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Did my hands just sweat? A fist grips my heart as I wait for her answer.
“I am in love with you, Sade. It would be stupid to deny that.”
“But?”
“But please,” she continues, her cheeks pink and her lips trembling, “whatever you have planned for these two,” she jerks her chin behind me at those sorry-asses, “don’t. I’m sure there are other ways to be together than spilling their blood.”
“I warned you, Justine, and I warned everybody else. If they tried to take you away from me, I was gonna make Michael Myers look like a Disney prince. And you know I always keep my promises.”
I step to the side, my arm still around her waist so we can admire my handiwork together.
Both Dogg and Dean’s faces are hardly recognizable. I’ve been keeping the latter in a shed on my property for weeks, but he only got this beating today. Both of their eyes are swollen, their noses busted and crooked at weird angles that make their faces Halloween-worthy, and they’ve both pissed themselves.
“Fucking Flying Dutchman,” she whispers, half in horror, half in awe.
“Don’t worry, princess, they had a fair chance. I offered them a way out of this–a fair fight.” I motion toward the stains of blood on the floor, and only now she notices the spiked club and the chain under their twitching feet. “Those were their weapons of choice. All I had were my fists.”
I could burst out laughing, remembering how they glanced at each other like hungry hyenas before they threw themselves at me. They would have clubbed me to death if they could. Too bad only three people in the world actually stand a chance, and two of them are Micah. It’s not enough to be one of the highest elites to become a King. You need to be forged into a weapon, a god of violence. Dogg Wilson? He hijacked his entry to the club, and he was bound to pay for it sooner or later.
He pissed me off before, when he took the rightful King’s place, but I might have let him ride a while longer. He wasn’t on my list of priorities. But the moment he set his sights on Justine, he signed his fucking death sentence.
“What do you plan to do with them?”
My eyes flick over to the cameras. They’re rolling, but the sound isn’t on.
“Come, I’ll show you something.”
We walk behind the cameras.
“This is for you,” I say to her before I remove the block on sound. Then I work the panel next to me, so the projection goes to the university building.
“Justine Pracht,” I begin, my voice booming from the loudspeakers. Justine winces, but I tighten my grip on her waist, moving behind her to steady her.
She looks around, realizing what’s happening, and my bloody hands travel down her body. I part the sides of her dress, my fingers hooking into the garters.
“These men have grieved you,” I go on. We’re behind the cameras where no one can see us, but the entire school can hear. “One of them tried to destroy your reputation, while the other banked on that. What punishment do you see fit for them?” I push my cock into her ass, a promise and a threat.
“What, I–”
“It’s in your hands. You can play this game however you wish, there is just one rule–they can’t come within more than an inch of their lives. The nice policemen who interrogated you are already on their way to retrieve them–both victim and perpetrator.”
“Perpetrator?” Of course she’s confused. I grin behind the mask. I’ve been looking forward to this part.
“Yes, you see, it was Mr. Dogg Wilson who kidnapped and tortured poor Mr. Rowland for days out of sick jealousy. He’d had a fixation with you for months. Gertrude Fairfell can attest to that, she saw his fixation in action at the Royales mansion a few days ago.”
My ravishing Maleficent looks up at me over her shoulder, the question loud and clear in her eyes–will Gertrude play along with this? I nod. Yes, she will. That still doesn’t answer her most urgent silent question–why on Earth?–but she’ll find out soon enough.
“Of course, you must be wondering where that leaves me in the story,” I continue, grinding into her buttocks, my fingers hooked into her garters to keep her in place. “Let’s just say my grievances with these two gentlemen are my own. Or that I’m a vigilante out to tax injustice. Or a psycho, for all I care.” Then, softly in her ear, “I sure am a psycho for you.”
She studies them, and I expect her to beg me to let them go any moment now. My pretty poet has the soul of an angel. I’m the only thing that taints it.
“I want them on their knees, confessing their crimes against me. And begging for forgiveness.”
My fists tighten into her garters. Fuck, that turns me on.
I lean over her shoulder and kiss her cheek through the mask.
“Your wish is my command.”
