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The villain within me grew bolder, colder, hungrier.
The guffaws of men elbowing each other at the mention of tag-teaming Ily in the dungeons kept me clinging to the rapidly fraying hero inside me, but the idea of me being the one to chain her, bruise her, fuck her—
Christ, stop it.
Balling my hands, I went over my plan for after this twisted dinner party.
Step one, wait until everyone is drunk and passed out.
Step two, head up to Victor’s office and break in.
Step three, find the signal scrambler and turn it off just long enough for my birdcage cufflinks to send out their godforsaken GPS coordinates.
Step four, turn the scrambler back on.
Step five, go to bed.
Step six, wake to the sounds of helicopters and machine gun fire as my brother rains bullets on every bastard here.
Excluding me…hopefully.
As long as I didn’t hurt Ily and she remained complicit in my deception, I wasn’t a bastard. Sure, I dabbled with the edge of that definition, but if I never straight-up raped her, then…I wouldn’t have to die.
Merde, can you hear yourself?
You painted her with your cum.
You spurted inside her like a schoolboy because for the first time in your miserable life, sex actually felt good.
You’re suffering a goddamn crush, for fuck’s sake!
That was the worst part.
I wished Victor had never used that word.
I wished my mind hadn’t twisted it into an obsession.
I was twenty-fucking-nine years old, and I’d never had a crush. I’d lusted after the thought of lust but never felt the real deal because no girl had given me the time of day.
They’d sensed something off about me.
Avoided the beast within.
The fact that Ily had poked my monster awake the moment our eyes met was the epitome of inconvenient, but then again, perhaps my wretched heart had done me a favour. The more I saw her as fragile and breakable, the longer I could withstand my tendencies and convince myself that I’d been wrong about everything.
Wrong about what I wanted.
Wrong about who I was deep, deep inside.
After my little breakdown in the shower, I could almost convince myself that I was normal and dwelling in this depraved utopia—where slaves existed and Masters ruled—was the worst existence imaginable.
If it wasn’t for the fucking whisper saying I’d finally found where I belonged, I could almost pretend I was cured.
Clenching my teeth, I shut off my thoughts.
I was sick of thinking.
Tonight, I had a performance to play. Then, when everyone had crashed, I’d send Q my location and end this.
