldn’t possibly understand. And perhaps that was true.

I did another half-hearted attempt to free myself but it was almost laughable. Perhaps if he’d been capable of that kind of emotion Growl might have actually laughed about me.

“Stop,” he ordered calmly.

And for some reason I did stop.GROWL

He did have a reputation, and he was proud of it. His reputation was feared, respected, and that was a great deal more than anyone ever expected from someone like him. The son of a whore. The bastard. The boy who never spoke.

He was meant for the gutter.

He’d never had something to himself, never even dared to dream about owning something so precious. He was the unwanted bastard son who’d always had to content himself with the leftovers of others. And now Falcone had given him what only a few weeks ago had been out of his reach, someone he wasn’t even allowed to admire from afar, one of society’s most prized possessions.

Thrown at his feet because he was who he was, because they were certain he would break her. He was her punishment, a fate worse than death, a way to deliver the ultimate punishment to her father who had displeased them so greatly.

And a warning. Nobody would dare opposing Falcone if that meant their precious daughters might end up in the hands of a man like him.

Cara, a name fit for someone like her, someone too beautiful for a place like this, for someone like him. A princess and a monster, that’s what they were.

Wide eyes. Parted lips. Flushed cheeks. Pale skin. She looked like a porcelain doll: big blue eyes, chocolate hair and creamy white skin; breakable beautiful, something that he wasn’t meant to touch with his scarred, brutal hands. His fingers found her wrist; her heartbeat was fluttering like a birds. She’d tried to fight, tried to be brave, tried to hurt him, maybe even kill him. Had she truly hoped she could succeed? Hope; it made people foolish, made them believe in something beyond reality. He’d got out of the habit of hoping a long time ago. He knew what he was capable of. She had hoped she could kill him. He knew he could kill her, no doubt about it.

His hand traced the soft skin of her throat, then his fingers wrapped around it. Her pupils dilated but he put no pressure into his touch. Her pulse hammered against his rough palm. He was a hunter, and she the pray. The end was inevitable. He’d come to claim his prize. That’s why Falcone had given her to him.

Growl liked things that hurt. He liked hurting in return. Maybe even loved it; if he were capable of that kind of emotion. He leaned down until his nose was inches from the skin below her ear and breathed in. She smelled flowery sweet with a hint of sweat. Fear. He imagined he could smell that too. He couldn’t resist and he didn’t have to, not anymore, not ever again with her. His. She was his.

He’d never liked sweet things, but perhaps she would change that.

He lowered his lips to her hot skin. Her pulse hummed under his mouth where he kissed her throat. Panic and terror beat a frantic rhythm under her skin. And it made him fucking hard.

Her eyes sought out his, hoping – still hoping the foolish woman – and pleading him for mercy. She didn’t know him, didn’t know that the part of him that hadn’t been born a monster had died a long time ago. Mercy was the furthest thing from his mind as his eyes claimed her body.

He tore at her shirt, revealing inch over inch of immaculate skin. There wasn’t a single scar or blemish. She couldn’t possibly be his. She was too perfect, simply too much.

He curled his fingers around her shoulder. Soft. Softer than any woman he’d touched. None of them had been like her, not even close, not even the same species if you asked him.