Ruthless Prince (Dark Syndicate 1)

Emelia is so engrossed in her painting that she doesn’t hear me walk in.

My mother was the same. She’d get lost in her work. I’d seen examples of Emelia’s work when I looked through the boxes the other day, but watching her create something live is another thing.

She has a large canvas set up on the easel. On it she’s painted a stormy sea against the darkness of night, and a midnight black horse with vapid wings riding the water. It’s a dark fantasy.

She gazes out momentarily to the sea outside. Against the night it moves in shadows, looking nothing like her painting. But that’s what she sees, what she still sees as she continues to gaze out the archway.

My gaze travels over her body as her little dress rides up her ass, and I think of all the ways I took her last night. I could have kept going, but I wiped her out. I left her bed this morning in a state of conflict and must have watched her sleep for a full hour before I got up and came in here to sort the place out. I had the idea the other day, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to share this piece of me yet.

Now that I see her in here, I’m glad I have.

I stop paces away. She oblivious to my presence. I don’t like that because anyone could sneak up on her. Not that it’s likely to happen here.

“There’s a horse in the water?” I say as calmly as possible, but she jumps, startled, and turns to face me, clutching her chest. I don’t know how, but she looks more beautiful today than when I left her this morning.

“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” I say.

“You’re home,” she breathes.

“I’m home. See, you don’t have to wonder where I am. Came straight home from work.” That’s a little white lie, but she doesn’t need to know details like that.

I was with Tristan and Andreas, questioning a few people who we knew had links to Vlad. Out of the five we questioned, one lived, but I’m sure he’s very close to the verge of death. That happens when you’re left to bleed out. All five were the worst kind of sick fucks anybody could come across. Right when we happened upon them, they’d kidnapped a young girl who I was sure could be no more than sixteen, and I know they were all getting ready to rape her. Pierbo’s death aside, that was enough for me to end them.

“You came straight home,” the beauty repeats, pulling me from my thoughts. I focus my attention on her because I’m having a repeat of last night.

“I did.”

“Thank you,” she says. I know she’s not talking about me coming home. She’s talking about what I did in here for her.

It’s completely out of character for me.

“For coming straight home?” I ask. That smile I wanted to see appears on her face. The smile just for me.

“No, not for coming straight home. For this. I didn’t know my art stuff came too. This is perfect.”

Here is where I should crush that lightness in her presence toward me. I should place her back in line and stop her in her tracks from feeling for me. But I decided I don’t want us to be that way. Taking her last night was exhilarating because she gave herself to me and allowed me to do what I wanted to her body. Tonight, I want to fuck her hard, the way I like to fuck. That won’t work if she’s scared of me.

I move closer to her, and she sets the paintbrush down.

“Perfect enough for you to see to paint?” I ask, and she nods. “Is that what you see outside?” Ma used to talk like that.

“I do. I see this stuff all the time. It just presents itself in my mind. Sometimes I think I can touch it.”

“Black Pegasus rising from the waters.” There’s a spot that she hasn’t finished, but she’s started painting an orange glow on the water’s surface. “What happens next, Princesca?” I ask, placing emphasis on Princesca. She was only half right about what she said last night. About me calling her that when I was mad at her.

She tenses at the word, and the smile recedes from her face. I catch her face before that pretty little mind of hers starts wondering.

“I like calling you that. That’s all. I’m not mad.”

“I’m not a Princesca though.”

I chuckle. “You are mine. Now answer the question.” I motion back to the painting and release her.

“It’s a portal in the sea. The horse is going back to the land it came from. Beyond the portal is a reflection of this world. Mirror images of itself.”

I gaze back, fascinated by what I hear. “That’s impressive.”

“Thank you. Your mother’s paintings are beautiful.”