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The man I love is a hellspawn.
Killing is a way of life for him, and the diabolical part of him enjoys it, too. He is what Annie’s novels call a “serial unaliver”, and he just locked my jaw in an iron grip, glaring at me like he wasn’t sure whether to fuck me or to kill me.
Probably both.
While I’m still wearing the butt plug he put inside me.
His killer instincts fire up every single time another man even looks at me, which could make this relationship a hazard for everybody around us. The only males he tolerates are the other Kings, and maybe his gang of bikers, but even with them there’s often a suspicious look on his face, like he doesn’t trust them around me.
My eyes graze over Rufus’ large form, lying like a slain starfish on the ground, with a knife embedded in his throat. I can’t help but shiver. The scent of blood grows heavier with every thought that unfurls in my head, my eyes wandering between the pools of blood extending from under Rufus and from under the pile of bodies.
“We should probably get that thing out of here,” I manage. “It could blow up any second.”
“Yes, it could,” Micah says, his eyes slowly rising to me like poisonous rakes. I push my back against the bookcase. “But will it?” He points his knife at a tiny, barely noticeable metal button on the small device and grins at me for a freezing second before he pushes it down.
Time stands still.
Yet when I take my next breath, I’m still alive.
“You know,” he says with incredible calm as he rises slowly to his feet, “under other circumstances, I would have considered letting it go off myself. Like for example, if you weren’t here. If it was just me and all these bodies. It can still be detonated, of course, if it’s connected to an outside device. Most likely a phone or a computer that we don’t have access to. So the thing is still dangerous, and we shouldn’t leave here until it’s safe for everybody else.” He steps over Rufus’ spread legs and traps me against the bookcase. A flash of him making me kneel runs through my mind, and my thighs clench. My ass tightens against the butt plug, and sensation shoots from my core to the rest of me.
Fucking hell, what’s wrong with me? I can’t possibly be turned on by the idea of him making me suck him off among bleeding bodies, while people are being shot and cut into pieces next door, and while that bomb could go off any moment. I can’t, I won’t accept it about myself. I shake my head to pull myself together, but he grabs my jaw again with the hand holding the knife, forcing me to look at him. This time, I see more than just violence in his gaze. I see a wounded beast.
“I would never harm you, Eva, and it hurts me that you don’t know that by now. If I wasn’t destined to die in some ditch some day, I might have forced you to marry me. And even if I found you on your knees for other guys again and again, I’d still take you back every single time because you’re so fucking addictive.” He’s still holding the gun when he brings his hand up and gently strokes my cheek with it. The gesture puts crazy fucking butterflies in my stomach.
Good God, I’m more fucked up than him.
“But we both know I’m not gonna live long enough to do all that.”
“Don’t say that,” I whisper.
“I want no lies between us tonight.”
My hands wander up his chest, my arms coiling around his neck. I half expect him to push me away, but no. He keeps still, letting me do it. I push myself against his weapon-strapped body, drunk on the scent of danger, leather, and blood. I want to feel those lips so badly, I’m not even thinking straight anymore, or maybe my brain is just desperate to cope with the mayhem all around us, and is hooking itself onto our only escape.
Our feelings for each other.
This fucked up, insane desire that we share.
Because if there shall be no lies between us tonight, and we could be blown to pieces any second, then we might as well start by admitting that what we have is sick. I beg him with my eyes to kiss me as they hang on his lips, but he won’t budge. Maybe he just likes to see me like this, utterly dependent on him, hanging on his every breath.
“Won’t you take me, Micah? One last time?” My need for him swells like a wave.
“You want us to fuck standing in a pile of dead bodies?” He says, daring me to admit to my own fucked-up desires.
“I love you, Micah,” I confess, resting one hand against his muscled chest. It’s iron-hard, so hard that I can’t feel a heartbeat beneath my palm. Yet his soul, his black, violent, tortured soul, it pulses in there, and this time I connect to it without fear. “I love you, demons and all. And I want to feel you one last time.”
“What if—” His jaw locks, but I can’t let him stop talking now. I need every word he has to say.
“Yes?” I invite, rubbing my leg against his thigh through the split in my dress.
“What if I want more?”
“More?” I breathe.
He grabs my ass, applying pressure on the crack, making me feel the butt plug deeper.
“Say we survive this,” he purrs. “Say I then fight my doom, and beat the odds.” His eyes drop to my lips as he runs the barrel of his gun over them. “Say I cheat fate. Would you stay my woman, knowing what I am?” He looks around, reminding me of the death and destruction he just produced. “I won’t stop killing, Eva. As long as I breathe, people will die by my hand. And I wonder.” He runs the gun down my chin, my neck, to my chest and finally rests it against my pussy.
