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He stares, the fight draining from his face.
Then he nods.
Because he understands that he’s in the room with a fucking animal now.
I turn and see that my Popstar has just closed the door to the hallway. She jogs over to Sparky and leans down, scooping him up.
My chest expands, but I fight it all done.
Fight. Kill. Protect.
That’s all I am now.
“Damian, what do we do?” she whimpers.
“Go back to the bedroom. Get some clothes. We’re leaving.”
Something in my voice stops her questions, her fears, from surfacing. She stares at me for a moment and then her eyes settle, and she nods. Because she knows, too, that Damian isn’t here anymore.
I’m just a naked man with two guns taken from the Bratva and I’ve been trained to kill my whole life.
She goes, and I raise the guns and stalk toward the door. I nudge it open and peer up and down the hallway.
It’s silent, too damn silent.
After all the noise we just made, the whole place should be alive with activity.
I shut the door, and then drag the heavy marble corner table and lean it against it, my arms straining and sweat sliding down my skin. I cross paths with the men.
I notice that one is still unconscious from the blow with the vase, but the one beneath the cabinet is just pretending to be unconscious, his body too stiff, his breathing irregular.
He’s waiting.
I pass him by, purposefully getting close enough for him to lunge.
He springs at me and I wheel around, spinning and then bringing the whole force of the momentum down on his head, crushing him against the floor with my fist.
He cries out and then grows dead-quiet, stiffening for a moment before he finally starts to breathe again, deep in violent dreams.
“You try to take my woman?” I growl, rising up. “My family?”
Dakota comes rushing back in, her hair in a no-bullshit bun, wearing the sweatpants and T-shirt I ordered for her. Even now, I can’t help but indulge in the way the T-shirt clings to her breasts, still suck-me-now round and juicy even in her bra. Her nipples are needy as fuck and still stick through.
“Damian,” she says, glaring. Her arms are wrapped around a bundle of clothes, my clothes. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?” I smirk.
She nods insistently and I look down at my massive rock hard cock.
“Okay, bad timing,” I chuckle grimly.
Fuck, I need to stay cold, detached, and joking around isn’t part of that.
“Hand me the clothes,” I snap.
She flinches.
“Okay, rude,” she sasses.
“Not now, Popstar,” I say, smirking despite myself.
“This is crazy,” she whispers, our hands touching briefly as she hands me the clothes. She clutches my fingers for a moment. “Really freaking crazy. Promise me we’re in this together?”
“Always,” I snarl. “Everything I do, everything I am, it’s for you, Dakota. Don’t you get it? That’s the other half of me owning you. You own me, too. It’s me and you against the whole world, so fuck any asshole that was mean to you in high school, fuck the bastards whoever tried to take advantage of you, fuck those pricks who couldn’t see how curvy and attractive you are—fuck them and fuck the Bratva and fuck it all, alright, except for me, you, Sparky, and our children. Understand? That’s an order, you dirty little sex-goddess.”
I bare my teeth and step away because the beast in me is so loud now I could easily fuck her right here, in front of Sparky and the Bratva men, my lust taking over until I’d railroad her against the wall, pommeling her pink pussy until it was all red and creamy and well-used from my indulgence.
And then turn her over and fuck those tits until she’s good and slippery down there for me, and just smash her and watch her bounce sexily for me.
I shake my head and turn away.
“You’re an animal,” she whispers behind me.
“I know,” I grunt.
“I can’t even understand how you’re thinking about that right now.”
“You want to be glad I am,” I growl, pulling on my briefs quickly … which is difficult with my in-the-way cock to contend with. I push it aside and wedge it down my thigh. “When one primal part of a man wakes up, it doesn’t come alone. Every part of him becomes more primal. Do you understand, Popstar?”
I pull on the shirt and button it with swift fingers, slowing my breathing, focusing my instincts.
“I don’t think so,” she says.
“It means that you should be happy that I could bend you over here and fuck you ragged and not give a damn what noises you made as long as I got to fire my hot seed into your cunt. You should be glad, Dakota, because it means I’ll also hammer in the face of anybody who tries to hurt you. It means I’ll crush their throats and do all the fucked-up things men are meant to do to protect their women. You hear me?”
