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The image of her in that silver gown poured over her curves beseeched me. She’d looked like a goddess straight out of Greek mythology, gliding across the ballroom with her hand resting in the crook of my elbow and a smile on those red lips as she charmed my family and associates.
Everything about her heated my blood. Those brown eyes filled with innocence. The slender column of her throat begging to be marked with teeth and snapped with a collar. And that mouth that looked best, respectfully, stuffed full of my cock.
Darla Ivy Hill was slowly infusing in my veins like a drug. I wanted nothing more than to sit her over my lap and hand feed her pomegranate seeds so she’d never leave my world.
My very own Persephone.
Each day closer to our wedding night magnified my need to shower her with every inch of my depravity and suck every last drop of her light like the sick motherfucker who preyed on this woman’s every desire.
I’d welcome Darla to the dark side and show her that the underworld had a special throne for a sweet little angel with a feisty side.
Caving in, I texted her, proving that I had no self-control where she was concerned.
Toi et moi, la semaine prochaine.It’s a date. —Zed
No. —Darla
What a shame. I thought you’d be ready to christen your new car. —Zed
Thank you for the car, but no thank you to dinner, Zeno. —Darla
And why is that? —Zed
She started typing. Then stopped. Started again and stopped. She was frustrated and that brought a smile to my face.
1) You’re an asshole. 2) You’re forcing me to marry you. 3) You’re blackmailing my family. Therefore, NO to dinner. I don’t want to see your face unless it’s necessary. —Darla
Did you think I was an asshole when I had my tongue down your throat and your ass in my hands? Based on the way you moaned, I’d say no. —Zed
Literally, go fuck yourself. —Darla
I did this morning. To the thought of you and how I’m going to fuck you on our wedding night. —Zed
You’re disgusting and delusional. —Darla
I think the word you’re looking for is romantic. —Zed
Go bother someone else, Zeno. I’m busy. —Darla
Then why are you on your phone, Principal Hill? —Zed
I chuckled when she sent me the middle finger.
Of course, I replied with a kissing face emoji.
Miles Moretti lived in a shithole, just like I predicted. A duplex that was more decay than bricks, with a spiral staircase in the back that led to a flimsy door on the second floor.
I brought a screwdriver and trip wire thinking I’d have to break in. One jig of the doorknob and it gave away. The door creaked as I toed inside, my knife switching open in my gloved hand.
The place was as big as a shoebox and smelled like a hot dumpster, reminding me of my time on the grimy streets of Paris when I was a kid. My fists clenched. Small spaces gave leeway to the bit of claustrophobia I developed after my biological father shut me in closets when I was a ‘misbehaving’ little boy.
Holding my breath, I shouldered through the tiny hallway leading to a bathroom and a bedroom. I entered the latter and paused, figuring out why it smelled so bad.
Blond. Gaunt-looking. Jail rat tattoos. Stained wifebeater and jeans that were more holes than denim.
All that was left of Miles Moretti was a rotten corpse.
Shot multiple times, he was lying in a pool of dried blood.
