One hit had me craving another.
And another.
And another.
Before I knew it, she was my addiction—my queen.
I’ve seen many men in my industry fooled with promises of power and wealth, but Justine didn't need smoke and mirrors to secure my attention. She merely played the role she was destined to fulfill from the moment she entered my realm with the heart of a warrior and the face of an angel.
Growing accustomed to the envious glances she is forever subjected to, Justine returns the men’s admiring stares, but her eyes are not glazed with the poisonous snake venom mine are laced with. She shows them a side of her I’ve always seen, that sheis a gift from heaven, the reason I wake every day and rest every evening. She thinned the black veins woven around my heart just enough to keep me from fully succumbing to the darkness that enshrouded my life twelve months ago, but she kept them thick enough that no man will be game to test my devotion of her.
If Justine can’t already read my every thought, my demand for Roman to travel with us will have her hearing them loud and clear. Her enticing cunt is still bare as per my request this morning when I discovered our day would be spent apart, but the wishes of my cock can’t enter the equation.
Justine’s safety must remain my utmost priority. She comes before anything—even my cock’s insatiable need to be surrounded by her warmth.
Spotting my wordless request, I expect Justine to come out fighting like she did when I shipped her to Hopeton a year ago, to argue that not even I have the right to tell her what to do, but, shockingly, she slides into the back seat of the SUV without uttering a syllable.
The lack of panty line on her skin-tight skirt has me detesting my somewhat manic protectiveness. My cock was only surrounded by her heat a mere three hours ago, but the marathon of events we take on each day made our hard and quick fuck during our trip seem the equivalent of foreplay. I’m dying for another hit of my greatest addiction.
A growl rumbles in my chest when I slide into the SUV on Roman's tail. My battle just grew tenfold. The interior of my car smells like Justine’s skin intermingled with mine. It's an intoxicating scent that has my cock bracing against the zipper in my trousers.
I still can't believe I'm wearing a monkey suit. I said months ago that I'd don a jacket and tie if it guaranteed me a taste of Justine. Our fuck on the way to the restaurant made my effort worthwhile. If Justine weren't so deep in thought, I'd test the theory for a second time. Alas, even with our SUV surrounded by goons paid to protect her, in her head, she's already halfway to Hopeton.
Justine continues her silent stance for our thirty-minute trip to the Popov compound. Her lips don’t even twitch when the housemaids fuss over her as they do every time she’s in their presence. The only time she’s drawn from her thoughts is when they remove her handbag and shoes from her grasp before advising her our room has been set up as specified.
That piques my interestas much as it does Justine’s. While her throat works hard to swallow, her wide-with-lust eyes wander to mine. They have the same doe-eyed look they held in the seconds leading to us entering the restaurant that had members of my family and crew lying in wait to surprise me.
“How many more surprises are you hiding up your sleeve,Ahren?" My tone is huskier than usual, my accent more pronounced from the lust heating my blood.
Justine's eyes flare, thickening my veins even more. MyAhrenis on the hunt, and she has her sights firmly locked on one man: me.
“More than you’ll ever realize,” she whispers as her fingers interlock with mine.
Smiling a sheepish grin, she guides us toward our bedroom. Although her brother’s impending release had her forgetting what established tonight’s celebration, her focus has returned stronger than ever.
I wouldn’t have been bothered if it didn’t. Men in my industry don’t celebrate birthdays—not when they represent surviving another year in hell—but things are different now. Each day I have with Justine is a blessing because she doesn’t strive to save me from my miserable existence, she merely removes me from it.
That's why I requested that she stop using contraception over a month ago. I want an heir, not just to take over my reign when I'm no longer capable of leading my crew, but to have someone I can love and protect as much as I do Justine.
For my entire childhood, anything I loved, Vladimir took. It didn’t matter what it was: a soft toy, a friendly housemaid, or an uncle who wasn’t related by blood. If I cherished it in any way, he took it from me.
In the beginning, I thought his disdain resulted from me taking more of my mother’s genes than his. As the years passed, so did my stupidity.
Vladimir knew all along that I wasn't his son. He only raised me as if I were because he wanted to brainwash me into killing my real father. Although I don't have a drop of Popov blood in my veins, I did precisely that when Vladimir fell victim to my knife a little over twelve months ago.
Blood doesn't make you family. Respect and honor do. Vladimir garnered the admiration of his followers the wrong way. He forced it with fearful tactics I was too young and foolish to comprehend.
You can guarantee I won’t make the same mistake.
I have the respect of thousands and the fear of millions, but none of it compares to the love and adoration I have for Justine. She taught me that you can scare a boy into obeying you, but you can’t scare a man into respecting you.
I plan to install those values into our child when he or she is born. I’ll show them how to lead without the sadistic, body-maiming tricks Vladimir used on me my entire life. It won’t be easy—I’m a natural-born killer—but with my queen at my side guiding me, I have no doubt I’ll achieve a once seemingly impossible task: I’ll rule with both respect and fear.
When our trek down the deserted corridor stops at our door, my eyes lock with Justine’s.“Oh,Ahren. . ." I could say more, but I don't need to. If the thickening in my pants doesn't expose what I'm thinking, the lust firing from my eyes is a sure-fire indication.
My childhood bedroom has been gutted. Not a single piece of its original furniture remains in place. Even though the palette is now feminine and girly, the pieces Justine has refurnished it with cause a virile, manly scent to seep from my pores. They’re items from her apartment: the sofa I first claimed her on as mine, the rug I tackled her on when she tried to chicken out of our game of strip Scrabble. She even has the funky retro wicker seat we sat in when I divulged to her my plan to kill Vladimir.
We were supposed to watch a sunrise. Instead, I claimed her in a way I never knew I wanted but now crave more than anything. I made her wholly mine. There was nothing between us that morning, just as there will be nothing between us this evening—or ever.
