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Any mention of my childhood would normally send me into a tailspin that always leaves a trail of bloody destruction. I’ve had fewer urges over the last year. While I can’t attribute all of my progress to Ariah or the twins, they’ve been motivators. They can’t be the only reason. This is my journey, so I have to want it for myself first. That doesn’t mean I won’t turn someone into one of those fancy hedges cut into the Eiffel Tower.
“I’ll take Zoey,” Lilah remarks, prompting me to airplane fly her into Lilah’s arms, and Zoey rewards me with more drool.
Lilah snickers as she exits the room, and I remind myself to skip her Christmas bonus this year.
I’m wiping the last of the baby dribble from my chest when I hear the bathroom door open, turning in time to see my angel.
“Baby drool looks great on you,” Ariah jokes, stepping into the bedroom wrapped in a hunter-green towel.
I’m too busy admiring her to respond with a quip of my own.
“Keep it up, Angel, and you’ll have three babies in you before the night is over.”
“Ouch,” I hiss, rubbing the spot on my arm where Ariah pinched me.
“Owen!”
Laughing, I reply, “What? Too soon?” Earning me another pinch. Then I grab her waist, scooping her up and pushing her against the wall. My dick is out and slamming inside her before she takes a full breath.
This time, when she calls my name, it’s like a prayer, pleading for more. “Someone’s in need of a good fuck,” I growl into Ariah’s ear as my hips thrust inside her.
Ariah’s pussy wraps around my cock like a vice, enveloping me in its warmth as the sounds of her wetness fill the space between us.
“O-o-o. . . wen-n-n. . .” she screams when I pull out and then drive my shaft deep, groaning when her walls flutter.
“That’s it, Angel. Feed me those fucking screams.” I double my pace, sliding my fingers between our bodies, spreading her pussy lips, and flicking her clit.
Her legs wrap around my waist, urging me forward while her nails dig into my back. “Fuck, harder,” I demand, welcoming the sting when she breaks the skin. My grin grows at the thought of the crescent-shaped marks I’ll wear like a badge of honor.
“I’m so fucking cl—” Ariah shouts as her back bows, her pussy spasms, clamping on my cock so hard my cum shoots out in one long spurt, but I fuck through it.
“I need you to come for me one more time, Angel,” I instruct, lifting my hand from her clit to her neck, then squeeze.
Ariah’s head begins to tip back. “Don’t you fucking dare look away from me. I want to see the look in your eyes when I split this fucking tight pussy in half.”
Gripping her throat, I set the pace, guiding her up and down my shaft, my balls slapping her ass with each stroke. My hips snap forward, then pull partially out, sitting at her entrance before slowly sliding back in. I repeat this two more times, then slam inside. Her shrill screams of pleasure almost deafen me as she topples over the edge, and I quickly follow.
“Do you know what pisses me off more than anything, Glen?” I ask the schmuck I should’ve killed that night, ignoring the Council’s instructions to show mercy. Fuck mercy. That asshole can sit next to forgiveness at the ‘no’ table because that’s what I’ll be shoving down every fucker’s throat who underestimates us from now on.
Glen being trussed up like a chicken next to his idiot uncle seems fitting since Byron Matthews and his nephew are a pivotal part of the shitstorm of the last two years.
“Imagine our surprise when we discovered how involved you were in Matthew Baker’s plans, Byron,” Lev confesses, his tone deceptively calm. Then, he turns up the temperature of the incinerator.
Glen tries to peer in his uncle’s direction but is too weak to lift his head. They’re both hanging face down from a beam in the warehouse—their hands bound to their feet, making a “U.”
This is our fifth time working out here. The Jacobis never miss. The twenty-eight-thousand-foot, sleek, modern building is perfect. There are over two dozen rooms of pain with plenty of space for more. Today’s room is aptly named, ‘What you got cookin’.’
“Arms getting sore, there?” Sebastian taunts them. “Probably won’t be too much longer before they fall entirely out of their sockets.
Wes strolls into the room with five one gallon-size bottles of cooking oil. “I hope I haven’t missed out on all the fun,” he says, placing four of the jugs on the table before uncapping the one still in his hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I already told you guys everything I knew,” Glen rushes out. “I-I w-wouldn’t lie. I don’t know anything else.”
“Shut up, you sniveling idiot,” Byron wheezes.
A whirring sounds just before Sebastian swings the crowbar, striking Byron’s side. “I’d save your breath if I were you—wouldn’t want to trigger your asthma and suffocate.”
Patting Glen’s cheek, I add, “Your uncle here, Glenny boy, hung you out to fry—literally.”
