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But I can’t do that.
I won’t do that.
And neither will she.
She’s a princess, and she’s not going to surrender her territory, not going to run without a fight, not going to bend the knee.
Amelia smiles now, and suddenly that clawing uncertainty is washed away by a flood of warm emotion, giving me a glimpse of an underlying reality to this space-and-time façade, this surreal stage where we’re just actors playing roles, participating in the grand drama of life and death, sex and violence, fate and destiny, always and forever.
And our forever has to take this path.
I know it and she knows it.
“Come on, baby,” I say, holding out my arms, smiling reassuringly at my princess. “I’ll catch you. Jump.”
Amelia blinks and nods, and I wonder if she just got that same glimpse of a seething vivid dimension giggling beneath this oh-so-serious surface reality. Either way, she snaps out of that frozen state and leaps into my arms, wedding dress billowing up like white feathers of some beautiful bird.
I catch her easily, put her down on the grass, then disable the signal-jammer, take my princess’s hand, lead her quickly towards the back of the Romero mansion.
“There’s an old storm cellar that leads into the basement,” I say softly as we hide behind a marble statue of Michelangelo’s David pissing into the air. What is it with these Italian sculptures and their tiny dicks. “Hopefully the passageway is still open, not bricked up.”
Amelia nods. Her face is flushed red with what I know is an intoxicating mix of fear and excitement. My heart floods with warmth when I realize she’s got real courage, real spunk.
And real love.
The kind of love that’s raw and reckless.
The kind of love that’s all or nothing.
The same kind of love that burns in my blood.
The lush grounds of the Romero Estate whiz past like a blur as we dodge behind manicured bushes and crouch behind marble statues. Minutes later we’re at the old wooden doors leading to the storm cellar.
There’s a big shiny padlock with a six-digit combination. With a disdainful grunt I slide my German-made portable bolt-cutters from my gear-belt and cut the lock like it’s a strand of spaghetti.
The doors open outward, releasing a musty cloud that tells me the passage hasn’t been used in a while but is still open, not boarded or bricked up.
“Don’t scream if a spider falls on you, little Miss Muffet,” I whisper, leading her into the dark underground passage, deeper down the rabbithole, burrowing towards our future, our fate, our forever.
Amelia giggles with nervous energy as I lead her through cobwebs and past dust-bunnies. We’re in the mansion basement now, surrounded by old wooden furniture covered in white sheets, adding to the spookily surreal sense of danger that’s making us tremble like thieves.
We steal our way up the basement stairs, and now I snap into battle-ready focus, keeping my body in front of her, gun drawn and ready.
But there’s nobody in the house. I know it in my gut, that instinctive sense developed from years of stealth and stalking, hiding and hunting.
The mansion’s layout is fresh in my mind even though it’s been years since I was here. I lead Amelia up the grand staircase to the second floor, then down the marble-tiled hallway to the East Wing, which was always Ralph’s part of the house—even though the entire mansion is his now.
All this would be Amelia’s too if she’d married him, I think as I lead her into the master bedroom and notice her flinch at the sight of the king-sized bed.
Possessive rage floods my brain, and I almost crush her hand before bringing myself back under control. Something about seeing that bed drives me almost insane with anger, like the very thought that Ralph might have touched my Amelia, my woman, my fuckingproperty, is triggering a dangerous need to kill the bastard, rip him to shreds like the animal I am, the beast I am, the predator I am.
Yeah, there’s something about that ancient sense of competition for a woman. It lives in every alpha man, that raging need to not just keep your own woman’s pussy locked down tight for your cock alone but also to possess another man’s woman, like deep down we’re all still apes who look at the other apes and want what they have.
Amelia glances at me like she senses the alpha beast growling in my core. I force a tight smile, gesture with my head towards the walk-in closet. “We’ll wait in there. Shouldn’t be long now.”
The walk-in closet is bigger than some apartments. Rows of tailored Italian suits, designer ties, silk shirts. Handmade Italian-leather shoes lined up beneath the clothes. Big feet, I notice as my blood rises again, that jealous rage ripping through me even though I know in my heart Amelia is mine, that her love is true.
Then I notice Amelia surveying Ralph Romero’s wardrobe like she’s evaluating the man she was about to marry, the man she was going to spread her legs for, the man whose dick she was going to allow inside her pussy.
