His blood is on my hands, and so is her lipstick. The combination is art.

I stare at the steering wheel, knuckles still burning from the impact, adrenaline still jerking in my veins like live electricity. She’s beside me, clutching onto her clothes like her life depends on it. Like a wounded animal, exactly how I feel.

And I haven’t moved.
Not for the last ten minutes.
Not even looked at her.

Because if I look at her, I’ll ruin her again. I’ll fuck her. I’ll make her cry again. And I don’t know if that’s a warning or a promise.

She’s silent, not crying anymore. Breathing too softly, afraid the sound might provoke the monster.

Me.

I light a cigarette with my hands, though I should be in cuffs. I never force women. Fuck. Why does she have this effect on me?

The smoke curls in my lungs like penance.

Because I can’t look at her right now. I don’t want to remember the way her soft lips split when I pressed too hard. The way her legs trembled when I made her take all of me, even when she begged.

God, that fucking begging.
The only holier than a prayer is her plea, stop whispered like a sin.

And I didn’t stop.
Of course I didn’t.
I never stop when it’s her.

My little muse shifts. Just a little like she wants to speak, but the fear tastes too much like blood.

I should say something.
But what?
Sorry I fingered the cum out of your cunt?
Sorry, I got hard watching you sob into my arms?

I was made for carnage. For war. For fucking things until they forget who they are. I wasn’t made for soft things. And she’s so fucking soft.

I hate that she’s here. In my space. In my air. In my goddamn bloodstream.

She’s calm before my storm and the thunder inside it. She’s the knife I keep pressing into my own skin just to feel something other than the wrath my father raised in me.

He taught me how to bleed others before I even learned to tie my laces. He told me love was for cowards. That mercy was a disease. That women were made to be owned, fucked and forgotten.

But now she’s here.
And I can’t forget a goddamn thing about her.

The sound of her whimpers, moans when I pin her down. The bruises I left like confessions on her hips. The way she looked at me like I was death walking.

Maybe I am.

I flick the cigarette out the window.

“Belt.” I mutter starting the car. My voice is sandpaper and something dark.

She doesn’t.
Disobedient little girl.
Because it fucking urns.
Because I want her to scream at me. Spit in my face so that I can lick it and plunge my tongue into her mouth. Tell me I’m a monster.
Give me a reason to take her to my suite, chain her to the bed and teach her obedience again.

Anything’s better than this silence and my rock hard cock.

I need to do something about it. I can’t fuck her right here. Even though every cell in my body is violently thrashing inside me to taste her pussy and spill my seeds into her.

I glance at her, driving with one hand.

She’s staring ahead.
Eyes empty.
Mouth swollen and neck already starting to bruise.

Mine. All mine.

The madness comes back like an old friend, curling up in my ribcage.

I want to hold her.
I want to hurt her.
I want to destroy every part of her that existed before me, the parts I haven’t touched yet.

Every breath she takes is a fucking stroke down my cock, and it’s getting harder to think like a man instead of a monster I really am.

She’s wearing my shirt. Too big on her, almost drowning her frame. But it’s not that’s killing me, it’s what underneath.

Bare skin.
Thighs pressed together like she’s trying to keep me out.
Too late for that, princess. I already live inside you.

And her face, fuck, her face. Doe eyes, bruised lips, quiet rebellion. She looks like prayers people make when they sin. Carved by god just to test my restraint.

My jaw ticks.

I should take her to my suite. Where walls are soundproof and the bed’s too big I can take her in every position I imagined with her little body. Where I can bend her over the marble sink and fuck the makeshift innocence out of her reflection.

I can already see it. Fucking feel it in my bones. My cum leaking out of her onto those expensive floors. Her mouth red and stretched, cheeks hollow as she chokes on my cock, tears streaming because she wants to suffer for me.

And yet…

As thrilling as that thought is, it’s not enough anymore.

Because I don’t just want her body anymore, I want her soul too.

I want Krystina Romanovski to get on her knees because she wants to worship me. Because somewhere between pain and pleasure, she starts to believe I’m her god.

That’s the real high.

Though my initial plans involved dragging her to my vicinity, chaining her to my bed and fucking her into submission… now that I think about it, that’s too easy.

Too hasty on my part. I’m not desperate.

She’s a Romanovski.
And that blood runs deeper than most sins.

Her brother? Unhinged bastard would come looking for her, no doubt. Bring his name with him as if he’s holy fucking threat.

But I want that.

She’s not just my new favourite thing to play with, she’s also the fuse to the fucking bomb I’m about to detonate.

She’s part of the higher plan.

Make Judas bleed, crumbled before I make the devil himself beg me for mercy.

He took something of mine, so it’s only fair if I take something of his in return with interest, of course.

And how do you break the devil?

You take his softest thing.
You desecrate her.
You make her love her cage.
You make her say thank you for it.

Krystina isn’t just bait. She’s the war. And I’ve already started winning.

But right now, I need to not look at her again.

Because if she so much as glances at me with those trembling lashes and parted lips, if she so much as sighs, I’ll be inside her before the clock hits the next fucking minute.

And there won’t be enough apologies in hell to fix what I’ll do to her.

Instead, I stop the car.

Right in front of her precious mansion. Of course, the Romanovski princess lives like this.

Iron gates, blood money and tight security like they’re guarding the last vial of Jesus’s tears. White stone soaked in secrets. A place that smells more like power, and the kind of silence that’s seen murder.

Guards shift near the entrance, it’s already dark.

I sneer. Fuck them. They wouldn’t shoot even if I pulled her out by her throat. They’d watch though. They always do that. Romanovskis breed obedience, not bravery except their unhinged son.

She sniffs beside me.

My fingers tap on the steering wheel. “Out.”

When she doesn’t move, I turn to look at her. And I fucking freeze.

Tears. On her cheek. Slipping down without drama, without sound like they’ve been falling for hours and she only just noticed.

And something… tugs. Low in my chest, something tightens.

A muscle I didn’t know  had clenches.

But it’s too fucking late to name it, because all that sadness, all that pain… only turns me the fuck on.

My cock pulses in my pants as she wipes her face with the back of her hands, angry at the emotion, angry at me.

Her pain does something to me. Makes me savage. Makes me want to kiss her ‘till she’s breathless and sobbing all over again.

“Go on, cry, bambina,” I murmur. ‘Tears look pretty on you.”

Her jaw tightens. She opens the door but doesn’t step out.

She turns to me, eyes glazed and furious, and says it like a curse. “You’re a monster.”

I let it settled. Let it sting. Because maybe  she’s right.

But she’s still sitting beside me. Still shaking. Still warm form where my hands had her earlier. Still mine in all the ways that count.

‘And yet,” I murmured, leaning in. “you still come on my fingers.”

She laughs bitterly shaking her head. “You forced me. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” I growl. “No matter how much you hate me, your body fucking knows.”

Her eyes flash. “It means you broke me,” she hisses between her sob. “And I don’t know… how to come back from it.”

I am not liking the way it’s hitting me. It’s… messing with my head.

Cause I want to tell her that ruining her is the only way I know to get her attention. But I am not desperate, and I don’t have to explain myself.

I’ve unconsciously wanted her for so long, it’s fucking feral now. This thing in me… it doesn’t want soft and pretty. It wants her on her knees, begging to be ruined again.

She makes me fucking insane. She walk into a room and my pulse forgets how to function properly. She glare at me and I want to devour her. She cry, and I want to slit throat of whatever made her do it.

But I don’t say it. Cause…

I am not desperate.

So as the gentle man I am, I say the only thing I don’t mean. “Don’t pretend I raped you, bambina. You were moaning like a little slut.”

She snaps.

“You disgust me,” she spits turning toward me now with her whole body trembling and my eyes lowered to the valley of her breasts. “You’re a fucking parasite!”

She’s breathing hard now, fists clenched and rage simmering.

“You think you own me? You think touching me gives you the right to crawl into my fucking head?” She laughs and my patience thins. “You’re pathetic. You’re just a sadistic coward who gets off on breaking girls who never wanted you.”

I should drag her out.
I should tell myself this is it.

But it doesn’t affect me.

Because I see her chest heaving, and her lips twitching, and her fucking thighs pressing together as if she’s trying to kill the heat I know she feels.

“You done?”

She snarls. “You’re just a fucking bully…”

That’s all I need.

I grab her throat and drag her into my lap with a snarl, her body colliding against mine. She gasps; tries to twist away, but I lock her in place. She’s fucking small. One hand buried in her hair and the other cups her cunt still wet and dripping.

“You feel that, bambina?” I hiss against her mouth. “Soaking. Fucking. Wet.”

She writhes, claws at my chest but my grip just tightens.

“You call me coward,” I breathe. “but this pussy is singing a different story.”

She glares, but there’s no fight left in her eyes, just rage and something as fear. She’s scared. Terrified even. Maybe I should make her more scared if I rip her shirt and let her walk back to her mansion in rags.

But as much as I want to see her flesh. I don’t want those gaurs to have any sneak peek of her bare flesh. She’s mine. Exclusively and literally.

“You want a monster?” I growl. “Congratulations, bambina, you got one.”

And I kiss her. I fucking devour this disobedient mouth. Tongue, teeth and filth.

My hands move in her jeans, fingers sliding past her soaked panties and sinking into the heat I’ve been dreaming about for some time now.

She moans against my mouth, still furious, still shaking but she bites hard on my lips till I taste blood.

And fuck me, I like it. I like when she hits me. It makes me harder than her nipples I can see through the shirt.

“Massimo… let go…” She pants between the assault.

“You want me to stop?” I ask, two fingers deep inside her now. “No, you don’t, bambina. ‘Cause your cunt’s too greedy. It’s made for me. Made to ride my cock while screaming how much you hate me.”

She sobs a sound that’s not quite pain but also not pleasure. And I kiss her again. Rougher, dirtier like it’s the last fucking time.

“You’re mine, Krystina Romanovski. And I’ll scramble every fucking line of reality before I let you forget that. You’ll wear my name like a curse, come at the sound of it, and when your pride finally shatters, you’ll crawl to my altar begging for mercy I’ll never give.”