Beast

A Hate Story, The Beginning

Mary Catherine Gebhard

Contents

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

A Note from the Author

Acknowledgments

Also by Mary Catherine Gebhard

Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Copyright © 2016 by Mary Catherine Gebhard

Editing by C. Marie

Proof Reading by Love N. Books

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book.

First Edition: March 2017 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beast: A Hate Story, The Beginning – 1st ed ISBN-13: 978-0692853252

A Trendlettrs Publication Salt Lake City, UT www.MaryGebhard.com

To Becca, you midwifed the hell out of this book.

Prologue

“Take me,” she said, voice unwavering.

“And what will you offer?” His voice was low and gravelly. It was cruel.

“My life for his debts.” Her voice was steady even though the crystal pools of her eyes rippled. She was frightened. Good.

The Beast, as he was called, was going to kill her father. He’d racked up a series of irreconcilable debts. While some were to banks, most were to unsavory types like the Beast. Her father’s debt was past payment, past broken kneecaps and threats. There was no way he could pay it off, and if he couldn’t pay it, well…there was no point to his existence anymore.

Like a honeybee that couldn’t make honey.

That was the tacit agreement made months ago when Antonio Notte borrowed money from the Pavoni Family. When you took money from the biggest crime family in the world, if you stopped producing honey, they crushed you like a bug underfoot.

The Beast walked around the small New Jersey home touching things as he went. He didn’t normally go on routine collections; he was past his cracking-skulls days and now wore suits, no longer bloodying his knuckles. Yet earlier that day when the Beast stared out the windows of his Tribeca penthouse, he hadn’t felt luxury—he’d felt like a caged bird. So, he’d called his next in line and asked what was happening out on the streets.

Suddenly he found himself in New Jersey, a cowering man at his feet while to his left was the man’s daughter, who refused to cower.

Beast lifted his finger from the linoleum-wrapped countertop. Nothing in the house was new. The linoleum was peeling. The fake wood on the cabinet was coming up like paper. It smelled faintly of old earth.

Clearly Notte hadn’t used the money to redecorate.

The Beast had come expecting whining, blood, and splatter. Instead he got a girl with long, curling, chocolate hair and stone in her eyes. Her collarbone protruded gently from honey skin, sticking out defiantly with challenge to match her folded arms. Stepping around Notte’s prostrated body on the ground, Beast walked closer to her and placed a single finger on the protruding bone. She swallowed as he ran a finger down the wing, feeling the smoothness against his rough skin. Harsh laughter erupted behind him—his men enjoying the show. Beast raised a hand that quickly shut them up.

She swallowed again and smacked his hand away. The Beast smiled, but only a fool would think it was anything other than chilling. The smile was lazy and crooked, his teeth pearly white. Something in that smile betrayed pure wickedness, an evil born and not begotten.

“My life for his,” she repeated.

“Frankie!” Notte protested, but it was limp, like the way he lifted his head from the floor but couldn’t quite manage to get back to his feet. As the old man voiced his plea, he still remained where he’d been since Beast came through the door: on his knees.

“Frankie?” The Beast murmured her name, as if trying the taste on his tongue. It was a decidedly masculine name, and she was quite feminine looking. Notte reached for Frankie's arm impotently. Maybe the penniless fool realized if he did nothing save sit on the floor while his daughter traded her life so he could live, he wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

“It’s finished.” The Beast grabbed her arm and dragged her out the door. “Come now, Frankie.”

She belonged to him.

One

New York City never lost its magic, at least not for me. It should have, considering I’d lived in Jersey my entire life, only a train ride away. Still, the tall buildings, the lights—it was like traveling into a fairytale. Now it was December, the most wonderful time to be in the city. The streets would be decorated in lights, snow would have blanketed all the ugly parts, the big department stores would have put up their decorations…

At least I had that to look forward to.

The town car jolted to a stop and I looked hungrily out the windows, trying to see past the dark tint. It was only minutes after we’d left. Left home. Left Papa. Left everything I knew. I swallowed, repressing the thoughts for the time being. I was focusing on survival, one foot in front of the other and all that, and I was pretty concerned about my location, because there was no way we’d arrived in New York City—which was where he’d said we were going. He’d not said it to me, of course, but to the driver.

Everything happened so quickly after I traded myself.

I didn’t get to pack anything.

I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

He’d said, “Come now, Frankie,” then grasped my arm, dragging me down the sloped, cracking cement steps of my home to the street where a sleek, oily black town car sat parked and waiting. I’m not sure if I was pushed, seated gently, or slid myself inside the car. Everything blurred together, my skin went numb, and my brain turned out the lights. I heard him tell the driver where to go, like someone yelling through a dark, empty room. I’d looked up to see the driver but all I’d caught was a flash of curly blond hair before the partition closed.

It wasn’t until now, when the car jolted to a stop, that I awakened to my circumstance. I could feel my hands again. Smells came back—new car, expensive leather, and something else, something rich and spicy.

I shook my head; cologne wasn’t important. What was important was that New York was close, but it wasn’t this close. It was at least an hour and a half car ride—and that was without traffic. I put my wrist to the window and rubbed the fabric of my shirt against the fogged glass, trying to see out more clearly. I pressed my face close and squinted. Lots of asphalt. Buggies carrying luggage. And…planes?

“I don’t understand,” I pulled my head away from the window, brow furrowing. “Why are we at the airport?” The question kind of just came out. I hadn’t really yet acclimated to my situation. My toe was still testing the waters, not realizing I’d already thrown myself under frozen ice. For the first time since leaving home, I looked at the man.

My captor.

There had been four, or maybe five, other men—I honestly couldn’t remember. I’d been so focused on him, the one I was with now. I’d briefly recognized one of the men as someone who’d had dealings with Papa before, a gutter shark, a man who took money from people who couldn’t pay. This guy, though, he was next level. He oozed power and death and fear. All the sharks in the room waited for blood from him.

And I was utterly alone with him. Even the one who’d come for Papa was gone. Now it was just this man and me. There was something about him that made me want to try to scramble up on the seat and into the alcove behind it, but it was also the same thing that made my belly flip. Something about him was so captivating. I rested my palm beneath my belly button, trying to calm the odd ache there.

He was reading a newspaper, completely obscuring his face from view. One leg was across the other, a shiny black shoe resting on his knee. He was wearing a dark gray suit, the crossed pant leg lifted up slightly to reveal a slightly darker gray sock. Long, tanned hands gripped the thin newspaper. He looked so refined.

“Planes take us places,” he responded. It was a short response and I wasn’t even sure it was sarcastic. The low way he spoke, the utter dispassion in his voice…he gave nothing away, save unease. The rumbling resonance of his voice bled disquiet.

He folded the newspaper he’d been reading just as the door opened, ushering in a swash of bright, snowy white light. It nearly blinded me. I blinked, rubbing my eyes as they watered. It was evening, meaning the sun would still be pretty bright. Because it was winter, though, it would have a quick and fast death to the night. By the time I’d adjusted to the new light, my captor had left the car and in his place was the neatly folded newspaper.

It was frigid outside; December was never very forgiving on the East coast. A light dusting of snow started falling, and my captor leaned against the side of the car, most likely waiting for me to get out and join him. I swiveled my head from the plane on the runway back to the man I’d traded my life to. From my position in the car, I could only see his waist and how he folded his arms against his chest. Though he leaned on the side of the car, his frame dwarfed half of the car door. Muscles bulged in his tailored suit and I was reminded again just how massive he was. The sophistication I’d been studying in the car was dwarfed by his size and animalism.

“I don’t understand. I thought we were going to New York.” No one flew from New Jersey to New York. I didn’t even think airlines sold flights between the two cities.

“We are.” He didn’t bother to look back at me when he responded.

“But…” I trailed off, scooting to the edge of the leather seat to try to see around him. He was menacing in his height and encompassing figure. He dwarfed the door. “Why aren’t we taking a train? Or the car?” With car-accident slowness where I saw what was happening but kept trying to rewind to the moment before, I watched my captor bend down and meet me face to face. For the entire car ride his face had been hidden and I’d thought—hoped even—he was going to make that a tradition. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what he looked like—I’d met him eye to eye in my house when I’d sold myself to him. In fact, it was for precisely that reason that I was hoping he would keep his face hidden.

His features were too much. It made the fear in my belly pound, transforming into an ache that dripped lower and deeper. I throbbed in a foreign, terrifying, and amazing way. My heart beat sped up and as much as I wanted to look away, I wanted to look at him more. I just…I couldn’t think about what that meant.

I gripped the leather seat as if for emphasis, or maybe for safety. Maybe if I held on hard enough he couldn’t pull me out of the car. I closed my eyes, deciding that just because he was going to look at me, that didn’t mean I had to look at him.

“Open your eyes,” he said evenly. I tightened my grip on the leather. The cool touch of his skin on my chin was smooth and firm. Slowly I opened my lids. His gaze bore into me and I looked down, focusing on his grip on my chin.

“Let go,” he said.

“No,” I replied. My eyes flickered to his to see how he would respond. A quick flash passed through them, and I tightened my grip. For a moment I thought he might hit me. He was so refined looking, everything about him hemorrhaged elegance, from the car to the suit to the newspaper folded neatly on the seat, but in that flash, I saw my chin bleeding and the blood on his hands.

Instead the man grabbed my arm, forcing me out of the car. I was aware I traded myself, but this was a prime example of something being a lot easier said than done. It was a lot easier to say “take me” when my father was about to be killed, and a lot harder to let go of the leather seat when it came time to do so.

What did you do, Frankie? I thought as he silently dragged me across the tarmac. As the black town car drove away, getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared, I had this helpless feeling that I’d just jumped into the deep end with an anchor tied to my neck, but drowning was a mercy I would not get to experience.

* * *

I whipped my head around, overcome by the loud whooshing—what was that anyway? I’d only been to an airport once, to wish my best friend from high school goodbye before she moved across the country. That friendship didn’t end up lasting.

None of them did, but Jenny’s was the longest. It was hard for people to get to know me. I was the sick girl, the girl who barely went to school because she was too tired but who looked perfectly healthy. In junior high, I was diagnosed with a pretty obscure disease, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, and could barely get out of bed. I felt horrible, but I looked okay. I remembered it was right before the school play. I had been so excited, had been practicing singing to try to get the lead.

That kind of got fucked.

Instead of getting the lead, I became a ghost. Dad had his own demons, so he wasn’t much help to me. It was lucky I’d made an impression on the history teacher, Mr. Darkwood. He noticed my absences and got the school involved. Still, they couldn’t do all that much. In the end, I just taught myself most of my classes. I got better in high school and could go to school again, but still missed big chunks of time until senior year.

By then it was too late.

For most kids, I was either not on their radar or just plain weird. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a rumor started that I had AIDS, so I had that going for me.

Why was I even thinking of that? That wasn’t important now. What was important was the very real, very big plane we were approaching. I tugged on the hold on my elbow, struggling against my captor, small bits of asphalt skidded beneath my feet. He was unfazed, dragging me until we reached the steps to the plane. A man dressed in a pilot’s uniform stood next to the stairs, not paying me or my struggle any mind. He nodded respectfully to the man holding me hostage.

“Boss,” the pilot said. Without a word, my captor bypassed the pilot and tugged me up the stairs. He kept his tight, painful grip on me the entire time. As we ascended the plane’s steps, the gravity of the situation fell on me. When I’d crossed the last step and entered the plane, I had an impulse to tear my arm off and run away.

A plane.

I’d never been on a plane before. The farthest I’d ever traveled was Maine, but did it really count if you were too young to remember? I’d always thought when I went on a plane for the first time it was going to take me someplace marvelous. I had pictures up in my room of all the places I wanted to go and live. There was Paris, of course, but also Tibet and Shanghai. I wanted to go to Reykjavik too, and Sydney. Alaska. Rio de Janeiro. Auckland. Tokyo. London. Wales. Scotland. I wanted to see the edge of the world, and then I wanted to find where it kept its heart.

I had so many pictures they filled up my entire wall like wallpaper.

A plane could take me anywhere…could definitely take me some place beyond New York City. I could be dropped off in the middle of the Sahara, or thrown into the ocean and lost like Amelia Earhart. My breath stuck in my throat as I stared out at the blustery day, looking over the small airport. I wondered where the rest of the planes were going. I wondered if one of them was going to Paris. The sun was dropping now, painting the snow in oranges and yellows. It would only be a few minutes until the moon stole the sun away completely. This had officially been the longest shortest day of my life.

My captor gave a harsh tug on my elbow, pulling me away from the door. He shoved me down into a chair and stalked to the other side of the plane. Still stunned, it was all I could to do to grip the sides of the chair. The seat felt buttery smooth. I glanced down, watching my fingers run across the stitching as if in a trance.

Maybe he’d throw me out in Tokyo. If I died there, it kind of counted.

“Buckle up,” the man who’d taken me said lazily, drawing me from my thoughts. It wasn’t actually laziness in his voice, though, it was…boredom, as if what he’d done that day was no more interesting than taking out the trash.

I glanced around, taking everything in. Lights illumined the ceiling, but I couldn’t tell from where; it looked like they merely glowed from within. It was eerie, beautiful. We sat in quilted white leather seats and the floors were patterned. Were they marble or wood? I reached a hand down to touch, but the plane took off, jolting me back.

“I told you to buckle up,” he said. My eyes flashed to where he sat serenely. He wasn’t buckled, I noticed sourly. He was sitting at a table, looking at a laptop. They have internet up here?

I gripped the armrest, trying to hide my anxiety. I wasn’t necessarily afraid of flying, but it was my first time. I didn’t know what to expect beyond movies and books. It seemed like we were zooming down the tarmac forever, and then suddenly we took off. I looked out the window just as the plane lifted then quickly looked away with a big exhale.

I was flying.

“Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain speaking,” a voice came over the speakers. “I’d like to welcome you onboard. We can expect a fairly smooth flight this evening.” I leaned back to listen to the captain when, “Champagne?” was asked right into my ear.

I jumped at the very feminine-sounding voice. Clearly unfazed by my outburst, a woman in a tight skirt and too-tight blouse leaned over me, green glass bottle in her hand and smile on her face. Where the fuck had she come from? My own face contorted in an amalgam of indignation and bewilderment, and she held her pose for another minute before pulling the bottle back, smile never wavering.

Truth be told, I’d never had champagne before. If we’re getting real honest here, I’d never really had much to drink at all. Part of me really wanted to take the champagne, to indulge, and give myself over to the fantasy that the man I’d given myself to was the kind who would open me up to the world. I wanted to believe that he was the kind of man who would bring my pictures to life, not give me bruises.

But that was just fantasy.

“You treat your prisoners nicely,” I mused, watching with incredulous awe as she walked to the opposite side of the plane and offered my captor a drink.

“You’re not a prisoner,” the man said. He took a glass, eyes still trained on his computer. For a brief, fleeting second I had hope. Then he said, “You’re nothing.” And that balloon popped just as quickly as it inflated. I could practically hear the high-pitched squee it was making as it flew around in my mind before landing all rubbery, dead, and deflated.

“Oh gee, thanks.” I turned to the window, placing a finger on the glass. Night had fallen fast and stealthily. My finger melted the condensation, painting lines in black where I revealed the darkness. “You didn’t let me say goodbye.” I said it as a whisper, meant only to be heard by me. Drawing another line down the window, I separated the condensation with the heat from my finger.

“Maybe you should have considered that before trading your life,” he replied. I scoffed, removing my hand from the window. “You should know I’m giving you until New York, Frankie,” he said. I flinched at his voice. There was nothing overtly terrible about it, nothing like when Papa yelled after drinking too much. It was something hidden in the calmness, like a monster beneath still waters, that disturbed me. “As a courtesy.”

My eyes darted briefly to his. “What the fuck does that mean?” He ceased his typing, fingers curling up into a clench. I rolled my lips, making them tight against my face as if I could shut myself up, but I knew it was a lost cause. Since getting sick, I’d developed a defense mechanism: sarcasm. I couldn’t control the needles and the frequent hospital visits. I couldn’t control the fact that I had no friends and had to spend all day every day in my room feeling like death, but I could control my perspective. So my perspective became a skewed, acerbic, dripping and dark thing. I became the type of person who would crack jokes at a funeral.

It really helped me make friends.

“I don’t know if you understand the magnitude of what you’ve done,” he said. Slowly his fingers uncurled and he continued typing. “But you will soon, so take this moment to mourn your previous life, because when we arrive, Frankie Notte is dead. You traded your life, and soon I will take what is left.”

“Francesca,” I mumbled, folding my arms. Shut up, idiot. For the love of God, stop goading him.

“I didn’t catch that.” He took a sip of champagne, eyes not straying from whatever work was so important on his computer. Bitterly, I wondered what kind of mafia guy has so much work on a computer. Wasn’t it all kneecap breaking and little black books?

“Francesca,” I repeated, raising my voice. Oh God, I thought. I’m going to die. If I wasn’t before, I certainly was now. He looked over, catching my stare for the first time since we’d taken off. I tried to keep my cool, tried to match his harsh gaze. I swallowed, feeling like his stare was putting physical pressure on me. That thing in my belly happened, that tingly thing. I clenched my thighs. It was uncomfortable but a part of me…

Craved it.

I quickly added, “Only…” I swallowed. “Only my friends call me Frankie.” Really, I hadn’t had many friends since the one that left in high school. It was hard to make them, being sick and with Papa…well, Papa was a full-time job. After high school, I’d hoped a few guys wanted to be friends, but it turned out they only wanted sex.

Probably just wanted to fuck the weird girl.

Technically my mother was the one who called me Frankie, and the nickname had stuck. One of the few times Papa talked about her, he said she thought I had too much spunk to be called Francesca.

He clenched his jaw. “Listen to me, Frankie.”

“Francesca,” I repeated. I could practically hear my inner voice sighing in defeat. People might think I was insane, talking to a man like him that way. The thing is, right then you would be witnessing the swan song of my old self before I tumbled down into the darkness.

“Frankie,” he said pointedly. He rolled my name over his tongue as if he were licking it. I shivered and folded my arms. Shutting his laptop, he continued, “When this plane lands, everything you were vanishes. Your emotions disappear. Your name becomes nothing more than a sound passing from my lips. You become nothing.”

My breath hitched in my throat. “I should just jump out of the plane then…”

“You could, but if you die before I’m done with you, I will kill your father.” He sipped his drink casually. “Also, we’re nearly done with our descent, so you’d probably just break an ankle.”

“Well, what can I call you then?” I asked, sarcasm bitter on my tongue. “Prince of everything?” King Asshat, maybe.

“You can call me Beast.”

I scoffed. “That’s not a name.”

“You asked what to call me, not my name.” He looked away, signaling he was done talking with me—which was good, because instantly my eyes rolled back in their sockets at his response. I had this feeling in my gut, not the tingling I refused to acknowledge, but a bitter, dreadful feeling. It curled in my organs and I knew it was an omen. I wasn’t going to survive if I continued to roll my eyes and snipe. The more I expressed contempt, the tighter I tied my noose.

But how do you just turn off? How do you just stop being who you are? Rationally I knew that a man like him, who bled menace and called himself Beast, would not respond kindly to sarcasm. Sarcasm was how I’d survived the world thus far, though. It was how I responded to threats.

And he was threat number one.

With a sigh, I looked out the plane window. We were almost on the ground. I could see the airport getting closer and closer. When the plane landed, it was still snowing outside. I usually lived for nights like these; the bright white snow against the chilly moonlit sky mesmerized me. Now it just made me sad, because the Beast’s words echoed inside me. What would happen to the nights when I became nothing? Would they still dazzle me?

I briefly registered the sound of the captain, the stewardess, and the Beast. Sounds of turning off, turning on, and urgency, but I was stuck for a moment in my funeral, staring outside at the snow.

“Are you dumb?” The Beast grabbed me by my collar, forcing me away from the window. “I didn’t trade that debt to get a lame horse.” He looked into my eyes as if searching for the answer.

I pushed him off. “I’m not dumb, asshole. Quiet doesn’t mean stupid.” I had about a half second to regret calling him an asshole before he pulled me up by the collar and ripped me out of the seat.

“It isn’t your tacit nature that concerns me. Come now.”

I followed, nearly tripping down the slippery steps wet with snow. When I reached the bottom, I sucked in my breath and prepared, closing my eyes for a moment.

I just couldn’t face my death.

I hadn’t even thought of it before that day—not seriously. It was always so faraway, a concept I couldn’t even start to comprehend. With my eyes pressed shut and the snow dusting my hair, I waited. And waited. And waited. Then I opened one eye. No one was around me.

The Beast was a few feet away waiting by a black car, annoyance tingeing his apathetic face. Slowly I walked toward him, as if the tarmac was laced with mines and I was going to step on one, blow up, and the angels would greet me with, “Ha! Got you! You thought you were going to live—classic!”

When I finally reached the town car—sans landmine death—I looked from Beast to the car then back to the Beast. “I thought I was dead at the end of the flight?” I asked, confused. It wasn’t that I wanted to die, but I wanted to know if we were heading to my execution. How much longer did I have to live in limbo? A slight sound was heard from him—was that a growl?—and then he pushed me inside. I bumped my head on the way in.

“Ow, shit.” I rubbed my skull. The pain meant I wasn’t dead, at least. My hurt was soon forgotten as a scream sounded. It was a voice of complete hopelessness, of the kind of fear and begging that immediately puts a chill in your spine. It was the kind of emotion an actor could only hope to portray a tenth of in a movie. It was also a voice I recognized—the stewardess.

“Wait, wait!” she begged. I snapped my head back to the tarmac to see the stewardess, smile broken, tears streaming down her eyes. She was running straight toward the car. The pilot came out of the plane and started after her. Beast was acting as if he couldn’t see or hear her. He settled back into his seat and pulled out his phone.

“I’m sorry, I’ll serve you champagne first next time!” she screamed. “Please, Boss, I won’t do it again. I’m so sorry—” Navy blue arms wrapped around her body and she was dragged backward, arms reaching out. Her heels scraped lines into the snow just as my door was slammed shut. I put my palm to the window as the car pulled out of the airport.

Had I just witnessed a woman’s last words? Over what? The fact that she’d served me champagne first? Slowly I brought my palm to my lap. If he could kill someone over that, what was in store for me? I focused on him, hoping his expression would shed some light, but that was a miserable failure. Nothing about his demeanor said he’d just ordered someone’s death. He looked at his phone with the same bored expression.

I sat back, feeling hollow. Sick. Her cries were imprinted on my eardrums. I could see her tears in my mind’s eye, a ghost stuck on a loop, the look of abject fear as she tried to run after us but was pulled away. I turned my gaze away, focusing on the outside. Everywhere my eyes traveled, stores were decorated in brightly colored lights, twinkling like stars. I could almost forget the reason I was there.

Until the car came to a stop.

* * *

“You’re really not going to kill me?” I asked, surveying the room.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Not exactly reassuring, but at least I wasn’t dead.

Later I would learn I should have wished for death.

Arms folded, he pressed the foot behind him against a creamy white wall, watching me take in the room. He wasn’t glaring, but he wasn’t smiling either, his expression somehow doing both, all at once menacing and cocksure. He was beyond handsome, a dangerous beauty. If I’d seen him on the streets, I would have been too chickenshit to look at him, instead praying he’d look at me. Now I prayed he would look away, his intense, soul-sucking stare too much as I inspected my jail.

Jail—right.

The room had floor-to-ceiling windows and opened onto a balcony. A freaking balcony. The walls were white with clean lines and gorgeous molding, the windows all French. There was a plush king-sized bed that practically begged me to snuggle in it. I’d briefly swallowed in the house while walking inside and this room was very different, decidedly warm and feminine. It was my dream bedroom, honestly, complete with flowers and chic vintage decor.

I looked back to Beast, waiting for him to drop the other shoe.

I’d gone from sleeping in a closet-turned-bedroom in New Jersey like Harry freaking Potter, living with a father who legitimately thought spraying air freshener on a pile of trash solved the problem, and what I assumed to be certain death, to this, a Tribeca penthouse with a psychopath.

I had no comment.

He smiled a crooked, cruel smile that made me want to hide in the closet with a baseball bat and said, “I have other plans for you, Frankie.” When he said my name my heart pounded and that thing in my tummy twisted and ached. I’d never yearned to hear something while simultaneously hating it than when Beast said my name.

He left moments later, saying nothing else. I stared at the door he’d just closed, wondering if I should feel relief. Was I going to be able to spend the night Beast-free? It seemed like a possibility, but minutes later there was a knock at the door. I waited, breath stuck in my body, for the Beast to reappear. Instead, a head of graying blond hair peeked through. When the full body appeared, I knew immediately who it was.

I mean, I didn’t know, but I knew what type of person it was: a doctor. When you’re sick for the better part of your life, you just pick up on the aura of a doctor. He had that smile, that doctor-ly smile that attempted to be disarming but instead came off patronizing.

I just had no idea why Beast would send a doctor to me.

Did he know I used to be sick? Was he worried I was damaged goods?

“Hello, Frankie,” the doctor said, that smile on his face. “I’m Doctor Wyatt.” Fucking bingo. I wasn’t surprised he knew my name even though I didn’t know him. I waited for him to tell me his business; when he didn’t, I gave him a begrudging hello. “May I sit on the bed?” he asked, gesturing to the plush king.

Still standing, I shifted. “Go for it.” He opened up his briefcase and I saw what appeared to be a fancier version of a hospital johnny. My stomach dropped but then I steeled myself. You don’t get poked and prodded for years without numbing yourself to it. I tugged at the collar of my t-shirt.

“Will you tell me a bit about yourself, Frankie?” he asked.

Eyeing the folded fabric in his briefcase, I said, “Not much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that,” he responded, voice saccharine. “You’re young. You’re very beautiful.” I shrugged, still staring at the johnny. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for talking. Dr. Wyatt followed my line of sight, and then with a slight wrinkle of his brow, closed the briefcase. I blinked, looking back at him.

“How old are you?” he asked. Dr. Wyatt was how I imagined a stereotypical polo player would age. He had the classic all-American features, just wrinkled and fattened a bit. He was handsome enough, and he hadn’t done anything that made me not trust him—besides his obvious connection to the Beast. He sensed my discomfort about the johnny, but I couldn’t help but think that was less to do with my feelings and more to do with the fact that I wasn’t talking. His smile was also too sweet, like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.

I was sure I was being lured into something, but what I didn’t know. I shook the thought and reluctantly said, “Twenty.” I rubbed my arm, despite the warmth in the room.

“Can you tell me how many sexual partners you’ve had?” The question seemed innocuous, but goose bumps broke out along my skin the minute he asked it. Still, his smile was unwavering, making me feel like I was the weird one for not wanting to give such intimate information to a complete stranger.

“I…” I trailed off. His smile felt slimy against my skin. I didn’t tell anyone that kind of thing. The most a doctor had ever asked was if I was active and I could easily, hurriedly say no. “I don’t see why you need to know that,” I eventually said.

He shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me.” It didn’t sound like reassurance, but a threat. The implication was clear: I might not tell him, but he was going to find out some way or another. There was a sharpness in his eyes that reminded me of the edge of a blade.

“Um…” I rubbed my arm again. “I haven’t had any.” There was a pause, a long stagnant thing wherein the weight of his stare was like tiny needles on my skin. Maybe he thought I was lying. I wished I was lying, wished there were memories of boys in my past that I could transport myself to right then, but there weren’t any. I’d never been loved. I’d only been kissed one time, in junior high, right before I got sick. It was unskilled and quick.

“Would you mind if I validated your claims?” he asked. His tone was still so sweet and syrupy. I hated it. I saw beyond the sugar to the diabetes.

“My claims?” I asked. “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes,” he responded.

“How will you validate that?” My voice sounded small, so unlike me.

He stood up, smiling. “I see you’re uncomfortable with the johnny. Remove your pants and get under the blanket and I’ll just do a quick virginity test.” This was the moment when I should have screamed, because this was the exact moment of no return, when everything got real.

But instead of screaming, I said, “You can’t check for that. That’s not something you can check.” My voice became hurried and quick. What kind of doctor are you? I wanted to add. “There’s no such thing as a virginity test,” I continued as if I might save myself by pointing that out to him. There was a split-second flash across his face, brutal and violent like lightning hitting a tree. I nearly gasped. His smile vanished and that sweetness he’d been radiating turned sour and rotten.

“Perhaps not,” he said, smile returning. “But it’s the best we’ve got—the best you’ve got.” My eyes widened. What did he mean by that? I shifted, my sneakers making indentations on the fancy rug. It was some kind of white fur-looking thing and my shoes were getting it all dirty.

I looked back up. Dr. Wyatt was still looking at me, sickly sweet smile plastered on his face.

I knew I didn’t have a choice.

* * *

I was still in bed when the Beast returned. The doctor had only just left and I was naked under the sheets. It had been quick; at least Dr. Wyatt hadn’t been lying about that. That didn’t mean I didn’t feel violated. I’d been poked and prodded by doctors in the past, but it had never felt so…wrong. At least in the hospital the sterility and routine had provided a sort of buffer; it was dehumanizing, to a certain extent. Here I was exposed. I had to feel everything. I held the covers up to my chin as the Beast studied me, praying he wouldn’t lift up the blanket.

“Dinner is in one hour, dress appropriately.” With that, he pushed off the wall and left. I was alone in the extravagant bedroom. Dress appropriately? I’d left without saying goodbye, let alone packing evening wear.

I waited a few moments before getting out of bed then quickly threw off the sheets and shimmied back into my jeans. I rubbed my fingers together, staring at the room. I felt icky. Only minutes prior I had been naked, poked at.

Now I had to dress appropriately.

I let out a sigh and walked to the window. The view was beautiful, at least. Christmas trees already lined the medians. I used to love walking in New York during Christmas. All the shops shone brightly with lights and the medians were festive with trees. I would imagine what fancy people lived in the buildings, eating turkey and smiling with their families.

Now I knew. It was people like the Beast who lived in the buildings.

With one last look at the merry view, I turned away. Dress appropriately, he said. On a hunch, I walked over to the frosted glass French doors. If I didn’t find something suitable, at least I could spit on one of his ties. I pulled the doors outward and…

Holy mother fucking shit.

It was practically packed to the brim with gorgeous evening dresses. Each one probably cost more than double our rent back in Jersey. I walked through the wardrobe, feet relishing the plush Tempur-Pedic-like carpet. I stroked the fabrics of the dresses, each one different but still soft. I rustled them, watching them fall away from the tips of my fingers like water, colors shimmering like a waterfall.

I turned around in awe. Had he done all of this in the few hours before my arrival? Or—my mind stuttered over the horrible thought—what if this room used to belong to someone? I eyed the wardrobe, thinking about a girl like me living in this room, wearing these clothes. It was perfectly stocked for a woman, but there was no woman. The dress I was fingering fell from my grasp. I knew I was going to die. I knew that, but God, I didn’t need a Versace-clad skeleton reminder.

I walked deeper into the closet, pulling open each of the drawers. Some were filled with shirts, the material soft and silky. Others were filled with socks, some with shorts.

A few drawers were filled with lingerie and I snapped those shut immediately. I noticed the lingerie drawer was labeled bedtime but I quickly shoved that into the back of my brain, instead searching for more labels. Above the dresses was a small evening label, and when I glanced back to the shirt drawer, I found a daytime label. This must have been what he meant when he said to dress appropriately. I moved farther into the closet and…

God. Walls were stacked top to bottom with shoes I could only have dreamed of owning. I pulled them out one at a time: Louboutins, Jimmy Choo, Chanel, Badgley Mischka, Manolo Blahnik. I stopped reading the designers, shoes surrounding me in a multicolored circle of satin, leather, and crystals on the floor.

Seriously, what the fuck was going on? Had I fallen into hell or heaven?

I stood up in a daze, but still picked up each and every pair of shoes (because seriously, even kidnapped, those shoes needed to be taken care of). The Beast said I had an hour before dinner and to dress appropriately; now that wasn’t so odd. In fact, the harder problem would be deciding what to wear.

Running my fingers along the material, I landed on a gorgeous Dior chiffon number. I pulled it out and held it up to my body in the mirror. It went to my shins and was a pale yellow color with crystal beading on the bust that tapered off into the chiffon. Oh my, is this vintage? It was. It was vintage. My eyes went wide at the discovery. Vintage Dior? Seriously?

When I put it on, I felt like a princess. I could even twirl in it. It made me feel less dirty and less like a woman waiting for the gallows. I walked back to the Shelf of Wonders AKA the shoe shelf and chose a pair of gold satin Badgley Mischka peep toes. As I was leaving, my eyes caught the reflection of another, semi-hidden drawer. I clicked it and it popped out of the wall. I thought I’d had all the surprises I could handle for one night, but holy shit.

Diamonds. And rubies. And sapphires—at least that was what I assumed. I’d never really been around jewels—outside of an Indiana Jones movie, that is.

I touched them as if they were fire, gently, as though they might burn my finger. The Beast said to get ready, dress appropriately; he hadn’t said play dress-up like a little girl. Still, there was a beautiful, diamond pendant that caught my eye. The diamond was carved impeccably and shaped like a rose. Compared to all the other pieces sitting on the blue velvet, it was practically insignificant. It was small and there was nothing spectacular about it, just a single rose-shaped pendant attached to a small gold thread.

But it called to me.

I picked it up, clasped it around my neck, and closed the drawer. I looked at the clock on the wall, trying to figure out how much time I had left. It was analog and there weren’t any numbers. The hands of the clock were branches and there was one long branch with a bird sitting on it. On the wall to the left of the clock, another bird was pinned. I stared at the clock, trying to imagine a man like Beast buying and pinning the little bird to the wall. I gave up. It did not compute, like trying to make two plus two equal five.

Sighing, I looked from the clock to my door. He said dinner was in one hour, and it was five minutes past the hour. He never told me to wait, but he’d never expressly told me I shouldn’t leave either. When I’d first traded myself to the man, there hadn’t been any doubts in my mind that he was bad—clinically bad, the type of mean you need a thesaurus for to find a deeper, more suitable description for but still end up coming up dry because the type of badness, of meanness, of hard twisting fright you feel around him is just that—a feeling.

But now, I wasn’t sure. Riding with him, alone, had unfurled other feelings within me and now I was in this dress, in this room, in a penthouse. The doctor had been inexplicable, but what kind of person would give me all of this if their intentions were bad? I curved my hand around the brassy doorknob.

Later…later I would blame an aneurysm for that bold and insane decision.

It felt sort of like I was attempting a jailbreak. Still, at that moment in time, I wasn’t even entirely sure I wanted to go home. I was in a penthouse, all dressed and dazzled. Life had told me this was what I was supposed to want, and now I had it. A distant thought floated through my mind as I turned the knob: it was like leaving Eden. If I left, I’d be faced with all the evils of the world. A part of me was worried if I didn’t leave the room, though, I would turn into a pumpkin.

I had on vintage Dior, Badgley Mischka peep toes, and diamonds.

I just wanted to explore. I had a pretty dress on and I wanted to walk around in it. Part of me was starting to think the Beast might not be so bad. Another part, though, thought the minute I opened the door, guys with guns would storm in and force me back into the bedroom.

They didn’t. I opened the door and was greeted by the long white corridor I’d walked down when we’d arrived. I hadn’t paid much attention then because I’d been so nervous. Now I noticed the creepy abstract art dotting the walls. Red slashed with black splattered against white canvases along the hallway walls, almost as if the individual paintings were one large installation. It was the kind of art that while not exactly looking like anything, still reminded you of blood and sex.

Hanging on to the doorframe, I looked down the hallway. I could run for my life, out of the apartment, and scream. Maybe the cops would come. I could tell them my story, and maybe if by luck I found the one cop not on Beast’s payroll, the Beast would be arrested. I might even be able to keep the vintage Dior. That wouldn’t stop Papa’s murder though…or mine. It was surreal being a prisoner in the middle of a bustling metropolis.

Swallowing, I stepped out into the hallway. The space was immaculate with white walls and sandy wood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows were the theme of the penthouse. As I exited the hallway, I came to a room where more windows stretched even higher as the room’s ceiling rose. The windows reminded me of those I saw in magazines. White wood trimmed the latices and some even had Christmas lights. I paused, looking around. It was so nice, so…homey. I sniffed. Was that…gingerbread?

It would have been so much easier if the moment I left the room everything was dark, ugly, and smelly.

The way a beast’s lair should be.

I came to a sitting room with a piano and tilted my head back. The place must have been three stories high. I wondered if he owned other floors than the ones I could see. My gaze shifted to the piano. Did the Beast play piano? Who was this man that took me captive, yet gave me nice clothes and a nice place to sleep? Maybe the Beast wasn’t so bad.

I should have read more fairytales.

As I walked by another sprawling window, I stopped and pressed my fingers against the cool glass, staring down at the sidewalk. How many other people were prisoners like me?

Probably not many were so well dressed. I pressed my entire palm to the glass. I’d read thousands of stories about heroes and their heroines. So many of the men were tortured on the inside, their emotions a train wreck, and the heroine couldn’t see the beauty of their soul at first. Maybe the Beast was tortured. Maybe that’s why they called him the Beast. Bad men didn’t give their prisoners nice clothes and diamonds and a comfy bed.

Right?

I pressed my forehead against the glass.

Maybe there was hope.

It was as if at that moment fate herself heard me and didn’t want me getting any funny ideas. Within seconds of me wondering if there could be hope, a cold, unmistakable voice gripped my spine. “What are you doing out of your room?”

* * *

I spun around. The Beast was leaning against a whitewashed, exposed brick column. I exhaled slightly because at first glance, he looked calm and collected, which ameliorated my fears. Then I saw his face and my gut refilled with ice. His earlier cruel impassivity had been replaced with sunless anger.

Even though he was still a good few feet from me, it wasn’t enough. I attempted to step back, but I was already against the window. My heel bumped painfully against the wall.

“Answer me,” he said quietly. I wished he would have yelled; his harsh whisper was like a toxic fog. I felt his anger more than heard it, and it was so much more powerful, more menacing, more dangerous.

“Dinner?” I lifted the dress slightly. It was all I could do, the only tool in my belt. I was like a deer stuck in headlights as he closed the distance between us. He stole the shadows as he advanced, growing and growing until he was so close I felt I would die of suffocation.

“Did I say you could come out?” he whispered in my ear. I closed my eyes like a little girl against a scary movie, hoping it would go away. Earlier that day when he’d whispered my name, I had seen my life, my hopes, and my dreams disappear.

Now when he whispered to me, this time I was certain I would never see them again.

“No, but…” I trailed off as the Beast pressed his massive hand against my chest, pushing me flat against the window. My entire body pressed against the glass and terror filled my veins like liquid nitrogen. I wondered if I would explode, like a rose frozen then broken, shattered into a billion pieces. I wondered if anybody below could see me.

“I…” My voice came out pathetically high. “Thank you?” The words came out as a question. Was I seriously thanking him right now? What I wanted to say was I thought we had an agreement, I thought the nice things meant you were nice, I thought the clothes and the room and the little birdie clock meant something, but the words got jumbled in my brain as he pressed into me and forced me against the window.

Funny thing is when terror takes hold, thoughts sometimes don’t come out the way they should. What you’re trying to say and what you actually say start to drown in the icy terror filling up your brain. Images and ideas flashed through me only to sink beneath the frigid water.

He picked up the pendant from my neck and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Pretty necklace.”

Hope flashed inside me.

Then it died forever when he ripped it from my neck and pushed up my yellow chiffon dress.

“You go where I tell you to go,” he growled into my ear. “Frankie.” My eyes widened at the way he’d snarled my name. For a brief instant I tried to make eye contact. There was something in the way he’d said my name, something that belied his intent and had me hoping if I could just make eye contact, I might just stop this madness. I heard in his voice—briefly, fleetingly—not anger at me but at himself, some kind of wretched hopelessness, and I wanted to latch onto that—then he spun me around and lifted up my brown hair, biting at my neck.

I screamed and that made him push me harder into the glass. I may have been crying, but I wasn’t sure—the terror had made me numb. My thoughts were nearly completely drowned.

Later the moment would play on a loop, over and over and over again, like a resurfaced bloated body. For now, though, it was buried beneath a ton of ice-cold fear.

“You are nothing,” he snarled, “except for what I give you.”

Tears obscured the glass. I was definitely crying, but the sound was muffled. I was going numb. I was numb to everything around me. I could feel his rough, callused hands on my inner thighs, feeling the private flesh.

I screamed out, though I knew no one heard me. I couldn’t focus on being strong. I couldn’t focus on anything. My worst nightmare was happening. That thing I’d watched on TV while thinking Oh, that won’t happen to me was happening. I always said I would fight back, would kick anyone’s ass who tried to hurt me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t fight back. I just lay slumped against the window as he undid his pants behind me.

When I realized my screams were doing nothing to dissuade him—if anything, they were pushing him harder—I froze. I resigned myself to my fate. I focused on the way my tears traveled down the glass and the way my heated, humid breath fogged the picture below. Then something terribly amazing happened.

He stopped, but he didn’t move away. There was a horrible stillness between us.

Afraid to move.

Afraid to breathe.

Afraid to blink.

I just felt him behind me, his chest rising and falling heavily, up and down against my back. I could see the throbbing vein on his forearm just next to my head as his hand splayed out on the window, a promise of what was to come.

“Go away,” I whispered. “Please.” My voice disappeared into the awful quiet engulfing us. I was so acutely aware of how terrified I was, how calm he was, and just had to listen to my heartbeat ratchet faster and faster in my ears. I thought it was going to burst from my chest.

Then his lips came to my neck, slow and so miserably gentle. He kissed me over the spot where he’d just savagely bitten me, licking the skin, sucking it. Before, I had thought I couldn’t stand it—the savagery, the quiet—but I’d had no idea how much worse it could get. I tried to fight the wash of feelings that came over me, the wave of heat that consumed me.

No was on the tip of my tongue, a whisper just ready to pass from my lips, when his grip on my hip tightened, his other hand weaving its way into my hair. He made a knot with the strands, pulling my head to the side so he could get a better angle on my neck. The No transformed into a sigh.

I was starting to like it.

I pushed myself back at him. I told myself it was to get him off and run away, but I knew I was just angling to get more of his lips on me. If I refused to say it with words, then my body would for me. He continued to kiss the same spot, somehow driving me to madness with just one kiss on just one spot on my flesh. My lips parted, this time not in a scream, not in a sigh, but in a groan.

His hand moved from my hip to between my thighs, and my breath hiccupped. Somewhere in my mind I thought I should fight it or scream, but his lips intoxicated me. He still hadn’t moved his mouth from that one spot and it was the most wonderful frustration. Then he pressed his palm between my thighs against me and the fabric of my underwear was too much separation between us.

The heel of his palm moved in a strong, delirious rhythm. I pressed my face harder against the window until I felt pain, until I was sure the skin would be blanched, because something awful was happening. Moans were coming from my body without my warrant. My limbs were moving against him though I hadn’t given them permission to do so.

My body had become a traitor.

He made a low sound in his throat and spun me around just as he ripped the lace of my underwear—the only thing I’d still been wearing from home—and cool air licked my lips.

“No,” I repeated as tears streamed down my face but I reached for him. I was crying uncontrollably now as he thrust his tongue into my mouth. So many emotions were flying through me. He’d stopped palming me and was stroking me. God I’d never felt anything like it before. Ever. It was magnificent and awful and so, so mind-bending.

But I didn’t want my first time to be with him.

I wanted champagne and rose petals—or hell, I’d even take an awkward prom scenario—anything but this. Still, my fingers were curling into his hair. One arm was pulling him into me, nails scything into his neck. The other hand splayed behind my back, fingernails scratching at the surface of the window. It was like there were two Frankies—one yelling stop and one pulling him closer.

He entered me and it was rough and brutal and beautiful. I cried out, though it was possible I was already crying too hard. Exquisite and cruel, it was agony I never knew existed the way he twisted pleasure inside me. I wouldn’t wish it on the deepest of enemies. It was art the way he transformed my pain into lust.

When he finished, he let go of me. I slumped to the floor, messy and crying.

Violated.

Satisfied. So, so satisfied.

Before I had wondered if I was in heaven or hell.

What a stupid question that was.

Two

She was wearing the Pavoni pendant.

Beast would have to kill the person who put it in there. He’d said to put in some extra jewels, shit they had lying around, stuff that was either too hot to sell or too worthless.

Not the goddamn Pavoni pendant.

The sun was rising over the city now, indicating that Beast hadn’t slept since the moment he’d taken the girl. It streamed into his home office as he fingered the diamond, light refracting in waves on his Brazilian rosewood desk. He hadn’t laid eyes on it in years, not since Lucio entrusted it to him. He’d put it safely into storage and forgotten about it. The rules Lucio made were clear: it was for safe keeping.

Not to sell.

Not to give to his wife, as is customary for the patriarch.

A knock sounded and Beast closed his palm, crushing the pendant. The ridges of the elegantly cut diamond sliced into his skin.

"Come in,” Beast said, looking up from his palm and to the door. A young man who appeared no older than eighteen, with a mess of curly golden hair, popped his head in cautiously. Nikolai, the Beast’s driver and everyman, was a bit like a personal assistant. He ran most of the Beast’s errands and organized most of his schedule, but the job parallels fell flat when it came to negotiating calls with a sex trafficker.

“Shall I make arrangements for Francesca Notte’s delivery?” Nikolai asked.

Only my friends call me Frankie.

Francesca was a beautiful name to match a beautiful woman. With luscious chocolate hair that fell next to her crystalline eyes, she was the rarest thing he’d ever seen. Beast hadn’t planned to call her Frankie—hadn’t given much thought to calling her anything—then she’d goaded him by ordering him to call her Francesca. He’d taken the challenge and a bonus had been seeing how much it pissed her off. Her cheeks had flushed with anger, her honey skin turning a beautiful shade of rose.

In that moment he remembered thinking how determined he was to call her Frankie, just to see her skin turn that color.

“No.” The Beast tightened his grip. “That will not be necessary.” Nikolai bowed his head and was nearly out the door when Beast added, “Have another driver prepared. You are to stay here with Frankie.” There was a slight, nearly imperceptible widening of Nikolai’s eyes, but all he did was nod. A jagged scar ran beneath the boy’s light green eye, serving as a reminder to him that there was a finite amount of patience the Beast had. Bowing again, Nikolai stepped out of the office.

Beast watched the door close with a quiet snick, locking back into place. The way to pay off the sizable debt Notte managed to accrue—and it was sizable—would have been to sell Frankie to The Institute. A beauty like her would have broken them even and then some. Dr. Wyatt had confirmed his suspicions: she was a virgin—or at least, had been a virgin.

Fuck.

Beast ran a hand through the thick black waves of his hair. The previous night had been an anomaly in every sense of the word. From the minute he’d seen her at Notte’s, he’d known she was going to be something different. She had a fiery nature. It wasn’t just the way she met his stare eye for eye, she demanded her own space in the room. She even called him an asshole, for fuck’s sake. She had a soul of steel, something he had yet only encountered among fighters, those grown up swaddled in blood instead of blankets. It wasn’t his job to break her, though, there were those at The Institute for that. He’d planned to get Dr. Wyatt’s confirmation and send her off.

Instead…

Fuck.

Not only would her rare beauty have brought in a high price, but virgins went for millions. The minute he’d slid into the town car, The Institute had had a contract ready to go for her. They were chomping at the bit, multiple buyers ready to bid. She would have been sold, out of his life, and living with whatever psychopath paid the highest amount.

So why had he fucked it up so badly?

Nikolai’s seemingly innocuous question sounded like a bell that couldn’t be unrung in the Beast’s skull. As he uncurled his palm and stared into the face of the now bloodied diamond rose, Beast couldn’t ignore the fact that she was in his bedroom, and not on her way to being sold. As she should be.

* * *

After Nikolai prepared the other driver, Beast left dressed in the same suit he’d worn the night before. When he’d taken her. Now in the sitting room of Lucio Pavoni’s Upper East Side townhouse, he was wrinkled, unkempt, and chewing Frankie around in his mind like a dog with a bone.

It was a mistake, taking her like he did.

He should never have brought her to his home in the first place.

While Frankie had been getting ready, he’d nearly come to his senses. He’d realized what a terrible idea dinner was. Even now, he couldn’t fathom what came over him to suggest it. He’d sold plenty of women to The Institute. None of those transactions involved his fucking house. He’d never devalued an asset, never messed up a trade so badly.

Never.

It was is as if seeing her against the muted backdrop of city lights had thrown him into a state of chaos. The fact that she was nothing more than goods vanished. She’d been a virgin; taking her had seriously fucked up her value. Before dinner, The Institute had buyers lined up for her—on the condition of her virginity.

That was fucked now.

The Institute didn’t renegotiate contracts. He could sell her to someone else, but the money was already lost. None of that had mattered in the moment though. His mind had gone into tumult. He’d meant to simply tear the necklace from her neck and send her back to her room but when his finger touched the silken wings of her collarbone things had…gotten out of hand.

Before he’d had her, she’d been just a thing, an object—a beautiful, intriguing thing, but just that, a thing. Now, after taking her, after feeling her hot and wet, after plunging inside her and feeling her tighten around him…

He shook his head, putting his face between his palms.

It was nothing.

She was nothing.

He’d never been one to take an unwilling woman. It was not an unusual thing in his world to take women unwillingly, in fact, he was the unusual one. He just preferred his women to come to him. There was something about Frankie that twisted his insides, called forth things like lust and rage as if she were a snake charmer. He’d been at the precipice last night, so close to taking her without her want.

What was it that had transformed him? And why did he care? She was his slave now. She mattered no more than what collected on the bottom of his shoe.

Maybe it was just that he was the Beast, so that was what he did. He raped women and plundered homes. One didn’t climb the ranks and ascend the role of blooded patriarch when one wasn’t blood without getting drenched in it. The little orphan boy Lucio had found years ago may as well have been dead.

“He’s sundowning.” Beast snapped his head up to see a woman with mousy brown hair rubbing her neck. When she spoke next, her voice got lost in a whisper. “It would be better if you came back tomorrow…” she trailed off, obviously uncomfortable. She was Lucio’s nurse and she was supposed to offer advice and instruction for how to care for Lucio, but that was a bit difficult when the men she worked for did not like being told what to do, when they responded to defiance in blood.

“I will see him now.” The Beast rose from an antique cherry-wood couch and brushed past her. The entire penthouse was opulent, decorated in rich woods, golds, and reds. It was everything one would expect of the head of the biggest crime family in the world.

You wouldn’t, however, expect IV fluids against the rich draperies, or beeping machinery on top of the Aubusson rugs. Nor would you expect the thick satin duvet to be pulled up to the chin of a once fearsome man to prevent chill, even though the thermostat was set to boiling.

Months ago, when the Beast first entered Lucio’s bedroom and was surrounded by sickly instruments, medication, and the smells of death, he’d made a promise to himself: die before death came. Go out as people saw him, go out before this, before his infamous dark locks turned gray, before his deep bluegreen eyes drowned in their own depths.

Lucio’s guard stood watch next to his bed and Beast told the man he would see him alone. The guard’s eyes widened, unsure what to say. He was not to leave Lucio alone, but the Beast’s reputation superseded him.

“Why would I bother when death has already done the job for me?” Beast asked. Brows furrowed and looking uncomfortable, the guard shuffled like he wanted to leave, but stayed. Growing impatient, Beast countered the look in the guard’s eyes with one of his own. He reminded the guard with a cool look that Lucio was dying but still alive—the guard could be dead that night. Easily.

The guard quickly left the room.

As the Beast sat down, taking Lucio’s frail hand, he couldn’t help but wonder if Lucio wished the same thing. The man Lucio had been was not unlike the Beast. He was cold, calculating, and the reason the Pavonis were known worldwide.

“Alessio?” Lucio turned, calling Beast by the name of his deceased son. Though he spoke clearly, his eyes were fogged and distant. “Alessio, this war has waged for too long.” Most days Lucio’s mind was stuck years in the past, during the war that had essentially ended the entire family, a war Lucio himself had started.

“I’ve taken a woman,” Beast responded, talking as if Lucio was present and coherent. “I’m not sure why.” Since Lucio became sick, Beast found himself talking to the man more candidly, using him as an ear he never could have been in health. Lucio’s light blue eyes searched the Beast’s face, seeing something that wasn’t there. Some said Lucio’s sickness started early, years ago even, when he first found the Beast and put him in the Family. If the Beast had feelings, they might have been hurt at that insinuation.

Eventually Lucio nodded. “It’s about time. Stop fooling around with the De Luca woman. You know your brother Emilio has feelings for her. Is no good, Alessio, will only bring trouble.” Beast patted the man’s hand. Lucio always saw him as his deceased son Alessio. Beast was aware that with the onset of dementia, Lucio mixed people up, but Lucio was always transfixed on Alessio.

It was probably the most infamous story in the Pavoni world. Twin brothers Alessio and Emilio Pavoni fell in love with the infamously promiscuous and notable temptress, Sofia De Luca, wife of Dario De Luca. The brothers eventually killed each other over it. As recompense, Sofia De Luca was killed and her newborn child was named Emilio Alessio in remembrance.

“He’s getting worse.” Beast dropped Lucio’s hand and turned to see none other than Emilio Alessio De Luca leaning against the door.

“I can see that,” Beast said, standing up. “Most days he doesn’t even recognize his own reflection.”

Emilio pushed himself off the frame by the rubber sole of his shoe. “Rhys is waiting for you down at the docks.” Light stubble dusted over a golden skinned-jaw that was sharp like his icy blue eyes. His thick, dark locks were curling even at the short length he kept it. The only thing Emilio shared with his brown-eyed, blonde-haired sister and father was a name, which was why most opted to call him a bastard.

Just not to his face.

“What have you heard about Sicily?” Beast asked. Though the Pavoni family originated in Sicily, just about everyone had immigrated years ago. Everyone important lived in America—everyone important, that is, except Lucia Pavoni, Lucio’s older sister. Technically, Lucia was Donna, the matriarch. Really, she’d been removed from the business for years, left behind during the great immigration, all but forgotten. Still, Beast knew with Lucio’s waning health and no heirs, the Family was growing restless. Those who previously dismissed her were starting to view her as their last hope, the only thing that could save them from him—an outsider.

“The only thing that comes out of Sicily are rumors of a princess,” Emilio replied with a laugh.

“Francesca?” Lucio gasped. “Francesca is that you?”

“What did you say?” The Beast spun around.

“Ignore it. He’s lost his mind,” Emilio muttered. “Everything in there is unrelated. He was talking about Lucia as though she were his wife the other day.” Emilio laughed.

Beast narrowed his eyes. He did not find it funny. Since the Blood War that nearly decimated the entire Pavoni family, there had always been rumors of a Pavoni Princess. As Lucio had no heirs, the princess would come save the Family from ruination.

It was a fairytale and it often got mixed up or rehashed the way fairytales did. To the soldiers, she was a Cinderella figure. The Pavoni Princess would fall in love with them, marry them, and they would become the boss. In the more traditional telling, the Pavoni Princess was a woman who was sent away at birth and did not know she was a Pavoni. She would come back and breed many heirs, thus saving the Family from extinction.

Lately, however, the Pavoni Princess had taken on a pretty different role. She was a warrior and a person capable of destroying the estraneo, or the outsider. The princess fairytale never mentioned the estraneo before, but it didn’t take much to deduce why it was changing and whom it was talking about.

It was no secret to Beast there were those inside the Pavoni family who wished to see him ousted, which was why he was going to have to cement his power. Rubbing the heel of his palm to his forehead, Beast sighed and turned to Emilio. He was wearing a t-shirt with the name of some local band on it, torn up jeans, and sneakers.

“Did we not talk about this?” Beast gestured to the outfit Emilio was wearing. “You can’t continue to dress like that.”

“Chill out. When we start actually doing stuff, I’ll look real nice. I’ll wear suits and shit.”

With a deep breath, Beast brushed out his wool pea coat. When his coat was a nice, matte black, he snapped his left arm forward, grabbing Emilio by the collar of his moth-eaten shirt. “We are doing stuff,” he hissed. Beast released Emilio and he staggered back, throwing his arms and shoulders forward in an attempt to regain composure.

“Isn’t the whole point of this that we’re paying the governor?” Emilio said, giving Beast a bruised look. “Why can’t I just dress how I want?”

Beast glanced at his watch. “I don’t have time to go over this with you again. Meet me at the docks and be wearing one of the suits Nikolai had made for you.”

Emilio rubbed his ear. “It’s a lot happening really fast. Father’s asking me what I’ve been doing and I’ve had to lie and I just don’t know if I’m up for this.” Emilio Alessio de Luca was the son of a Pavoni councilman. That fact alone should have afforded him a high rank in the Family and he should have been able to do and wear whatever the fuck he wanted. There was just one tiny thing though: his mother. The circumstances of his birth were ugly and his name was a constant testament to it.

Emilio Alessio was a bad omen. After the end of the Blood War there should have been two full-blooded and virile Pavoni men ready to continue the bloodline, but instead everyone got one De Luca baby.

No one wanted to work with Emilio. He’d spent an entire life in organized crime watching from the sidelines.

Until Beast.

“Then go,” Beast replied evenly. “I will replace you.” With a disappointed sigh, Beast left the room. It would mean finding someone to kill Emilio, and that would be difficult. Killing someone in the Family had to be done quietly and without leaving a signature. Emilio knew far too much about Beast’s dealings, though, so he had to die. At least he had time to find someone to replace him.

Beast was out of the townhouse, walking down the cool stone steps, when Emilio’s voice stopped him.

“Wait!” Beast turned to see the young man running down the steps to catch him. “I’ll meet you at the docks. I’ll change into a suit.”

* * *

Outside of a warehouse, along the frozen Hudson River, Beast met with Rhys and Emilio. It was where he’d been coming since he was just a soldier, the place he’d turned into his point of operation when he’d risen in the ranks. It was also where he held extravagant underground parties. Unlike The Council, who preferred swanky high-rises in the Financial District for doing business, Beast liked the warehouse.

Emilio changed his clothing, at least. In a bespoke blue pinstripe suit with red tie, he was starting to look the part Beast was molding him to play.

“Africa is all but untouchable,” Rhys said in a clipped British accent. “No vulnerabilities to exploit, no one willing to do business.” With a shaved head that made him all the more intimidating and a goatee outlining firm lips on skin like burnt charcoal, Rhys Potters was the kind of man you wouldn’t want to meet alone in a dark alley. On paper, Rhys was a lawyer, an academic, and a businessman. He held an upper position in the International Monetary Fund, and when Beast first met him, he’d expected him to cower as those before him had. Instead, when Beast approached him, he’d pulled out his gun, surprising Beast with his courage.

Still, Beast tore the gun away and cornered him, ready to pull the trigger of Potter’s own gun, when he’d offered him one last deal instead: he’d let Rhys live if he started informing for him at the IMF. Beast had given the same deal to the man before Rhys, and the man before that, and the man before that.

“I’d rather die a man than live a coward,” Potters had replied, then stepped forward to press the gun to his head. Beast handed Rhys his gun back and offered him a different job. Beast had been looking for the right man to help bring his plans to fruition, plans he’d been sketching since he was just a soldier, and Potters fit the bill. Too many people in Beast’s employ grew up in the life. He needed someone to bridge the gap between worlds.

Potters had declined immediately, but it had taken only a week for him to change his mind. Rhys had gone back to the IMF, but it was like going from black and white to color. He’d seen the men who’d taken Beast’s deal. He’d seen the corruption. He’d seen that his job was no different than the one the Beast offered.

Except in Beast’s job, he could make a hell of a lot more money.

“So, what you’ve been saying for the past five months then,” Beast said curtly. “Thank you for the thrilling update, but this is not worth my time.” Beast moved to get back into his car, shoving Emilio out of the way and causing him to stumble.

“There is one way,” Rhys remarked, drawing Beast’s eyes back. Rhys placed one hand on the roof, his Patek Philippe watch glinting in the gray winter light, and leaned inside. Jaw tight, Beast waited for him. Swallowing, Rhys gripped the hood of the car.

“Fucking spit it out,” Beast said.

“I hear you have a girl in your possession,” Rhys replied.

“And?”

“And Ekwensi is willing to sell us oil-rich land if we trade. The idea of an American wife appeals to him.”

“Unacceptable.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew it. Unacceptable? No, it was a perfectly acceptable idea. In fact, it would solve the problem he and Rhys had been working on for the past five fucking months. It was a great idea.

Coughing, Beast looked down to the asphalt, then looked back to Rhys just in time to see him quirk a brow. Quickly he added, “What I mean is call The Institute. Get one of their women and trade her to him if an American is all he wants. The woman in my possession has already been sold.” The lie came quickly and with purpose. Frankie hadn’t been sold; in fact, because Beast had despoiled her she was pretty much worthless to them. He’d wasted her value and thrown them into debt. He didn’t bother thinking about what it meant to lie, though. He waved a hand flippantly, gesturing that the conversation was over.

Rhys still hadn’t moved. His hand gripped the hood of the car.

“What?” Annoyance singed Beast’s tongue like hot peppers, or maybe that was the fire starting inside of him.

“He wants a royal,” Rhys explained.

“Did you inform him that America doesn’t have any fucking royalty? Maybe you should point him in the direction of your motherland.” He hardly ever spoke to Rhys—or anyone—this way. His voice was edged and impulsive. There were many things the Beast was known for—cruelty, a callousness so severe it bordered on evil—but all of those things were begat from dispassion and apathy. He barely recognized the stirring in his gut, let alone knew what to do with it.

“Someone important,” Rhys continued, narrowing his eyes a bit. “A concubine of the Family might work. Even then, it’s a long shot. We’d have a better chance sending an actual Pavoni woman.” Rhys’s tone was even, collected and Beast wondered distantly why his own voice didn’t match. He was always calm and collected, always cool.

“I’ll think about it,” Beast said. He then looked pointedly from Rhys to Emilio, signaling their meeting was over. He didn’t usually end meetings early; he worked into his sleep. There was something happening inside him, though, something that made him fuck up business over a slave. He had to figure out what it was and destroy it. A fractured leader is no leader at all.

Rhys lifted his hands, dropping the subject and backed away. Emilio jumped up, suddenly interested.

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Emilio sputtered. “But what about the governor? And the Wolves?” At the question, long, curling brown hair and crystal blue eyes flashed into Beast’s mind. Just as quickly, the image vanished and Beast looked back up at the warehouse, staring at the worn wooden front. He exhaled.

Fuck.

He was to meet his Wolves that night. He looked back up to the warehouse, thinking about the men waiting inside for him. The car kept running, its exhaust sending puffs of hot smoke into the cold air.

At last, Beast said, “Both can wait a day.”

“But—” Emilio started but Beast slammed the door shut. Emilio jumped back, a stunned look on his face. Beast afforded Emilio certain luxuries he didn’t with others, like probing, annoying questions. He needed Emilio happy and compliant until he was in place, but there were limits.

The car pulled away from the docks and the water shrunk in the distance. The sun was setting in a deep tangerine, the only color there’d been all day against the whitewashed winter day. It lit an orange streak of fire across the iron blue Hudson.

Beast sat back against the leather of the car, trying to quash Rhys’s words. The Pavonis might treat their women like shit, but they had a code: only they got to break the pottery. It wasn’t so much about chivalry as it was about property, a fact easily attested by the bruises ghosting beneath a veil of foundation on all Family women’s skin. Beast most certainly couldn’t take one of the other men’s wives or daughters and still expect to stay in charge. There were already those who viewed him as a usurper.

Selling Frankie was the best idea, Beast knew that. It would greatly improve his earnings and might actually allow him to step on the skulls of the assholes nipping at his heels. This was the second time he’d been given the opportunity to sell her and the second time he’d fucked it up.

* * *

When Beast got home, Nikolai stood in the hallway, eyes ever unflinching. In the boy’s hands was the Beast’s nightly dinner: a black coffee and an apple, complete with a knife for slicing. Beast shed his coat for him.

“I gave her breakfast,” Nikolai started with austere soldier-like reporting, as if noting what he saw on the battlefield, not in a bedroom. Nikolai took the Beast’s coat and he traded the item for his dinner. “And lunch as directed, Boss, but uh…” As Beast was walking away, Nikolai’s tone made him pause. He turned around to see what could possibly choke Nikolai up.

“But?” he asked.

“It ended up on the floor,” Nikolai replied swiftly.

“Did it?” he asked, but the question was rhetorical. “Maybe that’s where you should put the food from now on.”

“Yes, Boss.”

On his way back to the office, Beast passed by Frankie's room. Formerly a guest bedroom, he’d redecorated in the hours it had taken to acquire Frankie. He’d had a few options for where to house her before sending her to The Institute and while they’d been making the trek from New Jersey to New York, he’d considered them all. The most obvious was to place her with all the other women waiting in the storage boxes by the river, but that hadn’t sat right for some reason he didn’t wish to investigate.

He’d contemplated putting her in a hotel, and even booked a few, but still, he found himself hiring a decorator and getting the bedroom redone quickly and efficiently.

He paused, staring at the white wooden door. He should have sent her to the river, should have shut her in a box and then she would be at The Institute, out of his hair and not complicating his fucking life. He blinked then continued farther down until he passed his own door. He was nearly up the stairs and at his office, when he redoubled back. This time he found himself staring at his own door, because just beyond two inches of painted wood, Frankie slept in his bed.

“Francesca,” she mumbled, folding her arms. Still she wouldn’t look at him. She looked anywhere but him. Her deep cornflower eyes examined the stitching in the leather, the ice in the plane’s bar, anything but him.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Francesca,” she repeated, raising her voice. She looked up, catching his stare for the first time since they’d left New Jersey. “Only my friends call me Frankie.” He clenched his jaw. Soon she would learn.

Beast pushed the door open, walking inside. Frankie sat up in the bed, covers pulled up to her chin, gasping when she saw him. He paused a moment, staring at the way she looked beneath his covers, the way her little fingers grasped his sheets, the way her bright eyes looked out at him. He wondered if she’d stayed in his bed all day. If the sheets now smelled like that light but somehow heady aroma that he’d gotten a taste of last night.

He’d never brought a woman into his bedroom, not even his penthouse. For security purposes, he used hotels.

But she was just a slave.

Shaking his head, he walked over to the bed and sat on the edge without saying a word. Slowly he removed one black shoe from his foot, untying the laces with careful consideration. Then he turned to the other foot, doing the same thing with the same amount of consideration. He took his socks off next, folding them neatly.

Next he unbuttoned his black silk shirt.

When all was said and done, he was still on the edge of the bed, wearing only his trousers. The shadow of his profile in the sheen of the apple caught his eye. He took the knife and sliced the red skin. The knife cut beneath the waxy skin until juice slid down his thumb.

He turned to Frankie, offering her a slice. She pulled the covers up to her nose.

“You haven’t eaten.” The Beast turned back, placing the slice in his own mouth. He cut another slice, repeating the same motion with her. Each time she refused. He offered until the apple was at its core then stood up and held the core out to her.

When she refused, he said, “In time you’ll wish you’d taken this from my hand.”

Three

At first I didn’t know why they called him the Beast—he was that beautiful. With black hair that fell in waves down his neck and across his calculating bluegreen eyes, he didn’t look monstrous; he looked refined, like something out of an oil painting. His hard, square jaw was shadowed by stubble, but even that looked cultivated. The only beastly thing about him was his height; he must have been about seven feet tall and all lean muscle.

But then he’d taken me against the window, and slowly—not quickly, like in all the books and movies—I felt myself disappear. Inside, all the things that made me Frankie, all the things that differentiated me from the others of the world, were gone. It no longer mattered that I liked Gilmore Girls and Firefly. It didn’t matter that I could read a book in two hours. My favorite flavor of ice cream was tasteless.

Because I could still feel him inside me.

That was the only thing that mattered.

God, when he’d said to mourn my life on the plane, when he’d said to prepare, how could I? What type of thing could ever prepare a person for that?

I hadn’t moved an inch since he’d unceremoniously dropped me in bed afterward. Some time passed. I’d watched the moon rise high in the sky and fall beneath the sun. It was not the same room I’d been shown to when we’d arrived. It was the antithesis of the first room. Where that room was white and feminine, this was dark and utterly masculine, everything done in rich grays and blacks with only a hint of gold.

I remembered thinking how big the first room was—it had a freaking balcony, a walk-in closet, and adjoining bathroom—but this room was enormous. The size somehow made it that much more foreboding. The windows were massive, stretching taller in the shadows. I could see beyond to a sitting area and I was sure there was an en-suite bathroom that I couldn’t see.

The entire room felt like the living embodiment of chiaroscuro. Shadows clung in corners and to the floor. Light refracted from the windows, casting gaunt lines. The mood was dark and dangerous, and I was stuck in the middle of it. I lay in the bed, sheets up to my chin, since he’d carried my limp and fight-less body there after taking me against the window.

After the fact, I was shocked, totally distraught and unable to comprehend anything. Now I was still shocked, still distraught, but I could comprehend. I knew now what I had gotten myself into, and I wasn’t going to give myself over to degradation so easily.

I was glad it wasn’t the same room he’d shown me to when I’d arrived. I hated that room. I hated the closet with its pretty clothes. Hated the plush carpet and the beautiful accouterments. Hated that for a moment, I’d been hopeful. Hopeful that the tingling in my belly meant that maybe he was something special. Maybe he would be something more than a Beast. In the darkest corners of myself, where hate transforms into self-loathing, I thought maybe I’d asked for it. Because as I lied in bed, goose bumps whispered against the flesh of my soul that I loved every minute.

But that was over now.

That hope had been obliterated.

The asshole had ruined vintage Dior, too; there’s a special place in hell for people who do that. The dress was now getting wrinkled underneath the blankets, wrapped up around my legs and tangled in the sheets—sheets stained with tears, and probably with the blood from my thighs.

But I wasn’t thinking about that.

I was trying not to think about anything. I was embracing the warm numbness that coddled my brain like a deathly blanket. He’d said he wouldn’t kill me, but maybe if I never got out of bed again, I would waste away. Who knew death would be my salvation? In one-thousand-thread-count sheets up in a penthouse in Tribeca, it would be like dying a princess.

There was a faint knock and I pulled the sheets up to my chin, eyes darting to the door. He’d only left just a bit ago; I couldn’t believe he was back already. I needed more time to prepare…more time to fade away.

The door pushed open slightly but no creak was heard. I filed that knowledge away in my brain. Of course the door didn’t creak. The floorboards probably didn’t creak much either. The entire penthouse was sparkling and new. I was so used to a house having groans and sighs, but this one was silent. Deadly.

“Excuse me, mistress?” A young man with yellow-gold hair peered around the door. “I’ve brought you breakfast.” He stepped in the rest of the way, presenting a wooden tray topped with food, a cup of some kind of beverage, and even a little vase with a black rose. I nearly laughed. Was this a fucking joke? What kind of twisted bed and breakfast was the Beast running? I glared at the man who couldn’t have been older than eighteen. He would have been beautiful, gorgeous even, if not for the jagged scar running down his forehead to his chin. I had half a mind to tell him where to shove his eggs, but deflated.

When I said nothing, the young man put the eggs and toast on the night table to my left and exited. I stared at them for a moment then whipped my hand out, feeling sublime satisfaction when they hit the floor with a crash.

* * *

The young man came back and with him so did lunch. Noticing the eggs and toast on the floor, he got to the ground and tacitly cleaned. Pulling out a small rag from his back pocket, he mopped up the orange liquid that had spilled from the broken glass flute. I wondered if I should feel bad as he piled tiny pieces of the porcelain plate onto the tray.

When he left, I knocked the tray of lunch to the floor again, hoping he’d get my point. He came back an hour later and went through the same motions. I did feel a little bad then, making him clean up after me, but that thought soured quickly.

He was the enemy.

Then I waited, watching the shadows move across the walls and floor with the time of day. Soon the entire room was swathed in them when the sun dropped. My gaze locked on the door, waiting for golden curls to make an appearance.

Six pm turned to seven and then seven to eight, and I couldn’t help but feel a small victory. Maybe the scarred boy had taken the hint and would stop bringing me meals, but that victory was soon shattered. The door opened slowly. I sat up a bit, gathering the courage to just tell the curly-haired boy to shove it.

The door opened all the way and I froze. Though everything in my brain screamed to disappear back into the sheets, I couldn’t. I was trapped, couldn’t breathe, my body petrified wood. My voice disappeared down my throat in a rocky gulp.

Leaning casually in the doorway like the snake from the Bible was Beast. He held a red apple in one hand, observing me. A small knife in his other hand caught the light.

I unfroze, senses coming whooshing back at top speed. It all happened in less than a second. My heart beat against my chest, my breathing ricocheting against my ribcage. Motor control returned and my limbs were tingling and prickly, like when I forgot a coat during a blizzard and had to warm up by the fire.

I scrambled back beneath the sheets, pulling them up higher. I thought I would be stronger, you know? I’d spent the entire day fuming, thinking about his violation, thinking about how much of a fucking asshole he was.

But then he stood there.

Casually.

Holding an apple as dark locks fell carelessly over one deep, turquoise eye. My fingers gripped the blanket, the only shield I had. I wanted to scream at him, to hurl insults that would transform into curses that could kill. Instead I watched, waited, and died a little more inside.

I noted every small movement, the way he pushed off the frame and the way his suit twisted with the movement, as if captivated by his muscles just as much as my eyes were. My breathing got lost somewhere inside me and I didn’t know if I’d ever find it. When he sat on the bed, just millimeters from my foot, I thought maybe I really had suffocated.

He started to undress.

Oh, there’s my breathing.

Fast. Choppy. Coming like a train about to go off the rails. So quick that I got lightheaded. He folded his jacket carefully, so carefully and I hated him all the more for it. Where was that consideration with me? I was focused so hard on that stupid, folded dark fabric, that when he turned to me, I wasn’t ready.

Again.

He was shirtless, only in his black suit pants, a feral glare pinned to me.

I pulled the fabric up past my lips.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said. His lips moved, dark red and full, like the apple he was offering me. I glared. I stared at the naked plains of chest. I never thought I’d ask for it again—sex with him. Not after last night. Never imagined it would be a thought in my head, let alone a plea.

But this anticipation was torture.

The way he offered his slices.

The way he licked the knife when I refused.

The theatre, the dance—I wanted it over with.

Just over with.

Each time he offered a slice to me, I gripped the plush, velvety-feeling comforter tighter, so tight my nails might really tear through. He sliced and sliced until eventually there was only one slice left to offer. He leaned over on the bed, holding it out to me, waiting.

I closed my eyes.

Abruptly the weight of the bed gave way. I opened my eyes and he was standing, holding the core out to me. I gripped the blanket, holding my breath.

He glowered and said, “In time you’ll wish you’d taken this from my hand.” Then he walked out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

I threw the blankets off, sat up, and exhaled until my chest felt like it would cave in. I stared at the door. My skin felt hot and cold, like I had the flu. I recognized the feeling as safety, relief. He was gone, maybe for the night.

I could sleep, alone. This room was dark and foreboding, but at least I was alone. I didn’t have to spar with him or, more importantly, what he did to me. I settled back into the bed, my limbs relishing the warmth and my muscles finally releasing the tightness that had been wrapped around them like a boa constrictor all day.

Then the door flew open.

At the harsh banging sound of the door bouncing against the wall, I jumped off the bed. I didn’t look to see who it was; it was instinct. Thoughts weren’t coherent. I just knew I had to hide. I scrambled to the floor and under the bed. Tears fell from my lids, but I wasn’t crying. To cry I would have had to acknowledge what was happening, and conscious thought had left the building.

I wasn’t even under the bed when a hand grasped my ankle.

“No, please!” I frantically palmed the carpet, the soft fibers feeling rough and cruel against my skin as I was pulled out from under the bed, the light from the other side disappearing.

* * *

He threw me to the ground and seconds later I heard the door slam. Pushing my hair out of my face, I looked at the new room. I tried to find any distinguishing features, but there weren’t any. It was small, no bigger than a closet—I would know, too, considering I’d slept in one most my life.

The place was barren. There was no furniture, meaning no bed, no lamp, no chairs—just in case you didn’t get the picture with no furniture. The hardwood floor shone even in the darkness.

There was only one item in the small space: an apple core.

An apple core he’d obviously left behind.

My gaze traveled to the door I’d been thrown through, eyes fixing on the doorknob. It was fancy looking, some kind of turquoise porcelain with a brass lace head.

I blinked, looking away. I didn’t need a bed. I could sleep on the floor. I’d sleep in the attic in the scratchy insulation if it meant I could get away from the Beast. There was just one thing keeping this from being my heaven, one little thing: a window. A small, wide-open window exposed me to the frigid, New York City winter.

I walked right to it and of course tried to close it. I tugged and tugged but it was painted or glued or held open only for Thor to close. With a sigh, I went to the opposite side of the room and sat in a corner, drawing my knees up to my chest.

I unzipped the Dior dress and lifted it so I could pull my arms inside the fabric, sort of how I used to do with sweaters when I was a child and Papa would forget to pay the gas bill. The sweater arms would hang limply by my side and I would keep myself warm by putting skin to skin. The dress didn’t have arms though, so I tugged the skirt up around my neck.

Snow was starting to fall outside and the wind carried it inside the room. It fell on the floor, dusting the hardwood with white ashes. Shivering, I stuck my head inside the dress. I figured he wouldn’t leave me here for very long. That was what I thought at first.

At first, the cold was just uncomfortable.

My hunger increased.

My thirst did too.

My skin numbed.

After what felt like two hours, I lifted my head; the floor was entirely dusted in snow. I glanced over to the door and it was like the doorknob grew before my eyes.

I stood up. Holding the dress to my body, I walked over and curled my fingers around the knob. It turned and would have opened for me, but I snapped my hand back as if the knob was electric. Memories of what happened the last time I went through an unlocked door slammed into me and I stumbled backward, still staring at the porcelain knob.

Slowly, I walked back to my corner. Sitting down, I stared at the turquoise knob and stuck my hands inside my dress again. The dress was a reminder of the lesson I’d learned about unlocked doors: the other side was undoubtedly worse. I was freezing, but I didn’t put my head back into the dress.

On the floor white cinders of snow masked the dark wood. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the door, but it was hot on my neck, just like the apple core. I was all alone in the room, but it was like I was trapped inside with two other bodiless, malevolent entities.

I tried to focus my mind on the way the snow drifted across the floor. It slid and slipped, like it was floating. At the end of what felt like three hours, I gave up. I stood up and, holding my dress so it wouldn’t fall, walked over to the window, my ribs feeling like they were made of paper. The entire time the doorknob and apple core were at my back.

When I reached the window a gust of chilly air hit me.

It was night time, but the city that never slept was earning its name. Lights were on everywhere, twinkling in reds, yellows, whites. Cars were honking in a cacophonous symphony. I put one hand on the sill and looked down at the street. People were milling about, but they looked tiny. It would be a long way to fall, but it would be over instantly.

If only I could fit.

Slowly I curled my hand in the cool air then looked to the doorknob, to the core dusted with snow. Those options felt more like suicide than freezing. Freezing was freedom. Going through the door was annihilation.

I walked back to my corner and let the dress drop to the floor, leaving me naked. When I sat down, the ground was cold and snow melted where my skin touched it, making me wet. The wetness amplified the freeze. With determination, I took my dress and placed it beneath my head, making a sort of pillow. Then I lay down.

As I shivered, teeth chattering violently against my jaw, I tried to remain calm. There was this tug inside my gut, a primordial warning that wanted to take control of my arms and have me put the dress back on. But, if I did that, I would still die, just not as obviously. At least this way there would be a body.

I closed my eyes, trying not to focus on the bitter burn against my skin. I didn’t know how long it was going to take me to freeze to death—I’d read stories about people who froze to death in as short as ten minutes or as long as hours—but eventually I wouldn’t feel the cold. Eventually I would feel warm, even.

My gaze flicked to the apple core again, shriveled on the hardwood floor, dusted with a bit of snow. I knew he could have had it cleaned up. Everything was immaculate in the penthouse. He’d picked it up from the other room and brought it with him for a reason. He’d thrown it to the floor for a reason, too.

To taunt me.

To remind me.

Most people remember Dante’s hell as fiery and lava-filled, but the final center, the darkest, most horrible place, the place where Satan likes to hang out, is cold. Satan is frozen, and his chilly winds are felt in all the levels of hell.

Hell is not a boiling place. Hell is an icy place. I laughed at the thought then groaned as my teeth chattered ferociously. What a perfect description of Beast: a beautiful, fallen angel, the most beautiful and evil of them all.

I had one last thought before I fell asleep: at least my sojourn in hell had been quick.

* * *

When I awakened, twisting, crackling flames filled my vision. I saw more than felt at first. Saw the orange glow, the crackling pops. Saw the way the large yellow-orange tendrils cast shadows. I was disoriented. The last thing I remembered was falling asleep in the room, sure I was going to die, thinking about hell.

“God dammit,” I said, my teeth chattering. I’m going to have to walk back through each individual level of hell. As I blinked, though, my vision got clearer and more senses returned. I saw where I really was: in a sitting area, on some kind of armchair, sitting in front of a fire, a blanket draped across my body.

Beast was there as well, leaning casually against the marble mantle of the fireplace, holding another fucking apple. He sliced it, watching me with an aloof expression.

“Hungry yet?” he asked, taking a bite. Seeing him, I wasn’t entirely convinced I hadn’t landed in hell after all. He bit into the red flesh and the juices ran down his chin, across his sharp, angular jaw, trickling down his neck. I had the worst thought pop into my head: I want to lick that. I shook my head, clearing the thoughts.

I knew what the asshole wanted. When I stood, such violent shivers racked me that the blanket nearly dropped from my shoulders, but I hurriedly caught it. My limbs felt heavy and sore. Holding the blanket with one arm, I made sure to keep the fabric grasped tightly so I didn’t expose myself. I tried not to think about the fact that in order to put the blanket on me, he would have already seen everything. With a deep, dogged breath, I walked to him, holding my free hand out.

“No, you’ll eat that.” He lifted his chin, gaze flicking from my eyes to behind my shoulder. With dread, I turned slowly around, following his gaze to an end table next to the chair. When I realized what he was talking about, I was simultaneously furious and revolted. Sitting neatly on the table was the fucking apple core. I spun around, glaring at him. I swallowed every bit of pride I had to walk up to him and he wanted me to eat the fucking core? In front of him?

How about he suck it instead? I’d go back to my original plan of dying.

I took my hand back and tugged the blanket tighter around me, waiting for him to throw me back in the room. Instead he ate a piece of his apple and stated, “When you’ve finished eating, you may join me in the living room. You’ll stay here until you decide.”

With equal parts stunned indignation and mute fury, I watched him leave the room. I stared at the dark maw of the doorway he’d walked through, my eyes flickering to the dried core on the table. When I was sure he wasn’t going to come back, I picked it up then walked to the fire. It took me about two seconds to make my decision.

It had been at least two days since I’d had any food, since the morning Beast came for me. If I’d known what was going to happen, I would have eaten a huge breakfast, but I hadn’t, so all I’d eaten that day was a banana. My gut felt like it was growing a home for the Minotaur, but I wouldn’t let him take everything from me.

I threw the core into the fire, waited until the flames licked it and turned it into ash, and then walked out. The Beast was reclining in the sitting area I’d walked into the day before, reading the paper. Everything about him screamed casual, content, and most infuriatingly, handsome. His hair fell to his neck in loose black waves. He wore a forest green Henley that not only stuck to his muscles but somehow brought out both colors in his eyes.

I looked down at myself: covered in tears and blood, hair a mess.

Good.

Maybe he’d leave me the fuck alone.

He flipped a page. “Welcome back.”

“Yeah, well…” I shrugged in the blanket, trying to portray confidence. “There’s nothing you can do to me that you haven’t done already.”

He chuckled lowly, but didn’t say a word.

Four

Opening his palm, the Beast looked down at the sleek black surface of the remote, thinking about what it controlled. It was just the morning after he’d punished Frankie, since he’d turned off the heat and thrown her into the empty storage room with the window open. She’d lasted in there for nearly four hours.

Twisting the remote in his hand, he thought about her resolve. Her strength had shocked him. The night before, he’d watched her through his cameras, watched what she would do. He’d left the door open for her, but she refused to go through it, proving she was a quick study. For four hours he’d stared at his monitor. He had work to do, shit to get done, but he couldn’t help staring at the girl.

Mostly she sat in the corner, head in her lap, conserving her warmth. He wasn’t worried about the cold. The human body is hardy and it would take much more than a window for her to die. Mostly, it would be uncomfortable. But then she’d taken off her dress and lain down, and he’d sat up straighter in his chair. For an hour she’d been stone and unmoving. Another hour had passed and he’d watched as snow settled on her naked skin.

Then he’d had to intercede, which was a burgeoning pattern with her. Beast would formulate a plan and in some way or another, she’d ruin it. He needed to get her out of his life, but for the first time, he wasn’t sure he was in control of that decision. It was as if he was watching his hand pick up a ball when his mind said to pick up a bat.

With an exhale, Beast closed his fist over the remote and sat down at his desk. He looked out at the room; the office looked very different than the first time he’d been there.

But it hadn’t always been his office, just like the Beast hadn’t always been a beast—or at least, it hadn’t always been so obvious.

He was once Anteros Drago, an orphan that slept on the streets of Venice. It was coincidence, or maybe fate, that brought him to the feet of the infamous Lucio Pavoni. Lucio had long since immigrated to the States and was operating the business from there when their paths collided.

Lucio Pavoni was a name of legend in Italy. Anteros grew up hearing the stories so much that Lucio was a myth, and myths never appeared in reality. Also, in all of the stories, Lucio stayed in the boot of Italy, in Sicily. He’d never visit Venice, everyone said.

Then one hazy yellow day, Anteros picked the wrong pocket. Anteros wasn’t afraid to pick the pockets of the elite; in fact, they were his favorite targets. While other urchins went for the obvious—tourists with their maps out and heads buried—Anteros cast his line for the biggest fish.

That fateful day, Lucio Pavoni wore a bespoke three-piece suit and shoes that reflected brighter than the sun, but it was the way he held himself that drew Anteros to him. He radiated power. He reflected reverence. That day Anteros wanted to pick something more than money.

Anteros followed him through the streets, keeping a distance, waiting for the right moment. He was just a boy then, and his youth and the ability to avoid any real consequences had made him foolhardy. When he grasped Lucio’s wallet, all of that changed.

It had been more than two decades since Anteros picked Lucio’s pocket. Now the man was dying and Anteros was only weeks away from staking a final, irrevocable claim of power. Anteros spun in his chair and looked out to the iron blue water of the Hudson River. He could be sure this was not the future Lucio had intended when he took Anteros with him that day—him lying sick and dying in a bed while Anteros sat in his warehouse moving around chess pieces to maintain his tenuous grasp on power.

Those in the Family used to wonder why Lucio would rescue an orphan, and the conclusion was that Anteros was the shoddy replacement for the two sons Lucio had lost. Anteros knew the truth. Lucio had always treated Anteros with less dignity than the other soldiers. As he grew, other soldiers—worse soldiers—got promoted ahead of him. The most Lucio saw in Anteros was a ghost of what could have been, and that made him bitter.

Staring out the top-floor window to the docks on the river, Anteros remembered back to when Lucio was actually running things, not just in name. The window was a testament to that time, the glass old and blurry, having not been replaced during the renovations.

Anteros had spoken to Lucio in the very room he stood in now, though then it had been just a derelict warehouse. There had been no furniture, the lights were just bulbs swinging from strings. The room had been quiet, cold as there was no heat, the only sound was a faint creaking as the wind wove its way through the wood.

He’d hoped to get approval, hoped to get promoted. Anteros had been a soldier much longer than the others and was starting to wonder when he would advance—if he would advance.

“Listen to me, boy,” Lucio had growled. “I’ve been running this longer than you’ve been alive. I could snap my fingers”—he did so—“and have you killed. You’re nothing but what I make you.” Anteros had nodded deferentially and left.

That day Anteros stopped relying on anyone but himself. Lucio had given him passage to America, but that was all he would give him. Lucio preached about brotherhood and rising far in the Family, but like most preachers, his tongue was simply coated in honey. A few months later a job would bring Anteros and the Wolves together, cementing his conclusion: if he wanted power, he would have to take it.

Anteros turned from the old glass to his office. Placing his hands atop his desk, he curled them into fists. Inside one palm he could feel a protrusion—the remote he’d brought with him. Despite his early intervention with Frankie, the punishment had had the desired effect: that morning Frankie obeyed his commands. Still, he saw the disobedience in her eyes. Occasionally she slipped, her tongue betraying her thoughts and revealing the iron soul beneath, the iron soul he felt compelled to bend.

He thought about her back at his home. He’d put her in his bed again after punishing her, needing to have her in his sheets. It should bother him, he should be wondering why he was doing it, but all he could think about was her in his bed.

Waiting for something she didn’t know was coming.

Just as his finger pressed on the remote, there was a knock at the door. He closed his palm, pulling the remote into his lap, and called out, “Come in.”

* * *

Rhys entered the office, Emilio trailing with bored interest behind him. Stopping before Anteros, Rhys held his arms behind his back, ever the respectful subordinate, and quickly launched into what Anteros missed the night before at the meeting with the Wolves.

“I’ve spoken with Senator Hatch,” Rhys stated. “Half-way through the cycle, he’ll drop out.” Emilio sat down and slouched comfortably on the couch. He had at least dressed properly, Anteros noted as Emilio crossed a bespoke suit-clad leg.

“I assume he has no choice,” Anteros said, shifting his gaze from Emilio’s shined shoe and back to Rhys. Rhys nodded succinctly. “And if our connection leaks?” Anteros asked.

“We’re not worried,” Rhys said. Bringing his arms from behind his back, Rhys folded them with authority. “The people we hired to spin Emilio could make rape sound like a day at the park,” he continued.

Emilio barked a laugh. “Too bad the senator didn’t hire her.” While Rhys and Emilio spoke, Anteros’s gaze flicked down to the remote in his palm. Earlier that morning before he’d left her, Frankie ate breakfast in his bed. He hadn’t thought long about why he’d put her in his room again. It wasn’t like he needed the space, he spent the night working in his home office.

In the morning when he’d opened his door, he’d found her swallowing down eggs in his bed, a look of distaste on her face. She hadn’t complained, though. Those hours in the freezing storage room had quelled her urge to whine about food, yet when he’d beckoned her to his side, she’d stayed put and said, “You don’t own me.” It was quiet and under her breath, but he’d heard it all the same.

It had been a long, long time since Anteros had anyone question him. Frankie wasn’t just fiery; the burn inside her caught like wildfire on pollen, igniting something inside of him. He’d paused, looking at the way she stared at her eggs, watching the war wage inside of her. She appeared so innocent, so sweet, but he saw beyond that to the darkness within.

There were depths to her and he wondered if even she was aware of them. It was beyond mesmerizing; it was beguiling.

“When I’m not home,” he’d said, moving on to his own purpose. “You will wear this, so you don’t forget who owns you.” He held up a shining black plug with a flat base and a rounder middle that tapered into a slightly pointed tip. “I have the remote. It vibrates.”

“You could’ve just filled the room with bees.” She spoke louder that time, stabbing her eggs. “It would have the same effect.” Anteros’s lip ticked upward almost imperceptibly at her words.

“Come here, Frankie.” He noticed how her body tightened as if about to fight. He waited, watching how the muscles in her arms slackened and her chest caved with an exhale. Rolling her eyes, Frankie set her plate down with a loud clank. Pushing the tray to her side, she stood up and walked over to him sluggishly. When she finally stopped, Frankie was a good few inches away from him, arms folded and eyes at the floor.

His gaze raked over her. After bringing her from the storage room, he’d told her to dress appropriately for bed. She’d chosen a periwinkle lace outfit that brought out the crystal blue of her eyes. It also had the added benefit of showcasing her small yet somehow enragingly enticing breasts. It was as if the delicate curve was like the rest of her—trying to hide.

The lingerie she’d chosen was not as exposing as the other items Anteros had bought for her. It was a bit looser, a bit more opaque. He’d told his shopper to buy the best brands, but he’d have to be a bit more clear on the other requirements in the future. Though the periwinkle lace top clung to her, it also fell down her slim abdomen just to the dimple in her navel. His eyes flicked to her ass where the shimmering blue lace covered at least half of the perky cheeks.

“Take off your underwear, Frankie.” Her eyes flashed to his, rebellion in the narrowed pupils. “Or I could do it for you,” he suggested. Defiance melted to fear on her delicate features and she bent over, grasping the lacy sides. She stayed bent over and unmoving for at least a minute, fingers entwined in the thin, hand-sewn lace. He noticed her fingers shook.

He walked to her, bent down, and put his hands over hers. With his hands over hers, he guided them down so she pulled her underwear to the floor, and shook the entire way. When the lace hit the floor, he lifted one of her legs up and grasped the underwear for himself. He tucked them into the pocket of his pants and stood up.

When he stood, he saw that Frankie's arms were still folded and now she had crossed her legs—as if that could hide herself from him. Though he’d already taken her, this was the first time he’d actually seen her. Before she’d been hidden in fabric. He’d felt her soft and warm and wet and maddening—but seeing her? She’d crossed her legs—her long, honey legs that radiated light—so tightly he thought she might fall over. They were so tight, it was as if she had one leg, so tight that she hid her slit, but not tight enough to hide her somehow perfectly bare vee.

Anteros took one final step toward her, closing the last distance between them. He slid his fingers around the curve of her waist, joining them together. “I think you’ll like this,” he said.

“I think you and I have very different views on what I like.” It was probably meant to be bold, but it came out in a whisper. He adjusted the grip on her waist, making sure she was close. Then he slid his hand between her thighs. She kept her legs crossed, but that just served to make his hand snug.

The tight fit of his hand snaked against the slick wet of her naked flesh and he whispered against the lobe of her ear. “No, I think we’re both quite clear on that.”

She spit at him then. The saliva hit his cheek but he didn’t bother wiping it away. He didn’t even flinch. Instead he tightened his hold and plunged a finger of the hand he’d been teasing her with up inside her. The way she grasped his digit was punishment enough for her. “Your cunt is wet for me.”

“That’s biology, asshole,” she hissed. “Not an invitation.” His other hand, the one holding the plug, palmed her bare ass as he worked his finger into her. She closed her eyes, biting her lip, body going rigid, but he could feel the way her cunt spasmed against his fingers.

Taking the plug, he used the tip to part her cheeks, pressing it against her ass. At the invasion, her eyes popped open and she stared wildly at him, inquiry written across her face.

“I will always be inside of you, Frankie.” He pressed the tip just barely into her, as if for emphasis. “Even when I’m not here, I will be inside you.” His meaning dawned on her, and her expression hardened.

“No matter what you put in my body,” she seethed. “No matter what you do to me, you will never be inside me.” She closed her mouth, eyes like granite. Anteros stared at her for a moment, surprised at her words, then plunged the plug into her ass, satisfied when she screamed.

“Boss?” Emilio’s voice pulled him out of the memory. Anteros looked up, closing his fist over the remote. He’d lost himself for a moment, but they had no need to know that. If he’d learned anything over the years, it was that silence made people uncomfortable.

Rhys and Emilio shifted feet.

A few more moments passed until Rhys started. “With respect, Mr. Drago, we were asking what to do about The Council.” That night there was a council meeting. With Lucio out of commission, no one had officially been named Boss. Technically, Anteros was the Boss. Everyone who mattered called him Boss, the businesses they dealt with called him Boss, and he had all the power of the Boss—except for one, tiny thing: The Council wouldn’t name him Boss. Officially, he was still under Lucio.

Anteros was the elephant in the mafia. Everyone knew to respect him or get mercilessly trampled, but unless you were speaking to his face, you did not recognize him as Boss. Anteros curled his fist at the thought but nodded, signaling for Rhys to continue.

Rhys looked to Emilio before speaking. “Emilio was saying he’s received word that Lucia has reached out to The Council.”

“She knows Lucio is sick, Boss,” Emilio said. “She’s not happy about you. She wants a Pavoni in charge.”

“All the Pavonis are dead, sick, or women,” Anteros replied. It was their own fault, too. The Pavonis were once a powerful family line, but due to infighting, they were down to one crippled old man and an old woman. You wouldn’t catch anyone saying it out loud, but the Pavonis were nearly extinct.

“The Council is going to vote on who takes over if Lucio dies,” Emilio said.

“I wonder who they’ll appoint?” Anteros laughed acidly. “It couldn’t possibly be one of them.” It was a little known secret that the De Lucas were biding their time until the last two Pavonis died.

“You know it doesn’t matter who they vote on,” Rhys said. “It will be the same as it is now. You’ll still be where you are. You’ll still have the power.”

“Just not the title,” Anteros said bitterly.

“You could take it by force,” Emilio suggested. Anteros stood and grabbed his coat from the rack without response. For the past year, he and The Council had had a begrudging truce. What Emilio was suggesting was another blood war. Normally Anteros would be all for that, but for some reason, he had no interest.

Anteros exhaled and looked down at the remote in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the shiny black button. He knew he should either meet with The Council that night or declare a war, end it once and for all. He rubbed his thumb over the button again, pushing against it until the pressure gave way and turned it on.

He imagined Frankie back in his bed, vibrating, losing control.

Coming.

When she was with him she acted stoic. A warrior. If she was alone though, maybe she was screaming.

Begging.

Pleading.

She was maybe even making the sheets wet.

Anteros looked up and stated, “Emilio will be meeting with The Council on my behalf.”

Emilio grinned. “They prefer me anyway because I’m a De Luca. All blooded and shit.” It was meant as a joke but it boiled The Beast’s blood—his tainted, unworthy blood.

“I can send you tonight really blooded, see just how much they prefer it,” he snarled. The underlying threat completely flew over Emilio’s head and he laughed. Rhys rubbed the pad of his palm to his forehead and turned to Emilio, telling him to shut up as Anteros opened the door and slid into his wool coat.

“Am I to take your place with the Wolves again?” Rhys asked to his back. He didn’t sound too thrilled at the prospect, but to his credit, he didn’t complain. The Wolves didn’t get their name for being cuddly, and while Rhys had blended well into most aspects of mafia life, his gut had never hardened. He was a businessman first.

“No,” Anteros responded. “I’ll be back in time.” Even as he said the words though, he wasn’t sure.

* * *

“How have you been, Frankie?” Anteros asked, closing the door behind him loudly. She jumped but quickly tried to regain composure.

“Fucking fantastic,” she spat, shooting a glare in his direction. She was sitting in an armchair in the corner of his bedroom, a blanket on her body. One bare shoulder peeked out and he noted that she was probably wearing what he’d left her in—or hadn’t left her in. He’d locked the door after he left that morning, so she hadn’t been able to change into anything. His palm slid into his pocket, feeling the lace panties he’d taken from her.

“Anything interesting happen today?” he asked, stalking toward her. With care, he removed his wool coat and then his suit jacket, placing them on his bed.

“It was just like yesterday,” she snapped. “Boring, filled with hopelessness, surrounded by your overpriced shit and the smell of overcooked eggs.” He slowly came to the side of the chair. She eyed him warily as he trailed a finger down her bare shoulder. With a violent flick of his hand, he tore the blanket to the floor. She gasped and pulled her legs to her chest.

He dropped to his knees, smoothing a hand along her thigh, inside her knee. His grip tightened and he tugged, pulling her legs open despite the resistance she gave.

“Just like all the other days?” he asked. He gently slid his hand down, rounding over the curve of her soft flesh and lower until he reached her ass. He circled his finger around the lower entrance and she shuddered. He could feel that she’d taken the plug out, but her sensitivity let him know it had been in for at least some of the vibration. He pressed against her ass and it was like she was going to give in, but then she pushed him away and struggled off the chair.

She pushed sweaty hair out of her face and for a moment, her eyes locked with his. He saw the struggle inside of her, felt it himself, the tugging and straining. He saw the metal inside her too, cold but scorching at the same time, like iron put to the fire. He wanted to reach inside and touch it, no matter the burn. Her lips parted and she looked away.

Still kneeling, Anteros said, “Soon you won’t be able to hide yourself from me, Frankie.”

She heaved her breaths, folding her arms again. Silently she stepped back, falling into the wall behind her. She looked over her shoulder to Anteros, as if gauging where to run.

“I will know every inch of you,” he said, slowly standing back up. “From the arch beneath your knee to the curve in your groin.” He walked closer to her. “To the intricate folds of your pussy.” He walked closer, closing the space between them. “To the ridges inside your brain.” He pushed against her so she stumbled flat against the wall. “I’ll know them all and see them when I close my eyes. I’ll know you better than you know yourself.”

Anteros took one finger, trailing it along her cheek. Frankie's eyes locked on his and fear washed over her face, but something else was there too, something he couldn’t discern. Her cheeks ashened and she tried to push past him, but he held her firm.

It happened so quickly he didn’t have time to react. She heaved all over the front of his button-up, the smell of eggs and vomit enveloping the room in a cloying embrace. Anteros backed up immediately, arms going high. Frankie looked almost as stunned as he was.

Grabbing her by the shoulder, he thrust away from the wall and shoved her toward the door. “Clean yourself up,” he barked, arms raised to avoid the vomit on his shirt. “And be ready to leave in thirty minutes. Dress for a night out. You may pick the dress but wear the lingerie I’ve had lain out.” As he shoved her out into the hall, he added darkly, “If you go anywhere besides your bedroom, I will know.”

She swallowed and ran in the direction of her room.

* * *

Anteros looked down at Frankie as he led her through the warehouse and up to his office. It had been a little less than an hour since she’d expelled her meal on him, but just looking at her wiped away the disgusting memory.

She wore some kind of tight, shimmery spandex thing that highlighted her small curves. She looked so fucking hot that he nearly regretted bringing her along, but he knew he had to. He hadn’t sold her to The Institute, and sooner or later people were going to find out about her. It was better to get out on top of it.

He had nothing to hide, anyway.

She was just a slave.

Frankie paused, looking out at the warehouse. It was the same warehouse from just a few hours ago and the day before, but it looked completely different. A famous DJ played loud, sensual beats. Bartenders wove their way through the congested crowd. Colored lights strobed, highlighting the pulsing crowd.

They were throwing one of their infamous underground parties.

Frankie's mouth fell a little as her eyes darted around the room. Anteros tugged her forearm roughly, dragging her up the steps.

“What is this place?” she asked, awe tinging her voice as she stumbled up the steps. His lips quirked at the way she sighed, the way her eyes widened at the bright, colorful lights. He quickly ground his teeth together and tugged her harder.

The underground party scene was huge in New York, and Anteros made sure he had a hand in every part of it. From the DJs to the drugs, even the products companies paid thousands to have carefully placed, Anteros was the reason. He created the feeling of freedom and he got paid for it. He was the reason they felt they were above the main street clubs, the yuppie clubs, the places where the rest of the world went to lose their souls.

But Anteros also had a hand in those clubs as well.

Frankie pulled her lip between her teeth, watching the aerial acrobats descend from the ceiling. Anteros paused with her a moment, watching her eyes widen, the lights from the club melting across her face. No, there was nothing special about her. She was just his slave, and they would see that. He pulled her around the corner.

Arlo Moretti and Tino “Tough Tino” Palermo were waiting outside the office, guarding the door. When Anteros rose to his current role, he’d agreed to take on more security. He’d pushed back on the idea at first—it was weakness to have other men fight for you—but eventually he caved.

Aside from usual threats, there were those inside the Pavoni family that did not want to see him so high. So, with his Wolves’ urging, Anteros agreed to take Arlo and Tough Tino on as security—under one condition: Arlo and Tough Tino went only where he told them. Unlike Lucio, who had a man with him at all times, Arlo and Tough Tino would go where he told them. With no acknowledgment, Anteros walked by the two and entered his office. It was darker, the lights dimmed so as not to draw attention to them from the party. It was colder too, as the heat was turned off. During a party, the heat from the bodies was sufficient.

Anteros walked to his desk, passing by his Wolves as he went. The Wolves were the closest men in his employ, and the closest thing he would ever have to friends. If they had been born in another life, they might have been friends. For now, they settled for a closeness similar to soldiers in arms, though it was tainted and corrupted by the darkness their criminal world begot. What is loyalty worth in a world of dishonor, trust in a world of liars?

Unlike the Pavonis, Anteros didn’t give a shit about bloodlines. The Council would recoil at the Wolves—their lineage was trash. Their blood might be septic, but their ruthlessness and cunning were unparalleled.

As Anteros took a seat behind his desk, they were quiet, waiting for him to start the meeting. Anteros looked to Frankie where she still stood in the doorway, her hand fiddling with the hem of her dress.

“Strip.”

* * *

“I said strip,” Anteros repeated. Staring into the dark pools of his eyes, Frankie gripped the zipper tightly in response. His eyes flashed, daring her to disobey. Her own narrowed slightly, but she tugged down the zipper on the side of her tight spandex garment. It came undone easily, falling at her feet.

By the way her hip popped out, by the way her eyes dulled, and by the way she exhaled loudly, he could tell that though her body obeyed the order, her mind had not. She wore the new lingerie he’d had the shopper lay out and it matched the pale color of the dress she’d worn. Distantly he wondered if that was why she’d chosen the dress.

“Spin around,” he said. When she didn’t immediately do so, his eyes flashed again. Closing her hands into a fist, she finally spun, giving him the view he demanded. Her ass was basically naked. Swarovski crystals hung down from the hips like a waterfall across a thin string of crystals that disappeared deep inside her ass.

“Now spin back,” he said coolly. Slowly, she turned around. She bit her lip, pulling the bottom between her teeth. Small Swarovski crystals dotted her bust, pushing her small breasts up. Her skin was perfection, from the line of the collarbone to the line of her slit peeking through the sheer material. She was flawless. The only wrinkle on her face was her frown line, which he would fix.

Eventually.

He would have her mind, in time.

“New toy?” a voice asked, breaking the concentration he had on her. It belonged to Little O, one of his Wolves. Ottavio “Little O” Li Fonti was anything but little, dwarfing his twin by two heads. Anteros glanced briefly over to where Little O sat on the edge of the leather couch. Though Little O was leaning forward, his massive frame caused two of the other Wolves, Pretty Boy and Big O, to sit uncomfortably close on the couch.

Once upon a time when they’d been just boys, only soldiers for the Pavoni army, the couch fit them comfortably. As they gained height and muscle, it became a little more snug.

“Something like that,” Anteros murmured, returning his attention back to Frankie. He ground his jaw when Frankie folded her arms, looking angry. Each time her eyes flashed, it was as if she slapped him across the cheek.

“Take it all off,” Anteros said. Frankie's jaw clenched at his words, but she obeyed. In one motion Frankie ripped off the thin corset that contained her small bust and Swarovski crystals flew in all directions, one crystal hitting him in the face. Anteros touched the spot where the crystal hit his cheek and saw Frankie shrug.

She stood before them in white stockings, heels, and nothing else, but she stared Anteros down, refusing to capitulate. It was as if she said he could take her clothes, could take her body, could even take her voice, but he would never take her.

That feeling inside of Anteros stirred again. It was like a sharp yank, as if two sides of himself were being pulled apart. One side—the normal side—said to sit back and ignore her, but the other side, the side that felt as though it was burning down, wanted to reach inside and find the part of her lighting it up. It needed the fuel. He placed both his hands on his polished wood desk, as if about to stand, when Little O spoke again.

“You don’t get much better than that,” Little O murmured. “Look at those lips, that ass,” he continued. Little O stood up and reached out to touch her. She stumbled back, tripping over her heels and falling on her back. Little O advanced toward her and she stumbled backward, sliding and tripping on the floor until her back hit the wall. Her chest rose and fell in heavy breaths while Little O towered over her, his scars magnifying in the shadows.

“Is that the Notte girl?” Big O asked from behind Little O. Now that Little O had stood, Big O stretched out on the couch, putting space between him and Pretty Boy. Frankie craned her neck, looking around Little O and catching Anteros's stare. Anteros felt his eyes narrowing at her gaze; what was she looking at him for? Did she see him as some kind of savior?

She hadn’t felt that way earlier in the day, when she’d vomited all over his shirt.

Anteros turned his head from her and looked back to Big O. “Yes,” he replied. Orlando “Big O” Li Fonti was the smaller Li Fonti twin. Rumor had it that Little O had taken up all the room in the womb, leaving Big O with no room to grow or eat.

“The virgin?” Pretty Boy asked. “You have iron willpower keeping her around like this, man. When is she going to The Institute?” Anteros had known this question was coming, it was why he’d brought Frankie in the first place.

“Her contract has been terminated as she is no longer a virgin,” he responded with steely resolve. The air stilled as the realization dawned upon them. Anteros had taken a woman already promised to The Institute. Not only would he have to eat the cost of her contract, he’d have to eat the cost of what she might have been worth—meaning the potential highest bidder. Also, to appease The Institute and keep them from getting pissed off that he’d canceled a contract, he would have to pay hush money. What would have been a million-dollar profit for them had turned into more than a hundred-million dollar loss.

Silence settled, awkward, thick, and nervous, until Big O grinned and rubbed his hands together. “We get to keep our own little slaves now? Awesome.”

“You know I don’t care what you do in your spare time so long as it doesn’t affect the business. Take all the women in New York, but if it gets back to me…” Anteros trailed off, his attention dissipating. He looked to Frankie again, watching as Little O stood over her and reached his hand out. Frankie pressed her body against the wall, desperately trying to get away from his groping finger.

“She’s mine,” Anteros growled, surprised at the words that came out. “Back down, Little O.”

“Are you at least going to show us how it works?” Big O asked, but the question sounded faint to him. His focus was entirely on Frankie. He knew Little O would not ignore his orders, but Frankie didn’t. She had painted herself against the wall, fear evident on her features, and in that fear, she had found an escape: him.

“Maybe,” Anteros responded, leaning back against his chair he threw his arms above his head. “Depends on what you have to show me.”

Little O gave Frankie one last calculating look and turned to walk back to the couch. He sat back down, scooching in as best as he could. Pretty Boy and Big O gave a collective groan as they all squeezed in together.

“It’s fucking bullshit that Crazy A always gets the chair,” Big O said, gesturing to a thin man shrouded by shadows in a corner. Anteros paid little attention as they bickered, for Frankie had pulled her knees to her chest, watching them talk from the corner, no doubt hoping they would forget she was there.

Just a fly on the wall.

“Sales for Beauty are great.” Pretty Boy stood up, drawing Anteros’s attention with the status of their new designer drug. There was hesitation in his voice, though. He stood up and walked over to the desk, placing his hands on the wood and leaning in. “I’m worried about Emilio. This plan…” Pretty Boy trailed off and then continued. “Look, I get it man, I do, but don’t you think you should—” Anteros reached across, grabbing Pretty Boy by the throat. None of the other men raised a brow as Anteros's fingers curled across the beautiful man’s throat and his face purpled.

A gasp sounded from the corner.

“I must be mistaken.” Anteros squeezed tighter. “Because it sounded like you were about to tell me what I should do.”

“Stop!” Frankie screamed. Anteros looked to Frankie curiously and let go of Pretty Boy, eyebrow raised.

“You have an admirer, Pretty Boy,” Anteros said with black humor. Pretty Boy sat back down, rubbing his neck silently. Unlike Little O and Big O, Pretty Boy’s name was not ironic. Nico “Pretty Boy” Genovese was beautiful and Anteros was not surprised that Frankie was taken with him. Too bad Pretty Boy was one of the cruelest, darkest among them—other than Crazy A. Frankie locked eyes with Anteros, presumably waiting for her punishment.

Anteros stood up and walked around his desk. She crouched into the shadows, as if she could hide from him. He gripped her arm and tugged her up from the floor then dragged her the few feet to the desk. He threw her on the wood and her eyes met his, hot with defiance. He trailed a finger down her proffered body, enjoying the way she shivered even though she turned her head. Taking her elbow, he held her tight.

Frankie tightened in his hold then went slack.

Defeated.

But only for a moment. She kicked his shin, taking him by surprise, then spat in his face.

“You are the devil.” Hair fell across her face with the force of her anger.

“Maybe,” he responded, pulling her by the wrist. “But you are in my hell, and in hell, the devil is among friends.” He gestured to his Wolves for emphasis then pinned her to his desk. She tried to scamper across the surface but he grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her back. He flipped her over then spread her legs, putting himself between them.

He had to punish her now; the Wolves would be expecting it and there were certain things even a Boss couldn’t deny. Though this wasn’t the first time he’d seen a punishment happen, he oddly found himself situating his body so no one could really see hers. Her naked parts were mostly shielded by him. Still, Frankie would feel exposed. She wouldn’t know he hid her.

“What do you say, boys?” Anteros dragged his fingers down her pussy, splitting her wide. “Want to hear her scream?”

“A little thing like that?” Big O scoffed from behind him. “Doubt she has much voice.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Anteros said. As he caressed a finger along her pussy lips, she tried to stay still, tried not to let him affect her. Even then, she tried to be cool. He raised his brow slightly, surprised at how wet she was. She was practically leaking onto his finger. That tug inside him amplified, growing to a throb. In his life, he’d been cut, shot, stabbed—just to name a few. He had scars all along his abdomen and arms from knives and bullets. Right then, feeling how her body betrayed her, it was like he could feel a bleeding wound inside of him.

It was as if something was missing.

He looked down at her, distantly wondering if there was something in her matching the thing missing in him.

Fuck. He shook his head. What the fuck was happening to him? That sounded like some kind of pussy bullshit. Anteros pinned her harder, shaking his head out harder.

“Please,” Frankie pleaded, but Anteros could see the plea wasn’t meant for him. He followed her gaze until he met Pretty Boy’s. Ah. Beauty had tricked her, made her think she had an ally. Pretty Boy checked with Anteros to make sure it was okay, and Anteros gave him a silent nod. Standing up off the couch, Pretty Boy walked over to the side of the desk, getting down on his knees so he was eye level with Frankie.

“Shhh.” Pretty Boy lifted her chin to his. “It’s all right.” Anteros felt her slacken, felt the tension uncoil from her limbs, relief evident in every muscle and sinew. Gently, Pretty Boy put a strand of hair behind her ear. Anteros coiled his hands into fists at the gesture but exhaled. He had given Pretty Boy permission because there was no one better than Pretty Boy to teach her this lesson.

Pretty Boy put his lips to her ear. “How loud will you scream for us?”

“W-what?” Frankie stuttered. Her eyes popped open, her body went tight. Just like that, her viscera coiled back together.

“I said, how loud will you scream for us?” He slapped Frankie across the face and stood up, walking back to the couch.

Anteros grabbed her neck, turning Frankie's head so she looked right into his eyes. “Remember their faces. I am the only thing saving you from them.”

Five

I had been to clubs before. I was twenty and from New Jersey, it’s like a right of passage there. Like a bar mitzvah or Rumspringa, in New Jersey you went to a club. Still, the club scene never really called to me. Maybe it was because back then I was too sick to appreciate it or maybe it was because being sick I never made the right friends for clubs. Either way, I preferred books.

I even preferred reading about clubs to going to them. I’d never said it aloud, but reality never measured up to what was between the pages. In my books, everything was more magical. More beautiful. Reality had a way of always ending up covered in smog and grease. In my books, the water shimmered in the moonlight. When the hero and heroine had their meet cute at a club, his breath didn’t smell of stale beer.

But as the Beast tugged my forearm, dragging me up the steps of some warehouse, I wondered if some places did match up to the books.

Music thrummed.

Lights danced.

This wasn’t just some warehouse.

“What is this place?” I asked, mentally kicking myself for the awe tingeing my voice. Looking at the magic around me, I couldn’t help it. It was like a place from one of my books come to life—the glitter, the lights, the dancing. For a moment, I forgot who I was with.

Then he looked at me and I was immediately reminded. Though he’d left me alone most of the day, he had made sure his absence was felt. It was worse than having him there. I’d been on the bed, minding my own fucking business, when the plug he’d jammed inside me had started to vibrate. It was already uncomfortable enough up inside my asshole without it vibrating.

When he’d first put it inside me I’d contemplated taking it out, but I wasn’t sure I could get it back inside on my own, plus I would have no idea when he was coming back. If he came back and it was out, I knew I’d get some kind of terrible punishment. So I swallowed my pride and turned it into bitter contempt for the Beast. The moment it started to vibrate, though, I seriously regretted my decision.

I clenched my jaw and gripped the sheets, praying it would be over soon. It wasn’t. The vibrating continued, but instead of pain, a familiar warmth in my abdomen spread. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t moan when a vibration racked me with intense shockwaves of pleasure. In the same instant, fear racketed through me, fear that I would come on his sheets, in his bed.

I released my grip on the sheets and scrambled off the bed. The vibration upped in intensity and I doubled over, clutching my abdomen as another intense shockwave ran through me. I gasped, holding off the orgasm like someone nailing wooden boards against a large storm. Terror and determination gathered inside me as I realized I had one of two options: come or take the thing out.

I reached behind me and tugged the fucking thing out of my ass. It slipped out easily and this time I couldn’t hold back the moan, grateful that I was at least alone for that shame. It vibrated like a wasp in my palm as I walked over to the windows and pushed one open.

“Merry Christmas, New York,” I said, throwing it out the window. I sagged into the chair by the window and stayed there for hours, only moving to draw a blanket over myself. I hadn’t orgasmed, but I felt the shame all the same. That shame was like an anchor around my neck. It was hard to breathe, hard to blink even.

If we’re being real here, I was used to shame. Growing up sick, I was nothing short of a burden.

I was a burden on my father.

I was a burden on the school district.

I was a burden on friends (before they wizened up). All I ever was in life was a burden, always needing help with the simplest of tasks. Things others could do easily—like getting out of bed or getting up the stairs—I needed help with.

What I’m trying to say is, I knew shame. I was a shame pro. At least, I thought I had shame down, thought shame couldn’t surprise me anymore, but then the Beast happened and he reinvigorated shame for me.

I stared into the room, thinking about how much I’d enjoyed it. My mind mulled over what had just happened. There was a niggling thought in my head, like a termite burrowing through wood. If I was going to pull it out anyway and get punished, then why hadn’t I just pulled it out at the beginning? Everything throbbed, so as I warred with myself, so did I war with the urge to touch myself, which added another layer of meat to my shame sandwich.

When Beast came back, I hadn’t moved from the chair. He kneeled before me, touched me, spread my legs, and the entire time it was a battle of how much I could take versus how bad his punishment would be. Then as he continued, as his hand moved over my private flesh, it morphed into If I don’t take this then it will all have been for nothing, just like the plug.

But I failed again.

When his fingers pressed against my entrance, a stab of warmth hit my abdomen. He stroked me and that warmth became a lightning bolt of pleasure—so I bolted. I hadn’t planned to throw up on the Beast, but his words settled like rotten meat in my gut. It was a reflex.

When it happened, I’d expected him to hit me or something, some kind of punishment. He was obviously disgusted and maybe stunned, but there was no anger, which just confused me more. Why had he been so angry that first day when I’d simply left the room, but had not even shown irritation when I’d thrown up on him? I couldn’t help but feel like I was missing something. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he’d simply told me to clean up after myself and dress.

I never imagined we’d come someplace like this. It was like a fairytale come to life. Naked women hung from the ceiling, spinning from silk like glittering spiders dancing in the air. All around me hundreds of people danced to the beat, their bodies in sync with the pounding. Just as a smile crept to my lips, Beast brought me back with another look.

The lights dancing across his face, the music pounding around us, was nothing compared to his eyes. A wave of heat coursed through my body, immediately followed by shame. I looked away and he tightened his hold on my arm, dragging me the rest of the way up the steps and around a corner.

I greedily watched the last drops of my fairytale disappear, the glittery lights fading until I was left in a dark, dank hallway. There were two big men standing outside a door, and I recognized them from the first day. They’d been present for my flesh trade, just as stoic now as they were then. It was like they were statues, except for one thing: the man to the left of the door watched me with dark, beady eyes.

I swallowed, looking away from the two men as Beast walked through the door, tugging me along. When we got inside, I halted.

The Beast sat down behind a thick wooden desk. The music outside was muffled, the untz untz untz of the beat sounding like an angry animal trying to break through the walls. Around the room I saw four other men besides the Beast, all leering at me.

It was so unlike the penthouse I was trapped in. Paper posters of semi-nude women warped by time and humidity were taped to the wall. A poster of Michael Jordan dunking underneath a small basketball hoop was stuck behind the Beast’s huge desk. A broken skateboard sat on a shelf.

For a moment I wondered if I’d stumbled into a teenage boy’s hangout room, not the lair of a mafia Beast.

But then there were knives. And guns. Oh and the three scary-looking men sitting on the nearly decomposed couch and the one sitting on the chair. The one in the chair was somehow more terrifying than the rest, shadows clung to him like wet paint. Those things had none of the nostalgic charm as the rest of the items.

“Strip,” the Beast said, and I was immediately pulled back into reality. In the dark, his bluegreen eyes were colorless. All I saw was a void.

I tugged at my shimmery Hervé Léger dress, reluctant to lose the shield. I glanced back out the door, imagining the dancing and beautiful music, and then I looked to the Beast, who was waiting for me to get naked in front of a bevy of strangers.

I was once again reminded why I stuck to books.

* * *

I glared, trying to focus on a dark spot on the wall. At least the room was dark. At least my humiliation wasn’t under spotlight. When I was on the desk, I was certain he was going to take me again. As the hardness in his pants bruised against me, I thought that it was going to be a repeat of the window. I could feel my body betraying itself, the liquid heat coursing through my body. I’d clenched my fists, trying to steel myself, but the flutter in my stomach and the jelly in my legs told the truth: I was beyond the pale.

I mean, what is wrong with me that I liked it?

Remember their faces. I am the only thing saving you from them. His whisper had been harsh like smoke, and I think only I heard it. When he’d stood up, he told me to stay in the corner, loud for everyone to hear. Then he’d thrown me to the floor.

Like trash.

His words were an echo in my head now as I lay on the floor naked and cold. Now they talked business as if I was just wallpaper. Peeling. To be ignored.

But that was better than being seen. I watched them, though. They talked about me as if I wasn’t there. It was horrible and freeing at the same time. It made me feel like nothing, but I learned so much.

Her contract has been terminated as she is no longer a virgin. When he’d said the words, it felt like someone had taken one of those giant mallets to my stomach. No longer a virgin. He said it to a bunch of strangers as if it was public knowledge, as if my deepest, most horrible and soul-fracturing shame was to be shared like a bottle of wine. My shame had almost blinded me to the most important part of the sentence: he’d said my contract. The way they spoke made it clear they weren’t talking about a simple business arrangement.

No.

He had planned to fucking sell me! Apparently now, though, I was stuck with the Beast. I wasn’t sure what was worse. People say it’s better with the devil you know, but the devil I knew was horrible.

How much worse could it really have gotten?

With one hand I rubbed my arm up and down, looking at the others, the ones who were completely unfazed by talk of slaves. At first I’d taken to calling them Assholes #1, #2, #3, and #4 in my head, but then I’d learned their names: Pretty Boy, Big O, Little O, and Crazy A. It wasn’t like they introduced themselves or anything, but I gleaned as much. The only weapon I had was knowledge, and my weapon was currently pretty dull. I was doing whatever I could to whet it.

They were nicknames, and Pretty Boy’s was obvious. Little O and Big O I knew were ironic, but that was all their names gave away. They both looked to be about Beast’s age, maybe a bit older, but it wasn’t time that aged them, it was life. Monstrous was the word I would have used to describe them. In another life, they could have been handsome. Objectively, I could see the comely features but the evil parts robbed the beauty. They wore their anger and hate and cruelty proudly and it twisted their faces grotesquely.

All the assholes were dressed in suits, but you couldn’t hide the street on their faces. Every one of them had scars that underscored the hard lines in their skin. The one that had started it all, the one that had made me cower against the wall, Little O, had the most scars. He had scars all over his face and arms, like someone tried to carve him up for Thanksgiving. He was also definitely not little. He was huge, bigger than the Beast, even. He had to bend down so his head didn’t touch the ceiling. People that big should be stupid. It’s how it should be, how books and movies trained me. The bigger you get, the more muscles you grow, the smaller your brain gets.

But the look Little O gave me before Beast called him off, it was like he was studying me. I shivered at the thought, or maybe it was the air conditioning. The room was so cold. I hadn’t moved since Beast set me on the floor, hadn’t even attempted to cover myself. I was so afraid to draw attention. Another gust of frigid air hit though, so I crossed my legs. It was stupid, a reflex. I nearly sighed, thinking I’d gotten away with it, but then Pretty Boy’s cruel voice drifted over to me.

“Open your legs.” I stared at Pretty Boy, my emotions a soup of fury and betrayal. I tried to stop him from being strangled. I tried to help him. I don’t know why I did it. It was like the Beast had been ruining him. With wavy brown hair so light it was nearly blond, Atlantic eyes, and smooth skin, he was beautiful.

I was ashamed to admit I found the Beast handsome—no, it was more than that, I found him utterly enthralling. With sculpted lines and a hard jaw, the Beast was gorgeous. It was a dark and dangerous beauty though, like I imagined a god of sin would look. Pretty Boy, however, was divine. He was an angel and the Beast had been ruining him. At that moment in time I was so naive. I thought I wasn’t, thought that because I’d lived a few days in hell I’d learned.

But I hadn’t.

When I saw Pretty Boy amidst a group of dirty, ugly assholes, I assumed he didn’t belong. I felt kinship, because I didn’t belong either. That was wrong. What I should have felt was terror.

“Open your legs,” Pretty Boy repeated. My gaze flicked to Beast, pleading, but it was like earth begging mercy from fire. The Beast had its nature, and its nature was to end me.

“P…please…” My lips quivered. I so did not want to cry. I didn’t want to beg. God, I just wanted to go Xena on their asses and make them pay, but there’s only so much a person can take; even diamonds shatter. Not even a week had passed since trading myself, though, and so much had happened. I’d lost my virginity, been thrown into a freezing room, been plugged, nearly came, unplugged, teased, vomited…

I hung my head, my legs falling open. I barely spread them, hoping the shadows between my thighs would protect me.

Pretty Boy laughed. “She might be stupid but she’s got a pretty cunt. I can see why you took her.” The others followed, saying various things about my body, except for one, the one in the corner. Crazy A. He remained silent, but his silence was no less unnerving because he stared straight at me. The others were looking between my thighs, but he was looking at my face.

Somehow that was worse.

I swallowed and went to the place inside my mind I was starting to recognize as my only haven. I burrowed deeper and deeper inside myself, only to be dragged out by the ankles by the low reverberation I recognized as the Beast’s voice.

“I think we’re done here,” he said.

My eyes shot up. What did he just say?

“What?” Little O sat up straighter, eyebrows creased.

“No we aren’t,” Big O looked to the other assholes, as if they would explain what was going on.

“We haven’t gotten to Lucia,” Pretty Boy insisted.

“That’s old news,” the Beast interrupted. “I was informed of her already.”

Pretty Boy relaxed at that. “So you know she is colluding with The Council against you. Good.” Some emotion flashed across Beast’s eyes, but it was gone so quickly I couldn’t decipher it.

He stood up, fists planted firmly on his desk, and said, “Leave.” Rapt, I watched as all four demons moved to the door, some of them shaking their heads. The silent one, Crazy A, walked without complaint, but he stared at me the entire time, his face an unsettling, probing half-smile.

I was afraid to breathe. Afraid for my blood to pump. Afraid to think. Afraid for any part of my body to move, even subconsciously. The Beast moved out from behind his desk and bent until he was on my level. I looked away.

“Open your legs.”

I clenched my teeth at his words, trying to stymy the tears clogging up my throat. I couldn’t let him see my weakness, couldn’t let him know he got to me, but I had no options here. My eyes flashed to the door. The men were there, their bodies hidden in the darkness. They were on the precipice of leaving and somehow that made it worse. It was like they knew they could leave, but they chose to stay.

For my humiliation.

Slowly I spread my legs but I focused on the wrinkle on my elbow. Focusing on anything else. Beast’s low brogue drifted into my ear.

“Your cunt is wet, Frankie. Do you like having it on display?” I shook my head furiously at his question. He leaned in so his next words were a hot breath against my ear. “Do you like showing it to other men?” My vision blurred with the deepness of his voice and the way his breath tickled my ear. I tried not to think about the question, on the way the wrongness of the entire situation was screaming right inside my body. Instead I focused on the way my throat felt when I swallowed, the expanding and contracting.

His long fingers curled firmly around my upper thighs, pushing my legs apart until my lips separated on their own. Cool air rushed in. The sensation had my mouth parting on a groan, so I pressed my chin against my chest, hoping to keep my jaw wired shut. He kept opening my legs, pushing them farther and farther apart harder until my muscles pulled.

“You’re very wet,” he murmured. His stubble scratched against my skin as he spoke. The sharp line of his jaw against my cheek was like a knife to a peach. Removing one hand from my thigh, he used the finger to split my lips, the pad of his pointer finger gliding slowly through my slit. Against all the protestations in my mind, I shivered.

He slowly slid back against my cheek until he was on the balls of his feet, looking at me. I focused on the floor so I wouldn’t have to look at him, but he grabbed my chin and pulled my eyes to him. When my gaze was elsewhere, it had almost been like a nightmare, something I could discount as false in my mind. Now it was painfully, viscerally real. Our eyes connected like a camera zooming in at top speed. His turquoise depths demanded something of me I couldn’t yet acknowledge. My mind screamed at me to close my eyes, to stop what was happening before it was too late.

A darker voice whispered to keep them open.

His finger slid from me and then he held it up. It was shiny and slick. “See how wet you are. What is that, Frankie?” My breath hitched in my throat, the dark whisper inside me getting louder and threatening to overtake the rational screaming in my mind.

I glared, shifting focus. “Another example of failed sexual education? Wet doesn’t mean horny, dickhead.” He smiled at me and while keeping my chin locked between his fingers, he lowered his other finger out of sight. With a rough motion, he jerked my chin so I was looking down, helpless but to watch my own mortification.

His fingers slid from my chin and I quickly looked away. Almost immediately his harsh voice was in my ear. “Look at yourself.” I rolled my eyes at his demand. “If you don’t look at yourself,” he said evenly, “I’ll spread you until your juice drips down your ass and then I’ll invite one of my men to lick it up.”

The breath caught in my throat disappeared and suddenly I was suffocating. My eyes flicked to the door. I couldn’t see past the Beast’s massive frame. Were they all really still there? Unsure, fear ricocheted inside me—but something else too, something that matched the dark voice. It coiled with a fever in my body until I felt sweaty and needy. I looked down, his threat doing the job.

“Satisfied?” I hissed.

“Longer,” he replied, voice low and almost soothing. My nostrils flared but I looked anyway. Using both pads of his thumbs, he pressed gently into my lips and pulled me wider and wider apart. I’d never seen myself this way. It was…garish, but my heart thrummed in my chest and I could feel the sweat on my brow. A fire burned so badly inside me but I didn’t know what would wet it.

My lips were spread so wide I could see the wet, pink insides. The outer folds were completely pulled back. I looked to appease him at first, but now I was looking simply because I couldn’t look away. Then I watched in horror as one of his fingers stroked me. It was like watching a house burn down. I kept waiting for it to stop, to reverse, to go back to the way it was before the conflagration. The longer he stroked, the more damage I knew would be done, the less there would be for firefighters to save. All the while, I couldn’t help but think I caused it. I felt so hot. So needy. So achy. Even in the cold room, I was sweating. Every stroke, every light caress of his finger, was pure fire, and trying to keep my mouth shut and keep myself from moving—keep him from at least seeing how he affected me—drove the blaze inside me higher. I was burning up.

I just sat there watching him stroke me, feeling like some helpless spectator, thinking about all the pictures I would lose because I hadn’t backed them up. He wasn’t exactly gentle, but he was calculating. He knew exactly which buttons to push to make me bite my lip hard enough to bleed. The fever inside burned but I would rather taste copper and swallow blood than give him the satisfaction of my moans. When his thumb moved higher, stroking around my clit, though, I nearly lost it.

It felt too good.

I fisted tight enough to make my knuckles whiten. My mind drowned in the sensations. It was like I could feel the point of no return, the moment when I stopped fighting and my body seized, when I sunk beneath the ocean of pleasure and the waves of self-hate. My eyes moved away from the sight, no longer caring about his threat, and roamed everywhere—anywhere—except my flesh and his finger.

Mistake.

My eyes locked with his—his hungry, greedy bluegreen depths. I closed mine quickly, but I could feel his boring into me, making me do things and be things I wasn’t. I never felt so utterly naked in my entire life. I couldn’t do anything other than turn my head away, but then he took that from me too.

“Look at me.” The Beast grabbed my chin, turning my face to his. His fingers pressed into my flesh, sure to leave bruises. He was so much stronger than me. Why couldn’t the Beast be an ironic name, like Big O? He seriously was a beast. I felt like a child. He could crush me if he decided to, but that would be a mercy.

I will not come for him, I thought, clenching my jaw.

“Yes you will,” he said, cheek quirking and eyes narrowing with dark humor. My eyes popped wide. What was he, a mind reader? No, I would not. I would not come for him, especially not while the shadows of his men might cling in the doorway. I tried to crane my neck around his head to see if they were there, but just as I moved, he thrust inside me.

I released my lip with a scream. It throbbed where I’d been holding it captive, where I’d been chewing it and biting it to try to maintain control. It probably looked like I just lost a boxing match. His finger pushed deeper into my flesh, his eyes penetrated me. I was disappearing, drowning in him and what he was doing to me.

As if my voice was a life preserver, I whispered, “Why do they call you the Beast?” My voice didn’t even sound like me. It was quiet, throaty, breathless. I’m not even sure why I asked; maybe I hoped he would give me a little bit of himself to match what I had just given up. Hopefully it was quiet enough that his stupid friends couldn’t hear if they were still there. His eyes softened for a moment at my question. Despite myself, I prayed he would answer. Just as quickly as his eyes softened, they flashed hard, returning to unyielding, cruel slits.

“Because I am without mercy.” At the last word, he curled his finger inside me. I cried out again and thrust my head hard against the wall behind me so I wouldn’t fall on his chest.

I didn’t orgasm; at least I held on to that part of myself a little while longer, but my relief was short lived. When the Beast’s hands left me and his massive frame cleared my eye line, I was left to see the doorway where his men had stood—empty. How long had it been empty? Had I imagined their shadows in the first place?

Or had four men seen me at my most vulnerable and left right after, like it was nothing special to them at all?

* * *

I picked at the skin of my thumb as the town car drove away from the lively warehouse. I hoped it was taking us back to the penthouse; just imagining that there could be something more in store for me that night… I picked and picked until there was actually skin to remove. I kept thinking back to what I’d felt minutes before. Being open. Exposed. I swore they were watching me.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that I’d felt myself changing, becoming something else—someone else. Someone that enjoyed it.

Pick. Pick. Pick. I pulled up the still living flesh from my thumb and looked furtively at Beast, eyebrows drawn. His coat was warming me, just as it had in his office when he’d first shrugged out of it. He’d picked me up off the floor and set the fabric over my shoulders. He’d buttoned up each button carefully as I slid my arms through the silky-lined sleeves, dazed.

My gaze had flicked to the floor where the Hervé Léger I’d chosen to wear lay bunched, to be left behind. Beast had said I could choose what to wear and since there was nothing resembling a habit in “my” closet, I had closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was going for a night out with some kind of Prince Charming. When I opened them, I was in one of my books. Since it was a fairytale, I picked out the kind of dress I would want to wear for that: a blush bodycon Hervé Léger that shimmered under the lights.

Of course it ended up crumpled and forgotten.

When we’d left the office, the assholes were gone and so were the statued henchmen. Walking through the warehouse, I worried how people would look at me, wondering why I wore only a coat. I remembered thinking they would know, but no one looked at me, and honestly, I was wearing more clothing than a lot of them.

I examined Beast with his head down, his sculpted profile showcased by the light and shadow. In the dark of the town car, only the passing city lights illumined him, though they did not soften him in the least. They added depth to his already chiseled cheeks, intensity to his already sharp jaw. I examined him further, giving myself the okay to look at him, and I mean really look at him, for the first time. He had a small scar on his chin, subtle.

I wondered if he had scars elsewhere, like Little O. He’d been shirtless around me, but I had never really looked. I did my best to sever the link between my vision and my brain whenever we were together.

It was getting harder to do that.

The lights flickered, blurred, bright dots sliding along the interior as we passed through the city. Memories came to the surface, thinking of how he had just touched me. Slowly, his head turned and his gaze caught mine, as if he knew. I quickly looked back into my lap.

“I told you, Frankie.” When he spoke, I tried to focus on my fingers folded atop the dark coat. It was such a bigger size than what I wore, it fell just above my knees. His low, even voice was captivating and spellbinding. I found myself looking back up, trapped in his gaze. “I will know every inch of you, mapped out like I was the cartographer who drew it.”

I sucked in a breath, looking away. Had I said my thoughts aloud?

“But that is only for me to know.” I craned my head slightly to see him smile. “Still, I can be merciful sometimes. I saw how you liked them watching you. Who am I to deny that?” Even though I never saw the assholes, I couldn’t confirm they hadn’t seen me. It was a lump in my gut, twisting and curling, yet he made it sound like I wanted it.

Because I did, a voice in my head whispered.

“I did not,” I replied through clenched teeth. The images of the shadows watching me flashed in my head and my belly fluttered, my thighs clenched. The dark voice in my head started to whisper, but I shook my head. I had not liked it. I ripped the piece of skin I was playing with off completely.

I pinched the raw flesh of my thumb between my nail, holding onto the pain so I could hold on to my courage while I whispered my question, “So they didn’t see anything?” The low rumble of the car filled the space like fog let loose on the night. The soundlessness was cloying, unnerving. Even the honks and yells—the melody of downtown life—were suffocated inside the car.

Sucking in a breath of fortitude, I turned to stare directly at the Beast. His bluegreen gaze was all shadows, hard, unrelenting. Despite the fear creeping in my belly, I kept staring, hoping he would give me something, a small crack in the stone that was his face. More lights passed through the window, rippling across his rocky face. Still, his countenance didn’t change.

I sighed and turned away.

* * *

He was asleep next to me.

For a moment I’d hoped he was going to leave me alone, because when we got back to the penthouse he’d dropped me off in the white bedroom and left, shutting the door behind him. I slipped out of his coat and changed into the most coverage I could possibly find, which wasn’t much. I compensated by climbing into the warm, fluffy white bed. I closed my eyes, hoping I’d get to sleep alone, and then the door burst open.

The Beast stood in the doorway, chest bare and in some kind of silk sleep pants. I steeled my gut to prepare for his next round of torturous games.

But he’d just fallen asleep.

Watching his breaths rise and fall, I decided I had never felt such pure hatred for someone before. The loathing was corrupting me. It was making me think things I didn’t think were possible. I hated him for making me do things I didn’t want to do. I loathed him for making me question if I wanted them. I actually envisioned pouring boiling water on his face and liking it. It wasn’t a fair trade; because of him my soul was boiling.

I hadn’t thought I was capable of such hate. In the past when people spat hate, I felt badly for them. Now I understood, and I understood because of the Beast.

My papa was becoming a distant memory to me now, my love for him like the city lights disappearing in the distance from the town car. I could faintly see it, faintly remember why I’d agreed to this torture, but it was fading fast, replaced by darkness.

It would be so easy to kill him right now, too. I could end all of this. His bare chest rose and fell, and all I’d have to do was take a knife and stab him there. I saw, too, that he did have scars; quite a few of them. They were somehow elegant looking. Whereas most scars were harsh and puckering, his looked like fine cursive.

I curled my fist.

That was so fucking unfair. I wished just one thing about him would be ugly.

Why don’t I take a knife and stab him in his psychotic heart? Why don’t I?

I’m going to.

Before I could second-guess myself, I carefully slid out of the sheets. He stirred some, which gave me minor heart palpitations. I froze in place, my hand on the bed but my body ready to go, until I was certain he was sound asleep. When his breathing steadied, I opened the doors and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. I started running as soon as I was out of earshot, ignoring the terrifying paintings and entirely skipping the room where I’d lost a piece of myself.

Why was this house so big? It was like Pan’s Labyrinth.

I reached the kitchen but a room beyond it caught my attention. A faint yellow poured into the house, almost pulsing with warmth. Taking a breath, I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t have much time before the Beast awoke, yet I found my feet carrying me toward the mystery room.

My breath left me on a long, surprised exhale. It was a library, a true and real library. From the floor to the ceiling, books lined the shelves. There were more books than I’d ever seen in my life, even more than the community library.

I glanced behind me at the immaculate kitchen, white countertops glowing eerily from the nightlight. I took another step inside the library. Plush red velvets, dark shiny woods, and thick rugs decorated the room. It was very at odds with the rest of the house.

The room felt like a haven. If I could just steal one or two books, I could transport myself away from my hell. I tiptoed farther inside, running my fingers along the books. Most were paperback or plastic covered, but some were leather-bound. The room even had a spiral staircase. A freaking spiral staircase. I gazed up at the ceiling in awe.

What kind of monster read this much? A second later the answer came to me: a dangerous one.

I swallowed, trailing my fingers. I paused, my hand resting on buttery leather. The spine had no name. I pulled it out, hazarding a glance over my shoulder at the door. Still no sign of the Beast. I quickly opened up the book.

This journal belongs to Sofia De Luca.

A journal? I flipped the stiff, yellowing pages until I found words.

I feel so very, very alone. My new husband Dario is uninteresting and mean. In the fashion of all the De Luca men, he has taken my last name so that the De Luca name does not die out. I believe he resents me, and the bruises on my body are testament. Mama says I cannot see Alessio anymore. She scolds me for even starting it in the first place, saying that if he does not know better then I must. Women have to be smarter, she says. The risks are too great if we were ever to be caught.

She gave me this journal to write in. She said her mama gave her one when she was married and it will keep me sane. I have nothing to lose anyway. I was planning to kill myself. I might kill myself anyway, but we’ll see.

I stopped reading, flipping quickly through the pages. Some were torn out and the journal was only halfway filled. I flipped to the back, and on the flap of the journal was scribbled Rules. My eyes widened and I read.

The Pavoni Code

The Pavonis have a strict code that we all must follow. Every child is taught it as soon as they can speak. It’s five-pronged to symbolize the original Don and Donna and their four children. Everyone is taught the code differently, though. Some are taught it as a religion while others, like me, are taught it for what it really is: a rule book.

The first prong is Family. Those taught the code is a symbolic holy thing think the first prong means once you’re in the Family, you’re always going to have a family, and someone is always going to have your back no matter what. Mama says that the real truth is though technically any Italian can join, you’re never gonna find anyone but a De Luca in charge or a Pavoni at the top. It’s why the men don’t mind giving up their names when they marry us.

The second prong is Blood. Those taught the code is a symbolic holy thing think the second prong means the blood in our veins is sacred therefore Family members cannot kill each other. In reality, Family members have been killing each other since the Night of the Bleeding Crowns, they just usually ask The Council first. If they don’t ask The Council, they’ll most likely die too—but I’ve heard of men getting away with it.

The third prong is Gift. Those taught the holy version think the third prong means because we’re a family, because the blood is sacred, it’s right and good to tithe your earnings to the Boss—like a sacrifice to a god or something. The people who believe that usually stay soldiers their entire life. They believe that if they are loyal with their gifts, the Boss will gift in return, but those taught the code like me know the Boss never gives gifts.

The fourth prong is Honor. The holy version states the Family is held to some higher moral code than the rest of the world. Every time I hear a soldier, or the rare high-ranking man who believes the code say that, I have to stifle my laughter. I mean, they’re criminals, not monks. All honor means is that the members have to keep it in their pants with other member's wives or they’ll end up without anything in their pants.

The fifth and final prong is Brotherhood. Those taught that the code as holy think the final prong cannot be defined. It is the feeling one gets when they are about to fail and their brother lifts them up. It is the moment when they are about to die and their brother saves them.

That’s all shit.

Brotherhood is actually the De Luca rule. Yes, we get our own rule. If I had a nickel for every time I heard “though the De Lucas are the Pavonis’ greatest allies, the Pavonis and the De Lucas can never intermarry for there can be no question about who is the rightful heir”, I would be richer than Don Lucio. Even though on the Night of the Bleeding Crowns Grandpa Massimo willingly stepped aside to give Don Lucio the power, Don Lucio lived in fear. So he wrote up a rule under the guise of brotherhood.

Once you know the true Pavoni Code, though, no other rule matters. The true code for the men is: “Don’t let the Boss find out”, and the true code for the women is: “Don’t let your husband know.”

I closed the book, looking at it with newfound appreciation. I mean, holy shit. In less than five minutes the little book had given me more knowledge than my entire stay with the Beast. I may have just found the sharpest weapon in the house, but how to get it back to the room? And where to put it?

I glanced around the room and then back down at what I was wearing. There weren’t exactly any hidden pockets or pouches I could stuff it in. That night I’d opted for a periwinkle babydoll because it at least covered my stomach, but the material was sheer. With reluctance, I stuck the book back in its place, vowing to return for it later.

Tiptoeing back out, I was nearly back to the hallway when I was stopped by a glint in the corner of my eye. I backed up a bit until I was in the kitchen again. There were so many knives, all gleaming with the same glow as the countertops. I walked behind the island and touched one. With my finger lightly touching the blade, I looked down the hallway. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been gone, maybe fifteen minutes?

How long did I have left? The burning hatred that had pulled me from bed had dulled to a low simmer. I wasn’t sure I could actually kill him. Obviously I’d never murdered anyone before. I’d never even hit someone. I’d read lots of books with fiery, tenacious heroines who slapped men. I’d read books about women whose nature was quiet and docile but were pulled into circumstances that required them to fight.

My life didn’t really afford such opportunities. It hadn’t afforded me any opportunities. At home, I was like a seedling beneath soil, neither growing nor dying.

Eyes still locked on the hallway, I pulled the knife out. When I was sure he wasn’t about to walk down it, I admired the weapon in my hand. This one was more obvious than the one in the library. It was almost sexy looking, with its hard edges and the sharp steel color.

I turned it in my hand, my pulse rising. I could kill the Beast. I could shove this into his gut, blood running along the edges until it colored my hand. I balked at the newfound impulse in me, but didn’t put the knife away. The pad of my finger traced the edge lightly from top to bottom. Why bother reading a book when I could just walk back and end my problem so swiftly? I never thought I’d kill someone. I thought I’d go my entire life without having to make this decision.

His life wouldn’t matter.

I mean, the world wouldn’t mourn the loss. Maybe it would be better without him, even. It’s like killing Hitler—though people argue that if Hitler had been killed, it would have paved the way for even worse evils. So if I killed Beast, would something worse pop up?

What’s worse than the Beast?

I shivered, turning the knife slightly so the point pricked the middle of my palm. As the knife spun, my reflection caught in the steel, but there was something else there too—a shadow behind me much larger than my frame.

I spun around with gasp, dropping the knife on the ground with a sickening clang.

“Admiring my cutlery?” the Beast asked, gripping my waist. I pushed him but it did little to sway his oak of a body. He laughed as I pushed him again. I struggled to get by his massive frame. Whatever warmth had come with his laugh quickly turned cold. The Beast shoved me to my knees and my gasp turned to a whimper as my knees hit the floor, flesh and bone grinding against the hard tile.

His erection was a massive tent in his sleep pants. Demanding. I could practically see it beneath the thin, silky material. It was almost a threat the way it jutted out.

The lump in my gut, the bruising of my knees…it all told me what that threat was.

What it would mean if he followed through.

I struggled against the hand on my shoulder, trying to stand up, but all that did was bruise my knees further. I waited, feeling a sense of abject hopelessness. He was going to force me to do this whether I wanted to or not.

I waited for him to make a move.

And I waited.

“Just do it!” I yelled. It was just like with the apple. I didn’t want him to do it, but this lingering threat was like watching the sky go black before a tornado and never feeling the storm. I was just staring at the darkness.

Feeling the fear.

Waiting.

Minutes passed and nothing happened except the occasional caress of his thumb on my shoulder. I expected him to pull himself out and force me, but he did nothing. I was prepared for it even. An idea struck me as I entered what felt like the fifth minute of gut-wrenching silence. With my eyes closed I said, “If you put it in my mouth, I will bite it off.” I was sure there would be punishment for what I said, but I had to say it.

I had to at least try.

I heard shifting and then suddenly my bottom lip was being tugged on. I opened my eyes, surprised to see Beast on his knees, tugging at my lip. “I believe you,” he murmured. My shoulders dropped and I released an exhale I should have kept inside. I should have stayed coiled, should have steeled, but I thought he was releasing me of my punishment. I thought he wasn’t going to do anything more and I was so relieved.

Then as soon as the breath left my body, the Beast lifted me up. He threw me on the kitchen counter. I gripped the cold granite, eyes widening as he placed his arms on either side of my body, bracketing me.

He moved closer, his erection pressing against my slit. The fabric separating us was so thin, like butterfly wings. It could tear effortlessly and it would be easy for him to enter me. His erection was steel hard against me. My eyes were locked with his, watching for any flicker of emotion. I was waiting for the tornado to burst through or the night to finally clear.

His eyes flickered, but before I could decipher the emotion, thoughts flew out the window. His cock pushed aside the fabric of my panties and just the satin of his pants separated us.

It was so unlike last time.

It was torture, but of a different kind.

I gripped the marble countertop and threw my head back. This time the Beast didn’t force me to look at him. I could feel myself clenching as he teased me. Rubbing against me, parting me slightly, but never entering me, not even letting me feel him. I knew it was on purpose that he stayed clothed. He was going so slowly. It was cruel. He was cruel, but not for the obvious reasons, the reasons that had robbed my sleep all the previous nights. All I could think about was the tip of him teasing me.

And that it wasn’t enough.

That I needed to feel more.

Feel skin.

In that single moment, a moment so small you could hardly measure it, the tables turned. The water had been leaking through, but because I was so busy trying to damn the flood, I hadn’t worried about the leak. I hadn’t noticed the trickle of excitement. Of passion. Of electricity. Throbbing and shocking my core and body with pleasure. By the time I noticed, I was like a frog in water left to boil.

I hated myself so much. A hate that would eventually drown me.

“I hate you,” I whispered, pulling myself up so I could see into his eyes, but all I saw were my own looking back at me.

“That’s not what your cunt says.” The Beast laughed. I screamed, but I wasn’t sure if it was at what was happening or because he hadn’t entered me.

“My cunt and I…” I panted. “We’re not on speaking terms.” I raked my fingernails across his cheek, drawing three thin lines of blood. His eyes darkened to pools of liquid black and I feared the consequences of what I’d done with my entire being—until he smiled. It was a cruel and wicked smile, but it was also amused. Whatever my punishment was, it at least would be playful.

He pushed a little more inside me, not enough to actually be inside of me, just enough to spread me and torture me with the almost and barely-there feeling of his fabric-covered flesh. It was like I wasn’t in control of my body anymore. My arms reached out but they didn’t seek to harm him or to push him away. I watched as if through a window as I clung to his shoulders, gripping the clenched muscles. At the same time I gripped him, he pulled out.

Instead of rejoicing the emptiness, I mourned it. He left me panting and angry and…dejected. He walked away with such an easy gait, as if what just happened was nothing to him. I watched him disappear down the hallway, feeling a scream stuck in my chest. I couldn’t bring myself to get off the countertop. My gaze flickered to the knife on the ground, and I imagined stabbing it into my own heart.

I was lost. If this terrible man could make me lose myself so completely, what did that mean? The only reason I hadn’t disappeared entirely was because he’d left. If he’d kept going, however, I don’t know what would have happened. If he’d kept going, I wasn’t just going to come, I was going to fade away.

Six

Anteros stood up off the bed, facing the brisk New York morning. Frankie sighed sleepily behind him, rolling into the spot he’d just left. Folding his arms, he thought of the night before. It had taken Frankie nearly an hour to return to the room. Even so, he hadn’t been concerned. After he’d finished with her, he knew she wouldn’t pick up the knife again, and after a life in the mafia, he slept with one eye open. The minute she’d left the bed, he’d felt the movement.

Instead of retrieving her right away, he’d gone to his room and watched her on the spare video monitor. Anteros was unsurprised that she’d headed for the kitchen—grabbing weapons was what he would have done. He was surprised, however, when she headed for the library. When it was clear she wasn’t going to come back on her own, he’d gone for her.

Anteros narrowed his eyes at the memory. Outside the sky was white and frozen, but no snow was falling. His reflection was a ghost on the glass. In the few short days Frankie had been with him, she’d wreaked havoc on his life. There was something about her that threw his perfect control into chaos. Even his own mind was unpredictable. He could plan to do or say something, but if Frankie was a factor, all bets were off.

It was clear what he had to do: break her. Make her the slave she would have been had she gone to The Institute. He understood now, though, that Frankie was not someone you could break with force. She was unique. To get her to break, he first had to get inside, to understand what made her tick. To make her submit, he had to do it from within. Like ice cracking sidewalks, he would creep inside, turning her into crumbles of what she used to be.

He turned around, glancing at the clock on her nightstand.

Late.

He honestly didn’t give a fuck if he was late to meet The Council. Real business was one thing, but The Council could wait for hours. It was getting harder and harder to dance for them, especially with everything Anteros had planned. With a groan he turned back around and stared out at the frigid city. Frankie was proving to be more than just a distraction; she was a hazard. He was so close to the goal he’d been working toward for nearly a decade, and the girl sleeping in his bed was fogging up his windshield.

Running a hand through his hair, he realized the simple solution: remove Frankie from his life. He could give her to one of the Wolves—

“May I ask you something?” Frankie's voice startled him in more than one way. He had been certain she was asleep. He turned around to see she’d pulled the quilted duvet up to her chin. The soft white made her golden skin glow that much brighter.

Anteros raised a brow and said, “Yes.”

“Can I go to the library?” Her clear-water eyes were big and so bright, but her thick lashes were a constant shadow. “Not the public one,” she hastily added. “The one in your house.” He leaned over and she scrambled against the headboard as if she could escape him. He settled just above her, nose inches from her own, inspecting her more. There was absolutely no imperfection marring her skin, not even freckles. With her fingers grasping the white cotton tightly, holding it up to her nose, she looked childlike. She blinked, heavy lashes falling across her cheeks.

“What do you want from there?” he eventually asked. She rolled her eyes but he caught her chin. She looked to the side, jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. It was another moment before she responded.

“I just mean I want a book.” Her gaze flicked back to his. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Anteros let go of her chin. “You like to read.” It wasn’t a question. He took the information inside, processing. He assumed she didn’t like to read. She was so beautiful, he couldn’t imagine what purpose books had for her. She could get by on looks alone.

The night before when he’d watched her in his library, she’d pulled out a book and had only read it for a few moments before stuffing it back on the shelf. He thought he’d seen his assumptions verified then.

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “Very much.” He pushed off the bed and faced the window again, staring out at the cold city.

“It occurs to me, Frankie,” he said, “that I have something you want.”

She scoffed. “You have everything I want. Food, water, shelter…”

“No, you need those things. You want this.”

She sighed, exasperated. “God, fine! What do you want in return?”

He smiled as the snow began to fall, slow and thrifty, and turned her question back at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

* * *

“Chess?” Frankie asked. She picked up the black queen and rolled it through her fingers. “You want to play chess?” Anteros smiled at the incredulity on her features. He played chess so often he’d had a table placed in his room. It was a short walk from her room to his, and now they both sat against his window. Even though the room was heated, the chill from outside froze the glass and made the spot cooler and raw.

The table was elegantly done so it appeared like furniture. Unless you were looking for it, you wouldn’t notice it was a chess table. The design was etched into the glass and each of the pieces was hand carved. They were modern, the pawns perfect metal circles, the king and queen pointed triangles, the rooks hard blocks.

“What did you think I meant?” Anteros replied, a slight teasing to his voice. Frankie set the shiny, pointed onyx piece down on the table and scooted forward on the chair, looking uncomfortable. Anteros couldn’t really blame her. When she’d asked what he’d wanted in return, she’d probably had no idea this was what he’d had in mind. In truth, he hadn’t really either. He’d planned to leave her and go to The Council meeting. He glanced at the clock, noting how the further he indulged the odd, pressing want inside of him, the more of a shit storm he created.

The Council wasn’t exactly high on his list of people he gave a shit about. They never let Anteros forget where he came from. In their mind, he was an orphan and Lucio had given him a second life. Without Lucio, without them, he would be nothing, he would be dirt. When Lucio got sick, he was second in command, technically their boss, but you’d never hear them admit that.

They expected him to lick the dirt off their shoes.

As if they had given him something.

They’d given him a ride to America and that was it. The dirty little secret that none of them wanted to admit was they never expected him to rise so high. Lucio found an orphan and expected him to stay a slave, but he rose higher.

They were still scratching their heads.

While they fought amongst themselves, while they fucked whores and pretended their rules mattered, he made friends with the people at the bottom. He slid through every crack in the system until suddenly he was by their side and it was too late to acknowledge him because doing so would mean pointing out the holes, would mean saying maybe everything wasn’t as perfect as they pretended.

So he stayed.

And they ground their teeth because hubris was more comfortable than humility. A knock at the door cut through his thoughts, and Anteros realized that Nikolai had come to get him for the meeting. The boy wasn’t aware that anything had changed.

“Come in,” Anteros said. A second later Nikolai’s yellow-gold hair came through the door. When he saw that Anteros hadn’t dressed and was at the chess table with Frankie, confusion twisted the scar on his face.

“Sir…” Nikolai trailed off.

“I’ll find you.” Anteros waved Nikolai off and the boy quickly exited without another word. When the door shut with a soft snick, Anteros turned back to Frankie. Her eyes were still on the door.

“Is he a slave like me?” Frankie asked after a moment, slowly looking back to him.

Anteros thought about it, then said, “I saved him.” Frankie’s eyebrows drew inward and her lips parted as if wanting to press further. Instead she blinked and turned back to the table, lifting the spiraling black piece that denoted the bishop.

“Are we going to play?” she asked. “I assume you’ll want to go first.” She nodded her head toward the white pieces on his side. As the pieces were carved from metal, the “white” wasn’t white, but rather bronze. Shaking his head, Anteros rearranged the pieces. He always played the black pieces.

He liked the challenge.

Anteros watched Frankie’s face, watched her fingers, to see which move she would make first. Her pointer and thumb settled over the pawn in front of her queen, and she moved it out two spaces.

A pretty typical move.

In response, he moved his king’s pawn out one. Immediately Frankie brought her knight out into play. Anteros raised a brow. She hadn’t even taken time to think about it, or at least it appeared she hadn’t. She wasn’t looking at him; her head was turned down and her features caught the shadows. He brought a pawn into play and in response she brought another knight into play.

She was wearing what she’d worn to sleep. It was thin, sheer, and lacy, the color a pale purple that shimmered against her skin. Everything about her was exposed. Her arms were bare and he could see the hairs on the arm against the window rising, goose bumps forming. When they’d moved from the bed to his room, he’d not given her a chance to change.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Her eyes briefly flashed to his before she made her move.

“Nope.”

He watched her intensely. This was why he’d wanted to play chess. Chess not only exposed your opponent’s strategies, but how they thought and the way they handled obstacles. Frankie was utterly stoic while moving her pieces. She didn’t even do that thing where she rubbed her arm when she got nervous.

Anteros looked down at her move: a bishop right below his knight. With leisure, he moved so that if she tried to take his knight, he would have her from two sides.

She took the bait anyway.

Anteros took her bishop instantly. Her next move put her right in line to be taken by his pawn. It was too easy. Frankie had made some good moves in the beginning, but now she was showing her lack of skill. They exchanged a few more moves and when she brought her queen out, Anteros could tell she was flailing. The queen had nowhere to go. All roads meant extinction.

Frankie moved her queen forward and took a pawn, but she’d led her queen right into destruction. He eyed her, but she gave nothing away. She still didn’t look at him, bright blue eyes downcast and shadowed under her thick lashes. She’d sacrificed her queen for a measly pawn. With a shrug, he moved his king and took her queen. It was a quick and efficient move and he would just move the king back at the next turn.

Frankie moved her knight.

With a scowl, Anteros realized he hadn’t been paying attention to that piece.

Now he was in check.

He had no option but to move his king forward. The sound of his king sliding across the board was the only noise in the room. Frustration at his own incompetence filled in his gut. He glanced up at Frankie again, wondering if she would give something away. She’d just had a small victory and he wondered if he would see a smile, a tick of her jaw—anything. Still she didn’t look up.

Frankie moved her other knight, putting him into check again. Anteros shifted in his seat, sliding the king diagonally now to get out of check. With quick and harsh precision Frankie moved up a pawn and put him back into check. Anteros was forced to move the king even farther down the chessboard and away from his defense.

He rubbed a hand through his hair and glanced up at Frankie. How the fuck had he not seen this happening?

She’d been setting this up from the very beginning. He didn’t have many options now, could only move his king farther forward. He saw what she was doing very clearly: she was forcing him into a mate.

He made his move then curled his fist, looking from her to the board, waiting for her to do what he knew was coming.

He saw his destruction just a few turns away.

He may as well throw up the flag now, but he had to move.

He pushed his king to the last row, avoiding checkmate for just one more turn. When she moved her king, up a row, exposing her other rook, it was over.

“Checkmate,” she said. Now she looked up, and he could see the small, nearly imperceptible grin on her face. Anteros stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. She’d sacrificed her queen but in the process had drawn his king out, all the way across the board, to death.

He stared at her a moment longer, then his phone vibrated. Shaking his head, he looked down at the phone.

Pretty Boy: U coming 2day?

Anteros ran another unsteady hand through his hair. He always met with them after a council meeting. Unlike The Council, Anteros enjoyed his Wolves—at least, as much as he could enjoy people. When it came to the Wolves, they allowed him the closest he got to letting loose. For the first time, though, he wanted to skip that meeting, too. He couldn’t stop watching Frankie. Mesmerized. No one had ever beaten him in chess.

Not even Lucio.

And the way she’d beaten him was masterful.

Fearless.

“I must go,” Anteros said, standing up.

“Afraid of a rematch?” She looked up at him. From that angle her eyes were even bigger, even bluer, like looking into a crystal lake. There was a fierceness in her face, too, as if someone lit the lake on fire. It was a teasing that he wanted nothing more than to tame. She gripped his king as if goading him.

He bent over and, wrapping his fingers around her neck, pulled her to him. He kept her close but not touching. Her scent, sweet yet spicy, like chili pepper and chocolate, wafted into his nose and curled around his brain. He could feel her steady breath grow unsteady against his lips.

“There will be a rematch,” he said, and then he let her go.

* * *

“Are you going to let us know…” Pretty Boy drew his hands out wide in a sweeping, mocking gesture, “why you missed the meeting?” Pretty Boy continued to draw his hands out so wide he eventually covered Big O’s face, who promptly pushed it out of the way.

Behind his desk, Anteros thought back to Frankie, who he’d left alone in his room. “Something came up.”

“Is everything cool?” Big O asked, squeezing a worn plush basketball in his hands.

“Thousand bucks says it’s Emilio,” Pretty Boy said. “I knew the idiot couldn’t handle this. I don’t care if we need him. Let’s off him. We can get another puppet to put in the government.”

“Oh.” Little O sat forward, sounding excited. Sandwiched between Pretty Boy and his twin, Big O, on the couch, he’d obviously drawn the short-straw that day. “While we’re at it, can we just fucking kill The Council? We don’t even need their money. We’re doing fine.”

“More than fine,” Pretty Boy added vehemently.

“Sounds like a plan—”

“Everything is fine,” Anteros interrupted them with a hand before they could get completely lost in their tangent. “I just got caught up with the slave.” Quickly switching topics, Anteros asked, “So where are we with Emilio?”

“Caught up with the slave?” Pretty Boy raised a brow, ignoring his question.

“You know how it is,” Anteros said. “Sometimes it’s not enough to fuck them. You need to leave them bleeding.” The lie came easily and without thought. Anteros picked up a paperweight from his desk, thinking back to the chess match. There was no way he could explain that to his Wolves. Blood and malice, though, that was a language they spoke.

“He’s fuckin’ pussy whipped,” Big O said, shooting the basketball into the small hoop that hung on the wall behind Anteros’s desk. The warehouse was once derelict, a place Lucio only kept for storage. Among the crates of drugs and guns, he and his Wolves had found their camaraderie. Over the years they had grown out of their Michael Jordans, but they’d never destroyed the place where their alliance was born.

Right then, though, Anteros contemplated it. As the basketball Big O shot narrowly missed his head, he wondered if it was time to finally fucking redecorate.

“Virgin pussywhipped,” Little O added.

“Is that true?” Pretty Boy asked. “Are you in fact pussywhipped by a slave?”

“I have plans for her,” Anteros growled.

Pretty Boy nodded as if considering Anteros’s response. He drew in his eyebrows as if really thinking hard about it, and then asked, “Do these plans involve your cock?” Big O and Little O laughed. Still laughing, Big O lobbed another shot with the toy basketball. Stopping it midair, Anteros gripped the basketball, crushing it in his hand. Then he launched it back, aiming for Big O’s face. Big O ducked and, grinning sheepishly, picked the ball up off the floor, setting it in his lap.

“I think we should hear all arguments for his pussy being whipped,” Pretty Boy continued, “and all arguments against his pussy being whipped.” Anteros narrowed his eyes. If anyone else spoke to him the way Pretty Boy did, they would be dead, but Pretty Boy was not anyone else. The Wolves were not anyone else.

Crazy A, Big O, Little O, and Pretty Boy had been just like Anteros, slaves with the rank of a soldier. All of that changed the day Anteros lied about a De Luca councilman. It would have meant Anteros’s death, but they owed Anteros and he cashed in that day. All four of them backed up Anteros’s lie.

If it had just been Anteros’s story, or even if only one of them backed him up, it wouldn’t have mattered, but since it was five against one, the De Luca councilman was sent to his death. That paved the way for Anteros to continue to advance.

He gave them an option that day: have their debt wiped clean and stay a slave, or follow him and keep advancing. They followed. The way the four of them constantly backed Anteros up was unprecedented. In the Family, it had always been every man for himself, but together they became more powerful than anyone could have foreseen.

“I think I should kick your ass.” Anteros exhaled, setting the paperweight down. “Do you have any new information for me or have you all been too busy fucking each other?”

“Hmm…” Pretty Boy said, drawing his hand to his chin. “Your defiance is definitely an argument for it. More arguments for? Little O, start us off.”

“He did not let us see her pussy,” Little O pointed out.

“It would have been the polite thing to do,” Big O added.

Pretty Boy nodded, rubbing his chin. “Mmmhmm, yep, all good points. Beast, what say you in your defense?”

“I say this relationship has run its course.” Anteros leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers above his head in a restful position. “It’s been fun. We had some good times, but you all are just too goddamn annoying.” Anteros looked over to Crazy A, who hadn’t joined in on the conversation. It wasn’t unusual for Crazy A to stay silent when it came to jokes or ribbing, but usually he had something to say about business. That day he sat silently in the corner, observing.

“Ha!” Little O laughed, drawing Anteros’s attention back. “You wouldn’t get rid of us.”

“Nobody else can stomach your taste in music,” Big O said, a look of distaste on his face. “You wouldn’t kill us.”

“Exactly,” Little O turned to Big O. “Can you imagine if word got out that the big bad Beast liked The Backstreet Boys?” Little O leaned back into the couch, laughing. Anteros unlocked his fingers, reaching behind him to try to grasp the stereo. When that didn’t work, he spun around and started fiddling.

“I didn’t choose this song,” he said. “It came on randomly. This is Big O’s stereo anyway.”

“Sure it did,” Little O said, glancing to Big O.

Big O threw up his hands. “Don’t blame me for your Nick Carter fetish.”

“I do so declare,” Pretty Boy said, standing up, finger raised in the air, “Beast is pussywhipped.”

When the stereo wouldn’t shut off, Anteros knocked it over and stood up. “Assholes,” he said. Big O, Little O, and Pretty Boy all bust out laughing. Anteros walked to the door, stepping over Big O, who’d slid off the couch in his fit of laughter. Just as he reached the door, Crazy A grasped his arm, stopping him.

“Emilio should be in place by Christmas, right on schedule,” Crazy A said. “But…” Crazy A’s narrow face contracted in a way that Anteros knew meant something serious, something bad, was bothering him.

“But?” Anteros asked, feeling his own face contract.

“They’re just joking about her,” Crazy A’s gaze drifted to where the three were doubled over. Pretty Boy’s hand was on Big O’s back, looking for support as laughter rolled through him. Slowly his gaze came back to Anteros and they locked eyes. “But you gotta get a handle on this thing between you and her, feel me?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anteros replied stiffly.

“I think I know better than anyone,” Crazy A replied, stare intense. “And you know that.” He dropped his grip instantly. Anteros shook his shoulders out then continued on his way.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Little O called out after him.

Anteros turned around. “What?”

“We’re connected to your account,” Little O said. “The music won’t stop playing.”

Anteros spun around with a glare and kept walking.

“Don’t leave us here without disconnecting!” Big O yelled. “You can’t torture us this way!”

Anteros shook his head. He was down the stairs when he heard Little O yell, “It’s inhumane!” A ghost of a smile came to his lips but disappeared just as quickly when Crazy A’s words echoed back in his head.

* * *

When he returned home, Frankie wasn’t in his room. For a moment he thought she’d tried to escape, but then he remembered he’d permitted the use of the library. He took off his pea coat, undid his tie, loosened the buttons of his suit, and changed into something more comfortable. Then he joined her.

Frankie’s golden legs were crossed and up on a footrest. Part of her bottom lip was pulled between her teeth and her hair was tied up. She was clearly engrossed and didn’t even hear him enter the room. It was unfair, like a lion approaching a sleeping gazelle.

He walked behind the chair. She’d clearly picked out the most unattractive items of clothing she could find: a thick, cotton t-shirt and long black leggings. The way the big, ill-fitting shirt fell from her shoulder, revealing the slightest stretch of skin, had the opposite effect she’d intended, though. Lightly, he touched her.

“Oh, Jesus.” She jumped.

“Quite the opposite,” Anteros mused. “Interesting choice.” He plucked Paradise Lost out of her hands.

“I didn’t expect you to have it.” She leaned her head back against the chair so that she could look up at him. In that position, her eyes looked like saucers. “But you have so many books.”

“Some of these books aren’t mine.” Out of the thousands, there were probably less than ten that didn’t belong to him. Anteros had learned long ago it was the wise man who plays the fool.

She put her hands on her lap and scooted to turn to face him. “What does that mean?”

“Some were given to me. Some I inherited. Enough talk.” Anteros pulled her up by the arm, dragging her from the seat. He pushed her against the shelf that lined the wall, a few books falling out. Her eyes widened. He put her arms above her head and lifted the baggy clothes up, immediately unimpressed by the thick, gray bra she wore, one intended for working out.

“I think I need to make some rules regarding your clothing choices.” He snapped the strap. “Do I even want to know what you have on here?” He pressed his palm between her thighs. To his satisfaction, she gasped, though she quickly regained composure.

“Probably not. It’s very ugly. Lots of material. Saggy. Unwashed even. So you can go away now.” She flitted her hand as if to show him going away.

“I think not.” Anteros bent down and pulled down the elastic pants. She was wearing a pair of white underwear, nothing spectacular. He paused between her thighs, enjoying how her confidence wavered when he stalled.

“I’m wearing what you put in the closet.” Frankie glared down at him. “Do you expect me to wear lingerie every hour of every day?” Contrary to what Frankie thought, Anteros had very little to do with picking her clothing; he’d hired a professional for that. He had guidelines, though. She must have a look befitting his station. Her dresses and clothing could not be found anywhere else, and she must have lingerie. The best lingerie. If there was such a thing as American royalty, Frankie was to look it.

Money was not an object.

“Yes,” he replied, staring back up at her. God, she had undeniable self-control, and that was an incredible turn on to him. She had iron will, a steel backbone, and Anteros relished being the fire to make her melt and bend. “Let’s get this clear right now Frankie, you are mine. When you are mine, there are rules you will follow.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” she spat.

“Like no cursing,” he said evenly. “A slave is submissive in all ways.” Her eyes flared. “I think you already know not to go somewhere unless I expressly give you permission.” Her chest rose heavily with anger, but the way her tongue darted out to lick her lips betrayed her. “And no alcohol.”

“Where the hell am I going to get alcohol?” she hissed.

He gripped her thighs. “What did I say about cursing?”

“Anything else master?” She asked with mock sweetness. He thought back to the chess match, to the face of iron she wore during the entire game.

“Do you remember when you asked if there would be a rematch?” Anteros asked, sliding his hand beneath the white cotton of her panties. His palm met her hot, naked skin.

“Now?” she asked. A small smile came to his face as she sucked in a jagged breath.

“Now.” He wanted her to feel every single bit of what he was doing, feel the anticipation more than the actual event. Frankie shivered, but it was so slight he almost didn’t notice. “Do you like this, Frankie?” he whispered against the skin of her thigh. His hand slid from her pussy, down around her ass, rounding slowly over the curve.

“About as much as I like my period,” she replied. “The bad ones. The really bloody ones.” Her voice was shaky, and he knew that she’d said all of those disgusting things to turn him off and get him to leave.

But this game he wasn’t going to lose.

He pulled back abruptly and, standing up, pulled her pants back up. He had to give them credit—they showed off her legs well. She looked relieved until he narrowed his eyes. “Soon you will realize giving in to me isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.” Anteros gripped her hand, dragging her from the library.

When they reached his bedroom door, he stopped. Anteros was about to open the door but paused. That look on her face, not of dread but complete stoicism, had returned. He knew she was tunneling inside herself, becoming unmoving. He thrust her up against the door and her eyes widened.

Anteros kept his hands on the wall the entire time, pressed to either side of her. He didn’t even press his body against hers. He started by kissing her neck, just lightly tasting her. Still, one hot, slow lick just above her shoulder was all it took to have his cock punching against his pants. She tasted sweet yet somehow spicy, and it made him fucking insane. His fingers curled into fists on either side of her, trying to stay in control.

Anteros waited until he heard Frankie sigh, then he brought his mouth up to her ear. He took the lobe between his teeth, biting softly. Against her skin he whispered, “You taste fucking incredible.” Releasing her ear, he turned his attention to her face.

Frankie waited, eyes wide, but they were wide with anticipation now. Leaning his head back down, he traced his tongue along the seam of her mouth and gently pulled at her plump lips with his own. They parted and she released a small, musical-sounding moan. Her chin was tilted up when he pulled back and she leaned toward him, but she still didn’t close the distance. His gaze flicked to her chest, the breaths heavy, as evidenced by the rising and falling.

He deepened his assault, crushing his lips against her. Though it killed him, his tongue didn’t penetrate her; he was still waiting for Frankie to beg his entrance. He just kissed her, sucked her. Pants escaped her mouth like a heated, steamy spring on a winter night. Biting her lower lip, Anteros dragged it out with a groan of his own.

When that small, hot thing finally pressed against him, he couldn’t hold it back anymore. Anteros plundered her. Frankie closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck. He pushed her back against the door, chest to chest, legs intertwined and she rubbed against him, body undulating, grooving and grinding.

For a moment Anteros forgot what he was doing, that the reason was to get her to submit. He bent his head to her neck to draw a long, fast lick. Then he sucked fiercely on her chin, her lips, her cheek—anything. She returned his fervor, taking his hot, wet lips to her mouth. Frankie bit at him, sucked his tongue into her mouth, and her fingers gripped so tightly against his back he was sure there would be marks.

He separated their mouths for a brief instant and she made a whimpering noise.

She’d caved.

He took two steps back. He’d gotten what he’d wanted but somewhere in that kiss it stopped being about her submission and just about kissing her. Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled jaggedly. Eyes wide, she looked stupefied. Her cheeks were red and she panted. It was like waiting for the lights to come on at the end of a movie. Frankie stared at Anteros, trying to work out what had just happened. When it clicked, the flush on her face deepened.

“I hate you,” she seethed.

“That’s okay.” Anteros closed the distance once more, gripped her face, and plunged his tongue into her mouth. “It’s not your love I want.”

Seven

I couldn’t sleep at all. The night’s events played over and over in my brain like a gunshot wound on rewind and then fast forward.

I’d almost liked it.

Maybe I did.

Fuck.

He was an addiction. I’d never craved or hated something so much as his touch and attention.

I touched my lips, staring at my reflection in the en-suite bathroom’s mirror. You know how when you look at yourself long enough, you sometimes question who you are? Like, who is that person staring back at you? Well, I stared into my eyes and it went beyond that. I knew who was staring back at me—I just didn’t like her.

He’d given me rules. Fucking rules—like not saying “fuck.” Yeah, well, fuck him. Fuck fuck fuck him.

“Ahh!” I screamed, thrusting my fist into the reflective glass. It shattered on impact. There was a moment, right before the pieces fell to the floor, when I could see my reflection. I saw my face disintegrate, my cheekbone falling away from my eye, my eyes splitting in two, my lips falling from my face. I shattered away.

The glass fell, revealing the gray glue beneath the mirror. I stared down at the floor, blood dripping from my fist. My reflection refracted, even more distorted from that angle. Blood dripped onto the fragments, splattering. I stared at myself for maybe a half a second longer then shook my head.

My anger dissipated with each drop of blood, replaced instead with the pain radiating from the side of my hand. Without the fury to blind me, fear was creeping in. How is any of this possible? I never imagined when I traded my life that this was going to happen. It’s barely been a week and I feel myself irrevocably changing.

I shook my head.

I wasn’t ready to deal with that. I stepped over the fragments, grabbed some toilet paper, and wrapped my hand.

I walked over to my window and pushed it open. A fresh gust of New York winter wind whipped my cheek. In the winter, the city smelled different. The smells froze. The aroma of bus and subway shivered. Up so high, I almost didn’t smell it. It was almost clear, like in the country.

Almost.

Blood poured through my shoddy wrapping job and dripped onto the sill. I don’t know if it was being confronted with my own lifeblood or the fact that I was leaning so far out, but I contemplated jumping. The longer I stayed with the Beast, the less I cared about Papa.

I obviously didn’t want him to die, but that feeling had become an archetype. I had no feelings attached to it anymore because all I could feel was hurt and want and shame and need. Papa was my old life, a life where a girl could feel love and duty and selflessness. Now…

Now I was looking down at the pavement, at the small ant-like people, and wondering. I scooted up to the lip of the sill, putting one foot out. It was freezing, but the bitter air was awakening. I would let fate decide. If the wind pulled me out, so be it. That wasn’t technically suicide. So what if I was leaning a little to the right? So what if I was letting my right leg dip toward the ground? So what if—

Something skittered across my foot.

“Oh, Jesus.” I jumped back. I gripped the sill and looked around. What the fuck was that? I gripped the sill, looking at my foot, and gasped.

A tail.

Had I just seen a tail? Either that or I’d officially cracked and was inventing things in my brain so I didn’t go insane. I looked down again. Some people think suicide is a sin, was my god a rat?

Oh my God.

I’ve lost it.

“There’s no rat,” I said to myself. “Just fucking do it.” The sill was starting to get slippery with my blood. I took a deep breath, sucked in the gelid winter air, and prepared to fall. As I let my fingers loosen, something jumped onto my foot. Startled, I fell backward into the room.

Holy shit.

It was a fucking rat. White and fluffy with a cute little nose. It quickly jumped off me, obviously just as freaked out as I was. It dashed back to the sill with such speed I nearly missed it. Then it paused, small pink paws up as if studying me. Nose twitching.

“What are you doing here?” I reached over to touch it.

I know what you’re thinking—plague, motherfucker, have you heard of it? Yes, I have.

It was scared, though. The world had done bad things to it, most definitely. It was missing an eye and its pretty white fur was all messed up. I reached my hand out but it balked, quirked its head and moved to jump out the window. It hopped up, paws trying to find purchase on the ledge.

“No…Please,” I begged. “I don’t have any friends either.” I put my head down, defeated. This was what I’d become: begging a stray rat to be my friend. I looked back up but its tail had disappeared around the corner.

I fell down to the ground and cried. I put my head in my hands, not caring that I was getting my face all bloody. At least with my head smothered in my palms, I could pretend I was somewhere else. I don’t know why I was crying over a rat. It was filled with disease, probably, but that was Russian roulette, and maybe I’d win. Maybe I’d get the plague and die.

* * *

Out on the patio, the morning passed by slowly. It felt longer, more sluggish, the way mornings do when you’ve seen the full extent of the night. Wrapped in a cashmere sweater over leggings and snow boots with a plush gray blanket thrown over my knees, I stared out at the iron-cast city. Without sleep, my thoughts felt trapped in a bog, my limbs drowned in slime.

I’d run out of physical tears but the action behind them remained. The labored breathing. The heavy lids. The headache. The deep, chasmic sorrow. My feet were propped up on the railing, the journal resting on my thighs, but I kept staring at the ledge, wishing a rat would run along it.

One good thing came of the previous night, at least. When Beast left, casting me away like a used plastic bag, I was able to walk back to the library, grab the journal, and take it back to the room. Eyes feeling tight as if the edges were glued together with dried tears, I looked away and down to the cursive lettering.

This journal belongs to Sofia De Luca.

I skipped past the part I’d already read, past how the woman, Sofia, wished to kill herself because her new husband was an asshole. Yeah, that wasn’t hard to relate to at all. I continued to the next part.

Not dead yet.

Feels like it.

I snuck out to see Alessio and got home too late. Dario beat me. I don’t mind the bruises as much as I mind the distance from Alessio. Alessio and I have planned to run away together. I can’t be certain, but I think his child grows inside me. I haven’t bled in weeks and am fatigued, all signs that Mama says point to being with child. The child could be Dario’s, as he takes me every chance he gets…but I don’t care. It will be Alessio’s even if the child doesn’t share his blood.

Soon I will have no use for this journal.

Soon I will be happy.

My head shot up at a sound, eyes darting over to the door and then to the ledge. My chest pounded, ears rushing with blood. I caressed the worn page of the journal, eyes scanning my surroundings. When I was certain I was alone, I returned my attention back to the journal. The next entry didn’t relate at all to what I’d been reading.

Today I overheard Alessio’s father, Lucio, talking with his sister Lucia. It was something I shouldn’t have heard and I fear for my life. If this secret got out, it could ruin not just Lucio and Lucia, but all of us.

If anyone finds out I know, I will not live long after.

This is something I cannot tell even Alessio.

The rest of the page was torn out. I skipped to the next part, but it was completely off topic. I flipped back, holding the page between my thumbs and comparing as if I could find some common ground. I was so engrossed in this process that I didn’t notice the patio doors open behind me, nor did I notice the sound of footfalls on the floor. When there was a presence behind me, it was too late.

“Mistress.”

I jumped, the journal falling from my thighs to the snow-dusted patio. I spun to see curly, blond hair. It was him, the boy who was like a ghost in the penthouse, bringing me food, cleaning up the food, always there and yet not. I should have realized he would see me; ghosts see everything.

His face was completely blank while inside I was a mess of emotion.

I’d been caught.

I’d lose my only weapon. My emotions swelled in my throat, threatening to suffocate me like the time Papa gave me peanuts and I had to be rushed to the hospital. My esophagus had swelled up. I’d nearly died. Distantly I wondered if you could suffer an allergic reaction to emotion, like when the peanuts had overwhelmed my system.

“I won’t tell him,” he said as if sensing my thoughts.

“What?” I gasped. “Why?”

“You aren’t the only one with secrets, mistress.”

“But…” I sputtered, swallowing spit and expelling breath at the same time. He stepped toward me, hands behind his back.

“The Beast will have company tonight. You will need to wear something special.” He bowed his head and turned around. I watched his apathetic exit, feeling even more confused. Then he paused, hand on the patio doorframe. With back still turned to me he said, “You should find a better hiding spot than under your mattress.”

“But—” I started again.

“You may call me Nikolai.” And then he left.

* * *

Later that night, Nikolai’s words still played in my head. I remembered staring at his body leave the room, waiting for him to return with Beast, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

When it didn’t, I was no more at ease. Beast had said he saved Nikolai, but Nikolai had said I wasn’t the only one with secrets—what did that mean? Was he a prisoner as well? Did I have a friend? I don’t know how he knew where I was hiding the journal and as I chose a new spot—outside, under a loose brick—I didn’t feel any better. If he could see me in bed, could he see me as I put the journal under the brick?

Nikolai didn’t feel like a friend. I wasn’t able to think on it very long, though, as the reason Nikolai had come in the first place preoccupied me. The Beast had company coming. It was time for me to play royal concubine.

My dresses were changed out weekly so there wasn’t even a chance of wearing something twice. Except for the yellow dress. That one was never changed out—probably to taunt me. My fingers stroked it as I passed by the sheaf of dresses, contemplating what to wear for the evening.

There were like two rich kids at my high school. They were siblings and they always dressed in band shirts and jeans, or some variant thereof. One year we were assigned a school project together. We met up at their house and I saw their closet. I was awed. So many clothes, but they wore the same goddamn thing every day. I always wondered why they didn’t wear nice clothes, like the ones I had now.

Now I wondered if it was rebellion.

Every bone in my body wanted to show up in jeans and a Cure t-shirt, but I didn’t want every bone in my body broken so, you know, choices.

I reached the end of the row, still undecided. Each gown was unequivocally lovely. Gorgeous. A work of art, just as the yellow vintage Dior had been. I walked back down the row, expelling a breath that felt like a plea.

At last I chose a periwinkle Paolo Sebastian gown. White lace flowers sprinkled the tulle bottom. It had an open back with more flowers creeping up from the bottom and one line of pearl buttons, though they appeared to float on my naked skin. The bodice was also covered in flowers and it had long white lace sleeves that looked like they were painted on my skin.

It was beautiful. Flawless.

I hated it.

I released the bottom of the gown just as the door flew open behind me. My breath left me. Beast was there, completely dwarfing the frame. Of course it wasn’t his size that caught my breath—I’d at least become somewhat used to that by now—it was his eyes, his gaze, the intense way he looked at me.

When the silence stretched too long, so palpable it felt like it was beating inside my chest alongside my heart, I asked, “So, I assume McDonald’s is on the menu tonight.” In lieu of responding, Beast moved forward, shutting the door behind him as he went. I had to quickly step backward so he didn’t push me over.

My fingers made little rosettes in the cloth of my blue gown as I waited for him to talk. His gaze was a hot sun on my body, making me sweat and goading me to try to move out of the glare. He stepped forward and I stepped back, but the arch behind my knees hit the bed. He stepped forward again and I was pinned.

It was this—the agonizing and the waiting—that was terrible. The hot stares. The sucking breaths. The not knowing what was next. I was never allowed to get used to my prison. He disallowed me routine, constantly keeping me on tiptoes so I was like a ballerina with bleeding toes.

The Beast had the ability to make me feel more naked in clothes than when my flesh was actually exposed. His fingers danced along the embroidery of my dress. The pad of his index finger outlined the stitching, as if refusing to touch my skin. Still keeping his hands only on the fabric, he walked slowly behind me. I could feel his cool breath against my neck.

He whispered into my ear, “You look entirely fuckable.”

I sucked in my breath as he unbuttoned the back. The Beast was too unreadable. Blue-green circles marked my body from where his fingers had gripped my flesh too tight. Now, he said those dirty words in the most raw and feral voice, but he was also unbuttoning my dress, careful not to rip the fabric.

He spun me around and my hair whipped his chest. I clenched my teeth as he lifted my chin to meet his stare. It was hard and unreadable. I hated his inscrutable gaze. At least when he was angry or lustful, I knew what to expect. With these looks, anything could happen.

He seized my mouth and I nearly buckled with the force, but he caught me. I grappled at his chest, wrinkling the fine fabric. The Beast held my back, grabbing at my bare flesh, bruising it in the sweetest way. It would have been so much easier if he were obviously evil, the way a Beast should be, the way I’d imagined him when I traded myself.

Sometimes I found myself thinking back to the kitchen and wondering how it might be if instead of putting me on the counter, he’d pushed into my mouth. I wondered if I would still be me. If I wouldn’t be so close to shattering. The way he treated me was twisted.

He pulled me closer, fingers going deep into my hair.

It did not feel good.

It couldn’t.

Yet I relished it all the same, because it made me feel alive.

One hand left my skull and gripped the bottom half of the dress, pulling the cascade of fabric up my body.

“No,” I said as I gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. I was saying it to myself. It was like a mantra, as if I could invoke the parts of myself he stole back into my body. He was twisting me, pulling me to him, and I wanted nothing more than to let go and give in. When I was with him, it felt better than good; it was pure, uncut bliss, the kind of pleasure that gives you a hangover when it’s gone.

He lifted me up, setting me on top of the vintage-looking dresser. It shook with the movement, rattling against the wall. His palm pressed against my core and I sighed as he kissed my neck. My arms wove around his neck and my legs wrapped around his waist.

A warm haze settled in my body. I was delirious, intoxicated. He pulled aside the lingerie, exposing me. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to feel his flesh against my flesh, and I arched up to his palm. I gripped his neck, my fingers digging into his flesh, and he pushed a finger inside me.

“I want to feel you coming into my hand,” he growled into my ear. It was as if cold water was poured all over my body. I suddenly remembered what I was doing and with who. I froze in his arms. As I froze, he stilled. I could feel him pull back, could feel his fingers leave my body. He sat back, putting space between our bodies so that I could see his face.

He didn’t look angry.

He stared at me with those intense, soul-shredding eyes and licked his fingers off as if daring me to refute what was clearly on them.

* * *

I’d managed to stay relatively hidden, gnawing on crudité while the Beast spoke with his men. His “friends” had already arrived when we’d left my room to join them, which made me wonder if they’d heard any of what we’d done. It was so weird to feel embarrassed or private when my situation so didn’t warrant such things.

To feel embarrassed that his “friends” would have heard me when they’d already seen me naked, seen me on display, didn’t make sense, but I felt it all the same.

The Beast was wearing what he usually wore: an impeccably tailored three-piece suit. I had to give it to the asshole—he knew how to dress. His wickedly dark jacket, waistcoat, and trousers matched with his black shirt and a black tie gave him a menacing yet elegant air. The thin, silver fob of the pocket watch that dangled from his waistcoat and went into his jacket added a certain regality.

At least what we’d done in the bedroom had wrinkled his attire some. Taking a bite of carrot from across the room, I bitterly wondered if he even used the pocket watch, or if it was just for looks. As if he could hear my thoughts, he turned and looked at me. His ocean-colored glare washed over me, drowning me, making me feel heavy and soaked and breathless. I looked away.

There was no food at the dining table. Despite his best efforts, I was sure I’d lost a couple of pounds since arriving, and he never seemed to eat anything. Apparently his friends didn’t eat anything either. I guess I’m the insane one for expecting there to be food at a dinner party. I sat down at the table and watched his friends, trying not to look too sulky.

There were six men, two I recognized as his dogs, the ones that did whatever he told them to do and bit at whatever he told them to bite. I thought their names were Arlo and Tough Tino. They had been at the club, outside the room, and were around occasionally. They hung by the door, obviously not partaking in the “festivities.” The other four I recognized immediately from the night he took me out, the night at the club.

I winced at the recollection.

Out of that dark, dingy club light, I could see them all clearly now. They all had distinguishing features, each looking like a carved sculpture from hell. Each dressed similarly to the Beast, wearing tailored suits and hundred-dollar ties. They hung near the window, sipping amber-colored liquid and talking lowly. I would have rather been left alone with a mad dog than one of those men.

The one called Pretty Boy looked over to me. I quickly averted my gaze, focusing on the way the glass table reflected the moody light. Most of the nicknames had me wondering about their inception, but I didn’t have to wonder why they called him Pretty Boy. He had coiffed hair, smooth skin, and navy blue eyes. He looked like a model, his lips begging to say sweet things, but I knew otherwise. He’d been the cruelest one that night at the club, his lips twisting in delight when I cried. I touched my cheek, remembering where he’d slapped me.

I said, how loud will you scream for us? I sighed jaggedly at the memory. How could I even start to think there was something nice or sweet about this life? Just because the Beast had shown me some tenderness didn’t mean he was tender. He was probably like a cat playing with food.

It was a real hopping party. No one was saying anything. Low haunting music played. It sounded Italian, maybe operatic. When I glanced back up, the Beast had disappeared and all the men were staring at me. Through the icy numbness I forced upon myself, the bitter lidocaine I applied to survive, I wondered if I was the party favor, if this wasn’t a dinner party but actually a repeat of what had happened at the club.

The only food was crudités and canapés, not exactly dinner. Also, I was the only one eating. Everyone else hung near the window, sipping their drinks, whispering their words and unabashedly staring at me. Like a gazelle among the lions, I could see their glowing eyes through the tall grass, could feel their murderous intent.

“Dance with me.” I jumped at the low voice, turning to see the Beast had reappeared behind my back. Sitting down, he completely towered over me. How sick is it that I was relieved to see him?

It wasn’t a request; his hand was outstretched and his eyes narrowed as he waited for me to take it. I clasped my hand in his, not saying anything about the weird timing or weird choice in music, and followed him to the divide between the dining room and living room. The Beast drew me close and I went numb in his arms.

Numb was better than nauseated. Numb was better than aroused. I couldn’t handle my feelings around him. I hated him and I wanted him. He simultaneously made me want to throw myself off a building and throw myself at him. It was best not to feel anything at all.

Beast took my hand, spinning me around before bringing me back to his chest. Pressed into his chest right as he was about to spin me out, my mind spun out to earlier that night. I’d lost myself, just as I had the day before. When he was kissing me, I had forgotten. My defenses had fallen, making what happened next even worse.

I’d told him I hated him to gain composure, to build my walls again. It’s not your love I want, he’d responded, and just like that they’d fallen all over again.

He spun me back into his arms.

“You are beautiful in that dress,” he murmured against my ear. My eyes widened at the affectionate compliment, then dulled when I remembered why I’d picked it.

“It reminded me of a fairytale,” I whispered.

“This isn’t a fairytale, Frankie,” he said against my earlobe. I nearly scoffed. Obviously not. Men are drinking wine by the window I lost my virginity on, eyeing me like meat. They’re undressing me with their eyes because they actually know what lies beneath, because of you.

He twirled me around in circles. I let him do all the work. Twirl, spin. Twirl, spin. It was monotonous in its orchestrated grace and discord.

“Will I ever know your name?” I asked as he dipped me. His hand rested on my lower back as he held me prone. My toes were pointed, legs lifting off the ground as my hair kissed the floor. His chest pressed firmly against mine, and his eyes…his lips… I craned my neck, arching my back as far as it could go to get away from them. His intensity rivaled the music. If I gave in I would lose myself just like against the door.

Abruptly he dropped me and walked away. My ass stung with the impact. My dress spread around me. The song continued on.

* * *

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I told him, but damned if he tried to stop me. He’d just dropped me on the fucking floor. He eyed me suspiciously for a moment but then it was gone, as if he knew that I was done trying anything. His eyes said everything I feared to acknowledge. My fight was gone. I had traded myself, I wasn’t some kidnapped girl. I had made my bed and I was going to lie in it—it wasn’t like I had anywhere I could run, anyway.

I finished washing my hands and stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was like I was disappearing before my eyes. I wasn’t upset about disappearing, though; I was upset that I didn’t have a choice. Sighing, I turned and opened the bathroom door.

“Oh,” I gasped. One half of Tweedledee and Tweedledum blocked my exit—Arlo, maybe. It definitely wasn’t Tough Tino, who was big enough to lift a house.

Arlo leaned against the frame. He wasn’t as big as Tough Tino, or even the Beast, but he was still something to run from. With his arms folded, he sneered at me.

“Going so soon?” Arlo asked. I shook my head, unsure of his intent. I was going back to the Beast, nothing more, but the way the man leered at me made me think there was something more behind his words. I averted my gaze and tried to walk past him, but he shoved me back into the bathroom.

I was so exhausted. Seriously, so exhausted. My body ached with all the fight it had gone through. All I wanted was for someone who loved me to hold me and tell me everything would be okay. As I stared at this leering, predatory man, I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I traded in hugs and kisses for bruises and cuts. At least I could fight this man, though. At least my family wouldn’t suffer if I give this man a few bites and punches.

I reached for the first thing I could get my hands on—a porcelain tissue dispenser—and threw it at his head. He dodged and it shattered against the door. It nicked his temple a bit, but other than that, he was unscathed. He lunged for me and pinned me against the window.

Oh, memories.

I kneed him in the groin and he doubled over. I pushed him aside and ran for the door—the bastard had locked it! Why is it always so hard to unlock something when you’re high on adrenaline? I fussed with the lock but by the time I had it opened, he was pulling me back by the hair.

He threw me to the ground and my head banged against the toilet then landed with a thud on the tile. A thwack of pain shot through me, splintering through my body and then settling to a dull throb between my eyes. I was dizzy. I may have moaned. I tried to move and stand, to keep fighting, but he stood on my thigh. With my head hurting so badly, I heard and felt more than saw the next moment of torture.

I heard him undo his belt. I heard him pull down his pants. Then he was on top of me. He pawed at my gown, looking for openings. When none could be found, he tore it down.

My beautiful blue fairytale dress was ripped apart by his meaty hands. I cried out when his palm grasped my breast, so hard and ruthless. Tears burned my lids. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to shed any more tears for this reality.

I’d put on lingerie, but I may as well have worn nothing. It was basically a spider web with the support and coverage it provided. The white silk and lace offered no protection from him. His rubbery head probed me. His sweaty palms pawed me. Just as I resigned myself to being violated—really violated—the door burst open. Broken pieces of wood flew everywhere. I opened my eyes, looking beyond the sweaty man on top of me to the one in the doorway.

If I thought I’d made the Beast angry before, I was wrong. He looked completely undone as he stood in the doorway. His bluegreen eyes were blacker than onyx and every vein in his body bulged. His fists were clenched, knuckles white. I was afraid, and I hadn’t even done anything.

Arlo let go of my hair and I immediately scrambled away. I didn’t want to go near the hulking Beast, nor did I want to stay near the man who had just tried to rape me, so I took refuge behind the toilet. The Beast, paying me no attention, advanced toward the man. My vision was slightly obscured as I grasped the porcelain base.

“Look I was only…she’s just a slave…” Arlo tried to plead. It wasn’t working. The Beast towered over the man, whose pleas came out in various high-pitched squeaks. “Please! Boss, it won’t happen again.”

The Beast reached down, grabbing Arlo’s neck. I stared in horrified awe as he lifted Arlo up by his throat, my own eyes widening when Arlo clawed desperately at the Beast’s hands, gasping for air. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to happen. On the one hand, Arlo could go fall in a pit of lava for all I cared. On the other, I’d never seen anyone murdered…never thought I would have to.

From beyond my internal musings, I heard a sickening crunch. I peeked to see the man hanging from the Beast’s hands, his arm like limp spaghetti. He was alive. Barely. It was a good thing I was near a toilet.

“Come,” the Beast said when I was finished unloading all of my earlier crudités and canapés. He picked me up by the arm and dragged me past the body. I almost vomited again.

* * *

The Beast dropped me off in his room. There was something comforting about the dark gray and gold room now. Stockholm syndrome, I thought bitterly. I shouldn’t have been comforted by the black sheets and gray walls, but I was. I was glad he’d dropped me off here instead of my room.

He’d left to go “deal with some things.” Probably the body clinging to life outside the bathroom. Arlo. Distantly, like headlights through fog about to run me down, I wondered if I wanted him to live.

No.

I’d looked at his body breathing shallowly as Beast carried me past. I remembered being angry at the rise and fall of his chest. Never in a million years would I imagine myself in this situation, though—praying for someone to die.

I held my knees up to my chest. Nothing made sense anymore. I’d fancied myself noble when I traded my life for my papa’s but now that all felt like a lifetime ago. I wondered if he’d moved on. Maybe he was watching reality TV and eating takeout like I was never even there.

Probably.

I still wore the periwinkle fairytale dress, but it was impossibly ripped. I grasped the tatters to my nearly exposed breasts, lace flowers hanging off my body in shreds. One leg peeked out of the rags, and I noticed the red scrapes decorating the smooth skin. I probably got it trying to run from him, scraped my leg on the ground or against him. It was as if little fairies were clawing their way up my leg.

I sighed. What a wonderfully rotten life. I wondered if this was how princesses really lived.

“Hey.”

I snapped my head up at the voice, so fast I nearly got whiplash. A girl stood in the doorway. She was dressed impeccably in a buttery winter coat and white trousers, a colorful Hermès bag on her arm. The scarf on her neck was probably Hermès too. She had beach-blonde hair that shone even in the dark, freckles on her golden skin, and a smile.

A fucking smile.

“What do you want?” I snapped.

She walked over to me. “I’ve been sent to tend to your wounds.”

“I’m fine.” I raised a hand, gesturing to the door that she’d come through, and put my chin back on my knees.

The girl raised a dark brow. “Sure?”

I raised my own in return. I desperately wanted to tell her to fuck off, but I wasn’t sure of her role. Maybe she was close to Beast. Maybe if I told her where to stick her head, I would get something stuck in me. I ground my teeth, letting my eyes do the talking as the shining girl continued to advance.

She glanced over at a painting that hung across from the bed, looked at me, and frowned. She walked to a corner in the room. I looked at the painting as well, but all I saw was what I had been seeing: abstract lines. Maybe she was really into realism. Frowning, I focused on her.

“What? What is it you want?” I asked. My fear was like blood. Try as I might to stymy it, it flowed freely from me.

From the corner in the room, the girl raised her shirt, revealing a set of dark purple bruises. Some of them were turning a garish yellow color, but most were deep indigo, even black. I frowned, then looked up at her. She didn’t even flinch, but it must hurt. It had to hurt.

Before I could respond, the girl lowered her shirt. “We women have to stick together,” she said.

Hours later I sat on the bed, staring at the spot where the girl had been, seeing her bruises in my mind. Her name was Gabby and she’d only stayed for thirty minutes, but it felt like we’d talked for hours. At first Gabby seemed like a superhero to me the way she carried her bruises, someone to come and save me, but after talking with her, I knew otherwise.

She was only eighteen and she’d been married for four years.

My knees were still to my chest when I heard the door open and close, the same door Gabby had walked through. I didn’t bother looking up; I knew who it was, and I doubted he would be as kind as she had been.

The weight of the bed shifted when he sat down next to me and I hugged my knees tighter. Seconds later his callused hands captured my chin, pulling my gaze to his. There was a softness in his features that I’d never seen before. In the brief glimpses of tenderness before this moment, hardness had always remained, like a turtle in a shell. Here, though, he was almost exposed.

Almost.

My eyes widened, trying to drink in this rare moment.

Don’t get me wrong—this wasn’t the moment where everything changed. The Beast didn’t suddenly become a prince with a name and normal human emotions. He didn’t apologize and let me go back to my family. The softness was just the closest I got to a sorry.

A normal person would say sorry. The Beast wasn’t a normal person, though. This wasn’t a normal situation. The Beast looked at me softly and tenderly, and I stared back. My eyes were watery but I hadn’t cried. Even when the girl had shown me kindness, I hadn’t cried. My blood might flow, but dammit, I would stop the tears. Eventually I tore my eyes away and with a subtle caress of my jaw, he dropped his hand from my chin.

I guessed his actions were his way of saying only he could have me, which, if I have to live in his world, was somewhat comforting. At least I only had to take abuse from him. Little by little, I was understanding the Beast. I didn’t always like what I learned, but at least I knew. I’d rather belong to one psychopath than an entire club of them.

When I glanced back, Beast’s gaze was on me, hard like a punch to the gut. I sucked in my breath and wet my lips. I knew I should look away but I couldn’t; his bluegreen gaze was hypnotic. He was done playing games, done apologizing in his own way. He was ready for what was his. Any other person would recognize that someone who had nearly been raped needed time to rest, but not the Beast. There was no off switch for the Beast. He could kill a person and then fuck someone right after without blinking an eye.

But it felt like more than that—it was animalistic, like marking territory. I could feel the need coming off of him in waves, and I at least begrudged him the restraint he was showing me. He was so wired, so tense, the need to mark what was his obvious by the veins on his neck, the need to make it indisputable that I belonged to him clear by the way his viscera coiled and throbbed. I was sure that should have terrified me, or at least pissed me off.

But as I focused on him, on the hunger in his deep bluegreen eyes, I felt it too—the hunger, the carnal need. It was so deep, I knew it would never leave me. It had somehow rooted itself so deep inside me, to remove it would mean death. It was petrifying but also exhilarating.

Suddenly the Beast shifted. With even, calculated movements, he turned next to me. My mind screamed at me. I was losing some kind of important battle. There was no coming back from this. Still, I didn’t care. All I saw was how he sat next to me and gently placed a hand on my shoulder, lifting up the tatters of my dress. All I felt was him peeling the strips of cloth off me, one by one. I studied him, fascinated. He was kind of gentle. It was like watching those YouTube videos of bears playing with humans. I kept waiting for the bottom to fall out, for the bear to rip the human apart.

He never did.

He peeled the tatters of my fairytale off one by one, the only sound between us our breaths—his even, mine increasingly erratic. When he was finished, I was in my sparkly, barely-there silver lingerie. I put my knees back to my chest, but he grasped one. I sucked in my breath, waiting for him to force my legs down. Instead, he caressed my knee. Wide-eyed, I stared at his thumb rubbing over my bare skin.

Gently, he pushed at my knee, and I let them fall open. Instead of looking down, I looked up, looked at him. With his eyes never leaving mine, he placed his palm on me, over the lace lingerie that guarded me. I gasped at the contact. It somehow felt more intimate this way, more invading. I don’t know why. I don’t know why this way, with fabric separating us, it was more intimate.

I waited, waited for him to rip the silver lace away or push me back against the bed. The lingering expectation became excruciating. His hand moved. Mine grasped the fabric of the bed. Breath left my body in a silent plea as he slowly stroked up and down.

I had a faint thought that I should say something, tell him to go away, but instead I arched up for him, my body asking what my words couldn’t. His stroking didn’t get harder or faster, just that same torturously slow, delicate rhythm. It was as if he knew I would have to press myself against him, move against him, writhe against him.

Puffs of air left my body faster and faster. My chocolate hair fell in front of my face and I felt mercy that I didn’t have to watch. Maybe if I didn’t see it, I could pretend it never happened.

That warm, melted caramel feeling swam and curled through me. My toes curled and uncurled. My head fell back as I let out a small sigh and wetness pooled between my thighs. Briefly, I wondered about how I’d promised I would never would cry again and how I was already breaking my promise. He climbed on top of me, bluegreen eyes shadowed under a demanding brow. I reached for him, held him as if the moment would shatter the minute I let go.

Because it would.

I knew that if I kept looking at him I would get sucked under, I would give myself up—so I turned away and released him.

“Please not now,” I said softly, hands falling to the soft fabric. For a moment it was quiet, but a loud quiet, a quiet filled with questions and demands and needs. I could hear him breathing. I prayed that he wouldn’t press, because I didn’t think I could fight him off. Not physically, but mentally.

God, I want to reach up and grab him again.

“Please,” I said again, even quieter. He removed his hand from me and I turned back. I thought he was listening, that he was going to leave me alone. Then he brought his hand to my cheek.

I flinched.

I was worried that the earlier animalism I’d seen was going to turn on me. His face darkened and in seconds he pinned me flat. I was sure he was going to hurt me; the fire in his eyes was so intense it scorched me. It burned. I closed my eyes to get away from him but I could feel him by the way the bed dipped on either side.

His lips were next to my ear and his voice was hoarse, cruel.

“You still think I’m going to hurt you?” he asked. My breath hitched. “You have no idea what I’m risking to keep you safe.” I kept my eyes closed until I felt the bed give on either side, until the door slammed shut. Even then, I kept my eyes pressed tight.

Eight

The previous night had been an enigma. Anteros had gone to the bedroom with every intent to throw Frankie back in her room and forget the night ever happened but something about the way she sat on his bed, curled up in the tatters of what had been a striking dress, struck him.

At first Frankie had clung to him. It was as if she’d sensed how badly he needed her after seeing Arlo try to despoil her. Then she’d dropped her hold on him, she’d flinched, because Frankie saw him as a monster and would never see him as anything else.

Anteros shook his shoulders out. Fuck it. Frankie had been fucking up his life since day one, and he was going to fix that. Right now. Standing outside the same door he’d kicked down only a week ago, Anteros knocked. Before Frankie, he wouldn’t have given a shit about what someone thought about him. He was the Beast.

The most ruthless.

A monster above all the rest.

Naturally she’d flinched, because that was the reputation he’d built. Anteros knocked again, his fist growing furious as thoughts of last night flooded his mind. Sending Gabriella to Frankie had severely broken protocol, but when he’d watched her on the video monitor, knees to her chest, that forlorn look on her face, it had done something to him. He’d felt something inexplicable and he’d had to do something, so he’d called Giovani and demanded he send over his wife.

Anteros figured he was already lying to his Wolves, already fucking up the system, so a few more cracks in the foundation were fine.

Anteros knocked again. When there was no answer still, he looked to the rusty car in the driveway and at the window to the left. A light was on. If Antonio Notte wanted to appear like he was not home, he was doing a pretty poor job. Anteros sighed and knocked a final time, though he was already preparing to pick the lock.

He reached into his coat, bringing out the lock picking supplies. He could have knocked the door down, but he didn’t want to scare Notte, not this time. He was there to return something he’d taken before she completely ruined his life—if it was also before she got irrevocably ruined herself, that was just a coincidence.

Anteros stuck the small silver piece in the lock and jimmied, waiting until he heard the click. When it sounded, he pushed the door open. He put the tools back in his pocket, peering inside. The living room was empty but as he put his foot over the threshold, he heard a door slam.

Typical.

Anteros slid his hand back in his pocket, feeling for the lock-picking tools. “Notte,” he called out. No reply. He walked through the house. It looked exactly the same, maybe even worse. More peeling wallpaper. Trash on the ground. He raised a brow at a used condom, trying to picture the woman who would sleep with a man like Antonio Notte.

Anteros arrived at a closed door, making quick work of unlocking it. Notte cowered in the corner of a closet—but wait, was it a bedroom? Small and under the staircase, it appeared to be a closet, but there was a bed jammed inside. Why the fuck was there a bed in a closet? Though the house was small, Anteros had counted two bedrooms. Did Notte have more children than Anteros knew about?

“B-Beast—” Notte stuttered. Anteros threw up a hand, silencing him. He walked farther into the tiny room. One step had him all the way in and he had to duck. The walls were papered with pictures, floor to ceiling. He squinted, making them out. They were obviously cut out of magazines. He reached out touching a wrinkly photo of Times Square during New Years.

“This was her room…” He turned to Notte fiercely. “You stuck her in a closet?” Anteros grabbed Notte by the collar and threw him out of the tiny space. He landed on his back and proceeded to crawl away. Anteros looked from Notte to the crinkly destinations taped to the plaster.

She deserved so much better, but Anteros knew firsthand that there was no choosing your parents.

Anteros bent down, squatting so he was eye to eye with Notte, who still hadn’t stood. “I am going to return Frankie to you.”

“What?” Notte’s eyes widened.

Running a hand through his thick, dark locks, Anteros repeated himself. “And no Pavoni will bother you again. You have my word.”

“No.”

“No?” Anteros looked into the man, wondering what game he was playing. Was he going to try to negotiate for money?

“I don’t want her back,” Notte said more firmly. It took a lot to surprise Anteros. A lot of people said they’d seen it all but really hadn’t. Anteros, though, he’d seen pretty much everything. You don’t ascend to the head of a crime family without seeing some fucked up shit. When Antonio Notte stared back into the eyes of Anteros, voice clear, and stated he did not want his daughter, for the first time in years, Anteros was surprised.

Then again, he shouldn’t have been. He’d seen first hand how terrible parents could be.

Quickly Anteros stood up, trying to regain composure, “What are you playing at, Notte?” he asked brusquely.

“Nothing,” Notte declared. “Take the girl and leave me alone. I don’t want her.” Rage filled Anteros, white hot like the sun. He knew Notte was many things—craven, foolish—but this? Anteros reached and grabbed him by the neck, throwing him against the wall. He waited until Notte’s face reddened and then spoke.

“You would throw your own blood to the wolves?” he asked. “What kind of man are you?” Notte clammed up, clenching his jaw. Anteros thrust him again. “Answer me.”

“I should never have agreed to help a fucking Pavoni,” Notte spat. “No matter the money. Frankie and this fucking fairytale have cursed me! I used to be a good man, I had plans for a future, and now look at me—”

“Explain yourself,” Anteros interrupted, curling his fingers tighter around Notte’s throat. “What fairytale? What do you mean you shouldn’t have agreed to help a Pavoni? Frankie helped you. She absolved your debt.”

Notte paled. “I—that’s what I meant. What you said. I shouldn’t have taken any Pavoni money.” Anteros narrowed his eyes. Something was off. He dropped Notte and Notte stared up at him like a child who’d just been scolded. What a waste of life—not a man, not even a person, just taking up oxygen.

“Tell me the truth,” Anteros said. “What fairytale?”

“I am.” Notte rubbed his neck. “I just got mixed up is all.”

“What fairytale?” Anteros bellowed.

Notte dropped his head between his knees. “I just got mixed up…I just got mixed up…” He kept repeating it over and over again, like a child afraid of a monster.

“If you are lying to me about anything, I will find out. I will come back,” Anteros declared. Staring at the man on the floor, he clenched his fists, deciding to deal with the problem once and for all. A man who would give up such a beautiful, smart, and rare daughter to death deserved to die. Frankie flashed into his mind, though, and he unclenched. With a sigh Anteros said, “You are lucky I gave the girl my word, otherwise you would be dead at my feet.”

* * *

Anteros stared out the tinted windows of his town car up at Notte’s house. Frankie and this fucking fairytale have cursed me! That’s what he had said; Anteros hadn’t misheard him. He’d said Frankie and the fairytale had cursed him.

The screen dividing him and his driver parted. “To Lucio’s?” Nikolai asked.

“Yes,” Anteros replied, still staring up the hill at the small house. “But we have one stop to make first.” Anteros told Nikolai where to go, and the car pulled away from the curb. Dragging his attention from the house and Notte’s odd proclamation, Anteros thought back to the previous night.

He vividly remembered the way Frankie looked up at him, bright blue eyes big and leery—and why wouldn’t she be? He thought back to the room—no, closet—he’d just been in, filled with small wrinkled photographs like wallpaper. Anteros knew she’d been thrown into the deep end, but he had no idea how shallow her world had been before.

She was twenty. When he was twenty, he’d seen the world, seen bloodshed, was climbing the ranks, only a decade away from being the boss of the most dangerous and formidable criminal organization in the world. That room made him wonder.

It was one thing to be a virgin, but Frankie appeared to have come from a world of complete naivety.

With an exhale, he ran his fingers through his hair.

Suddenly it made sense to him why she’d traded herself.

She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

The car slowed down outside a construction site. Snow was falling gently, making the industrial bank softer. The black partition slowly lowered and Nikolai’s golden mane appeared. “We’re here, Boss.” The partition lifted back up and a few seconds later, Nikolai opened the door. Putting one foot first, Anteros stepped out onto the snow-covered ground.

He adjusted the lapels of his wool pea coat and nodded to Nikolai. “Be back in an hour.” Turning, Anteros faced the skeleton building. Steel beams and wood outlined what it would soon become. Tarp clung to the open sections as wind whipped it back and forth, and a razor-wire fence wrapped around the entire thing to keep people out.

An hour was merciful.

No one would question the screams because there was no one there to question them; it was an underdeveloped area. The sound of hammering, the sound of a drill—that was all very common. By the time the construction crew came tomorrow, the body would be cut up, poured into cement, and ready to disappear into the next wave of gentrification.

But not before Anteros made a point out of him.

Taking out a key, Anteros bypassed the razor wire and came upon the skeleton. When Anteros entered the room, the sound of the door echoing in the empty space had Arlo shooting his head up. Pale light streamed into the dank, barren construction site and Anteros's shadow was briefly emboldened before the door shut behind him with a harsh snick. Gray darkness enveloped them.

Arlo looked like shit. After the beating Anteros gave him the day before, he was near death. His eye looked like it was out of its socket. His entire face was black and blue except for red drainage in the most garish of spots. His nose was swollen and jagged.

“Boss?” Arlo’s shaky voice echoed. Anteros's Ferragamos clicked against the concrete in response, the loafers shining in the darkness. Arlo’s head shot to both sides as if trying to locate the source of the sound. Next to Arlo a table with a cordless screwdriver had been set up, along with pliers and a hammer, just as Anteros had requested.

Anteros picked up the screwdriver and Arlo snapped his head to the side. His eyes adjusted to the dark and widened at the sight.

“No, please, Boss.”

Anteros turned on the screwdriver. “When a tree is about to fall, do you think it wastes time bargaining with the wind?”

“What—” Anteros drove the screwdriver into Arlo’s thigh and the question was cut short by the sound of his scream. When fifty minutes had passed, Anteros's watch sounded. He pushed his sleeve back, the face of his watch bloody like red rain droplets on a windshield. Setting the pliers on the table, he returned to Arlo.

His head lobbed, drifting in and out of consciousness. Blood pooled around his feet, reflecting the inky sheen of the dark room. His entire left arm was out of commission, obvious by the way it hung dead, the hushed tap tap tap of its blood draining into the bigger pool.

Anteros grabbed Arlo’s chin, forcing him to look into his eyes. Arlo whimpered at the feel of Anteros’s fingers digging into his toothless mouth. “You are almost finished.” Relief washed over Arlo’s features. Anteros pulled out his knife, and relief bled from Arlo’s body even quicker.

Death. He could see the word in Arlo’s eyes. Anteros kept his grip tight on Arlo’s chin as his other hand stashed the knife momentarily in his waistband. With the same hand, he undid Arlo’s waistband. Relief transformed into fear and dismay as Anteros grabbed Arlo’s cock. His eyes begged and pleaded as realization twisted inside him like the knife no longer promised to do.

Anteros reached back for the knife and with slow certainty, sliced his cock off. Arlo’s scream was sharp and agonizing until it wasn’t. He passed out, but he did not die. He would die as slowly or as quickly as the blood drained from his body.

With disgust, Anteros took the now dismembered cock and shoved it into Arlo’s mouth.

* * *

When Anteros arrived at Lucio’s home, councilmember Dario “The Cuck” De Luca was reading a newspaper in the foyer, sun streaming across the sepia-toned paper in slats. Upon seeing Anteros, he folded his paper and stood. Dario was dressed in the usual three-piece suit, scowl ever present beneath his goatee. His hair was peppered with gray, wrinkles of disdain lining his olive-toned skin. The Cuck was father to Emilio Alessio De Luca, but also Gabriella De Luca, the halfwit he’d sent to tend to Frankie.

The nurse came out and upon seeing the two men, immediately got flustered. Clearly Dario had been waiting to see Lucio, but custom permitted Anteros the first visit. She tugged her collar and looked to the floor. Smiling acidly, Dario sat back down.

“It’s not like I’m a busy man,” he muttered. Flipping the newspaper page, Dario eyed Anteros’s hands, where there was still a bit of Arlo’s blood he had yet to clean off. “Busy day, I see.”

“A nosebleed,” Anteros replied, following the nurse into Lucio’s room. Anteros would not mourn Arlo and he did not feel badly in the slightest for his actions, but he didn’t need The Cuck sticking his nose in business that didn’t concern him.

When Anteros entered the ornate red and gold room, Lucio was sitting up in bed, which meant it was a good day. Still, the man’s eyes were glassy and far off.

“Leave us,” Anteros said to the nurse and Lucio’s guard. Head bowed, the nurse backed away. The guard hemmed and hawed as usual, but still left. Anteros sat next to Lucio and took his hand. Immediately he began informing Lucio of the goings on, the way he did every week. Lucio barely blinked, bright blue eyes staring out a big window covered in sheer drapes. They blew with an eerie unseen breeze.

Letting go of Lucio’s hand, Anteros moved on to the real reason for the visit.

“Lucio,” Anteros lowered his voice. “Do you know anything about Francesca Notte?” He looked over to the doors, double-checking that the nurse was good and gone. Slowly, Lucio turned to look at Anteros and stared straight at him. His eyes were the famous Pavoni color: a crystal, cornflower color, like the sky liquefied.

Anteros thought to Frankie, to her beautiful blue eyes, and to the famous fairytale every Pavoni learned from birth.

“Yes?” Anteros prompted. “Do you know about Francesca Notte? Or,” Anteros lowered his voice further, “Francesca Pavoni?” Lucio blinked and turned back to the window. Anteros cursed and stood up, running a hand through his hair. He would see to Antonio Notte, that was certain, for making him feel and act like a fool. For a moment, Anteros had given in to the same insanity as the soldiers. Anteros lightly placed his hand on Lucio’s shoulder, then turned to leave.

As the butler was handing him his coat to leave, Dario walked up. With the paper folded underneath his arm, he said, “I heard you inquiring about the Pavoni family.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Anteros growled. Anteros afforded him the respect a council member demanded—his hands were tied in that regard—but eavesdropping? The man was practically asking to inexplicably die in his sleep.

“Do you want to know what I know? Or I should I just continue on my way…” Dario trailed off, acting as if there was more to tell. Anteros hastily gestured for him to continue. “There were…rumors.” Dario paused, waiting for Anteros’s reaction.

“Rumors?” Anteros raised his eyebrow incredulously.

“Urban legend, a tale of a princess, stuff that gets passed around to the soldiers. There is no merit to them.” The way he spoke, it was obvious he believed there was at least little truth to it.

Anteros scowled. This was what Dario had stopped him for? “The Pavoni Princess? Everyone and their mother knows that story.”

“There are rumors…” Dario trailed off, shrugging coyly.

“What rumors?” Anteros growled. Dario was obviously drawing this out.

“Lucio Senior and Valeria had a fifth daughter, Isabella,” Dario continued.

“I would know that,” Anteros replied quickly. Maybe a little too quickly. Wouldn’t he? When Lucio Pavoni Senior had married Valeria Marchesi, they had borne only four children: Lucia, Lucio, Cesar, and Emilio. That was it. Anteros would know if the ones who started the Family had birthed a fifth child.

“Valeria never wanted the risk this life brings for her family,” Dario continued with annoying serenity. “And supposedly Lucio Senior honored her wishes with the fifth child. No one knows what happened to her. Most say she is dead, but rumor has it she bore a child, and that child carried her name.” Anteros suddenly felt hot. What was Frankie’s mother’s name?

“How could nobody know of her?” Anteros asked. “Of the child?”

“Exactly. These are old wives’ tales of a long-lost princess that would ascend the throne as…” He gave Anteros a long, calculating look. “As now the blood is muddy.” Anteros returned Dario’s gaze with a steely stare. Dario was not exactly clean himself. Ignoring the fact that he had simply married into the De Luca line, he was part of the famous Sofia De Luca scandal. They called him “The Cuck” for a reason.

“If you find the leadership distasteful, you’re always welcome to leave.” Anteros flipped his wool coat, allowing the gesture to expose the metal of his gun to the light. De Luca looked at it then smiled sourly.

“I’m loyal to the Pavonis until the end.” With that, Dario walked into the bedroom of the still official patriarch, Lucio Pavoni. Anteros watched his steps, waiting until he had rounded the corner.

I’m loyal to the Pavonis until the end. Anteros ground his jaw. That was what he feared.

* * *

Nikolai waited at the curb of Lucio’s townhouse with the door already open. When Anteros slid onto the leather of the seat, Nikolai asked, “To the warehouse?” He was to meet with Emilio and Rhys that day but everything with Frankie had been so distracting. They could wait a little longer.

“Home.” Anteros ran a hand through his hair. “Quickly.” Nikolai’s raised brow was subtle as he closed the partition. During the ride home, Anteros hardly noticed the cityscape, so consumed was he with thoughts of Frankie. He had allowed it to go on too long, the push and pull.

He hadn’t taken her since the first night, but she’d left an imprint on him. She’d utterly marked his mind and not having her was driving him to madness. She possessed him, and not possessing her was sending him over the edge. He needed an exorcism.

When Nikolai pulled up, he told him to stay in the car. It would only take a minute. He wondered if she knew the entire time—knew what she was doing to him. If it was a game to her, the way she twisted his mind and corrupted his life. If that was what she had planned when she’d traded her life for her father’s.

She wasn’t in her bedroom and wasn’t in his, which only left one place for her to be. He advanced through the penthouse.

The fireplace was glowing, crackling like the fire inside him. She was curled up beside it, a blanket over her legs, a book in her hands. The bright light reflected against her golden skin and her lashes fell across the clear blue of her eyes. Anteros walked over to her, his footfalls landing like violent thuds.

He stepped to her, gripping her chin and pulling her attention to his so fiercely that the muscles in her neck stretched and cabled. Her breath quickened and so did her blinks, but he continued to stare into her eyes, a blue so bright, so penetrating they looked crystal. There were very few people he’d ever come across with that eye color.

“Who are you?” Anteros barked. “Why are you here? Don’t lie to me.” Frankie dropped the book she was reading. Blanket now askew, a red glow shadowed the subtle peaks and valleys of her face.

“Are you serious?” Her voice was breathless, the breathlessness of disbelief, as if her lungs were working overtime to understand. “I’m here because of you.”

“Tell me your name,” he demanded.

“What?”

“Tell. Me. Your. Name.”

“Frankie.”

He gripped her chin tighter, the skin whitening beneath his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me your full name.”

“Francesca. Valeria. Notte. You. Psychopath.” She paused then said, “Admittedly, the last part is new.”

“Valeria?” Anteros dropped her chin and couldn’t help the widening of his eyes. As in Valeria Marchesi, of the original mafia family? The family that Lucio Senior had married into and then cut the crown off of in one bloody and decisive night? Anteros grabbed her shoulders, pulling her from the chair.

“Who are you?” he asked. It was madness to think her the Pavoni Princess, but he felt himself succumbing to insanity.

“Who are you?” she countered. “I’m Frankie. I’ve been Frankie.” She shrugged him off. “Weirdo.”

“Who was your mother?” Anteros pressed.

“Valeria Notte,” she replied. A part of him relaxed. That was different from the story, then. Dario had said the fifth daughter was named Isabella. He knew it was ridiculous to indulge this insanity, but he had to press. Had to know.

“Her maiden name,” Anteros clarified.

“I…” Frankie trailed off, her face freezing. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he hissed.

“She died when I was young and Papa doesn’t talk about her.” Frankie pushed him, eyes filling with tears. “God, why are you doing this? Is this some kind of new torture? Remind me how little I know of my mother to make me cry? Why must you torment me?”

“You’ve done nothing but torment me,” he growled.

“I’ve done nothing but torment you?” she repeated, eyes growing wider. “What alternate universe are you living in? And how do I wormhole over?” At her sarcasm, Anteros drew her to him. She gasped as he snaked his arm around her waist, crushing her body to his.

“You tempt me,” he declared.

She fisted her fingers, eyes flashing to his. “You’re delusional.”

“I don’t know why you won’t just give in,” he thundered. “I know you want to.”

“I do not.” She fisted against his chest, trying to push away.

“So if I felt here—” his hand grazed between her thighs “—it wouldn’t be wet? Wanting? Ready?”

“If you’re so sure then just take me.” Her words were spat like venom from a snake. “Just do it. Just take me. You’ve never cared what I want.” She gripped his lapels.

“Is that what you think? Or what you tell yourself?” He thrust her against the wall. She stood on her tiptoes, feet dancing on the floor as she struggled to find ground while he held her in the air. His eyes caught the painting behind her, an oil of Paris. He’d been there plenty of times, and had purchased the piece from a local artist on one of his more recent trips. His mind flashed to the wrinkly magazine cutout of Paris he’d seen on her wall.

“I don’t understand why you don’t.” Frankie looked away. Her eyes flashed to his briefly, angrily, filled with heat, burning anguish. Anteros frowned but dropped her completely with a harsh growl. He stalked to the other side of the room, feeling the need for distance as much as his next breath. What the fuck was he doing? He’d meant to come in and only ask her the questions about her lineage, to get to the bottom of what was really going on with the Pavoni Princess. Never in a million years would he have imagined the Pavoni Princess rumor could have any truth to it. It would be like finding out there was a mermaid living and breathing, but some things just weren’t adding up.

He couldn’t focus.

She drove him mad.

Any time he was close to her, she had the ability to coil chaos inside of him, drive lust like a railroad spike through his brain. He focused on the decor in his library instead. It spanned all three floors, with a spiral staircase connecting the balconies that housed the different levels of books. The library was a mix of modern and antique, with intricate carved molding but clean and simple colors.

There were a few accent items, like the chair, and the rug; those were a brilliant, cornflower blue, so bright it was clear. The blanket she’d been using to warm herself, it too was composed of such intricately woven strands of blue it looked like a brilliant galaxy of stardust.

Still with his back to her, Anteros loosened his tie, giving her his patience. The silky gray material of his tie slid through his fingers as he tugged it off his neck. He placed the tie on the custom wingback chair then turned from the blue fabric to her. Leaning with his forearms on the high back, he studied her.

A pink blush crept up from her neck and spread to her cheeks. She bit her lip, eyes stuttering from the floor to the ceiling to the door and back again.

Slowly he walked back to her, as if compelled. He clasped her chin, dragging her attention to him. Sliding his thumb between her lips, he gently pulled the bottom one down, exposing her white teeth. She was growing anxious; he could see it by the way her breasts heaved up and down with heated breaths. For a moment he regretted giving her the choice to choose her clothes that day—the tight cream-colored sweater she wore teased him.

Anteros grasped her and pushed her against the bookshelves. He pressed a knee between her thighs, pushed his chest against hers, and gathered her hands in his, pulling them above her. Gliding his nose along her skin, from the nape of her neck, down to the vee in her shirt, and back up again, he inhaled her. So sweet, so spicy, utterly Frankie. It was maddening.

“I thought I told you not to lie,” he whispered against her jugular.

“I—I—” she stuttered. “I didn’t. I really don’t understand why you don’t.” At her response, Anteros hoisted his thigh up, pushing hard against her sex. Frankie gasped. That gasp, even more than the way her sex completely melted against him, fucking tore him apart. It was the first sign that she was giving in.

“Should I take you hard, then?” Anteros thrust against her, pressing her against the wall so Frankie would feel every hard pack in his body. “Or soft?” He lessened his assault and snaked his hands through her hair. Grasping her skull, he brought her face to his, taking her in a slow kiss. Her hair was like silk, her face so small in his hands.

Frankie sucked him back, tonguing him feverishly against his slow, leisurely kisses. Still, her now free arms wouldn’t move. They splayed behind her body, pressing hard against the wall as if for dear life. Frustration churned in his gut.

Breaking the contact, he whispered against her lips, “Should we go fast?” Her eyes widened as he crushed his lips against hers, putting actions to words. Anteros worked his lips quickly down her neck and his hands stretched and tore her shirt open to reveal the tops of her small, delicate breasts. Then he paused. Palms resting lightly on her skin, he looked at her.

Like everything else about her, Frankie’s breasts were teasing. A small blush crept from the delicate curves, spreading from her neck to the beautiful arch of her cheeks. He wanted to tear her to the floor and ravish her.

But that wasn’t what this was about.

“Or slow?” He calmed his actions, bending down to kiss her curves leisurely. Frankie’s quick pants turned into sighs and her hands snaked around his neck. The feel of Frankie around him was a victory that lit up his entire body. Anteros rumbled, low in his chest, something sounding like approval. Something felt so fucking right about her arms around him. A voice whispered that he would destroy anything, break anyone just to feel that.

And so Anteros quickly destroyed that thought, getting back to the task at hand.

“Should I fuck you gently,” he asked, kissing his way back up to her mouth. “Or with passion?” His hands grasped her ass and he lifted her to him. Frankie’s legs tightened around his waist. She groaned into his mouth as he ground his cock against her center.

As Frankie started fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, Anteros asked, “Which way would best erase the doubt in your mind, mio cuore?” He hadn’t meant to say the term of endearment, but it had just slipped out. Luckily Anteros was sure Frankie didn’t know much, if any, Italian. “Which way would best confirm I am the monster of the story?” He dropped her then, and she fell to the hard library floor.

Frankie looked down, chocolate hair shadowing her face. She didn’t try to cover herself and in that moment, Anteros nearly bent down to pick her back up. She looked so demure, enthralling. Then the next few words she spoke reminded him exactly why he didn’t. Her voice was quiet, determined.

“I…” She swallowed. “I don’t need any confirmation. I know you’re the monster.” Her eyes flashed to his, hatred burning bright. She had a reddish blush on her face, one he’d put there. The strawberry tint crept down past her cheeks, onto her chest, and he knew it crept farther down. She looked spent. He’d marked her in some way. Even if her mind wouldn’t let him, her body would do it for her.

“If you’re so sure, Frankie,” Anteros replied. “Then I won’t bother trying to persuade you. After today, you can be sure of that.”

* * *

Anteros could still taste her on his tongue, like salt and something else. Something delicious, nearly indescribable. Something that melted like ice cream but was thick and sweet like chocolate. Something entirely Frankie. It made him want to skip meals, skip drinks, to keep that taste on his tongue a little while longer.

It made him want to taste her everywhere. His thoughts drifted to what she tasted like between her legs…

“Mr. Drago?” Rhys asked, drawing his attention back to the present. “The media has been given the story and the senator is expected to resign in a few days.” Anteros nodded, barely paying attention. He’d left her on the library floor, heading straight to his home office where Rhys and Emilio were waiting, but all he could think about was Frankie. That exorcism had failed completely; if anything, he’d just opened the door for more demons.

“What have you each heard about the Pavoni Princess?” he asked, completely changing topic.

“What?” Rhys asked, confusion spanning his face in wrinkles. “What is the Pavoni Princess?”

“What have you heard?” Anteros probed, eyes wandering to Emilio.

“Have you been hanging around the soldiers?” Emilio laughed. Upon seeing Anteros’s face, he sobered. “It’s a myth. The story goes that somewhere there’s a princess continuing the Pavoni line. It’s a bedtime story they told themselves after the Blood War to feel better about the fact that nearly all the Pavonis died.”

Glowering, Anteros stood up and walked around his desk, tapping the wood in rhythm. Nothing Emilio had said was news to him, but Dario’s version had sparked something. He’d never heard a version that involved a fifth sister and a child. It was intriguing. It was…

It was all nonsense.

All lies.

Anteros clenched his fist, releasing a sigh. “Never mind.” Still his mind was foggy. It was a unique feeling—a fucking annoying feeling. His mind had never been foggy before. He knew exactly what was causing it, too.

Almost as if on cue, Rhys spoke. “Since you still haven’t done anything with the slave, does that mean you want to pursue Africa?”

Anteros slid into his chair and faced the window. It was so dark outside the sky appeared inky. Minutes passed in silence as thoughts dissolved into raw feeling inside him. The idea of giving Frankie up was repulsive. Returning Frankie to Notte had felt like he was tearing a part of himself away, but he’d tried because it was necessary.

Giving her to some asshole in Africa?

Not a chance.

“The slave is off the table,” Anteros replied. A few more hours passed while they finished up discussing business. Rhys didn’t bring up Africa again but Anteros never stopped thinking about it. Frankie brought him nothing but trouble. Anteros was known for his single-minded focus on business, for his ruthlessness and cunning. With her, he had none of those. Why was he keeping her around? Giving her up was the right call, whether she went to Africa or the street.

Even knowing that, he couldn’t do it.

When Emilio and Rhys left, it was nearing the middle of the night. Still, Anteros pressed the call button for Nikolai. Minutes later, his curls appeared, bent deferentially in the doorway.

“Boss?” Nikolai asked.

“I have a special task for you,” Anteros said. “There are rumors about a Pavoni Princess. I need you to find out if there is any merit to them. I suggest you start with Antonio Notte. He had some ideas on the matter.”

“Yes, Boss.” Nikolai nodded then shut the door. When it clicked, Anteros stared at the thick wood, mind still on the slave sleeping in his bed downstairs.

Nine

Out on the patio overlooking the Hudson River, I had a friend. Gabby and I sat drinking hot chocolate, laughing, and for a moment, my life felt normal. For a moment, I could forget the way I’d met her. Her name was really Gabriella, but she told me to call her Gabby. She was the girl with brilliant blonde hair and warm brown eyes who’d shown me kindness the night Arlo had tried to rape me, the girl with bruises to rival my own.

That night she’d told me she’d never had any girlfriends before—never had any friends at all. Sound familiar? Then she’d trailed off, chocolate eyes betraying the first sense of disharmony since showing up like my own fairy godmother. She’d smiled, turned to me, and said, “But now I do. We’re friends, right?”

She looked so young then, eyes big and wide as if looking to me for saving. I could practically see the fourteen-year-old child bride still trapped in her body. I regarded her now, as she poured her mug of cocoa. Her hands trembled slightly though the rest of her was calm, and I knew the tremble wasn’t from the cold.

After what had happened with the Beast in the library, I had a feeling I was in desperate need of friends now more than ever. The icy cold way he’d spoken to me after I’d called him a monster was tattooed in my brain. If you’re so sure, Frankie, then I won’t bother trying to persuade you. After today, you can be sure of that.

I shivered, his words affecting me still.

“You should wear a jacket,” Gabby said, pulling me out of the past.

“You sound like him,” I commented insolently. “Telling me what to do.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “That wasn’t my intention.” I exhaled, feeling badly. It wasn’t fair of me to talk harshly to Gabby because she had no defenses. It was like hitting a turtle without a shell. Before I could apologize, she asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“The first time we met,” I replied, lying a bit. Gabby sat next to me on the balcony, nose reddened by the winter cold. When she’d first shown up, I’d been sitting on the bed, having just nearly been raped, in a tattered periwinkle dress that earlier in the night I’d compared to a fairytale.

This isn’t a fairytale, Frankie. I shook my head at the words that popped into my head, taking a sip of hot chocolate. Still, memories continued to run through my head like a movie on projection. So much happened in the short thirty minutes Gabby had come to treat me.

I’d found a comrade in arms in Gabby, in her bruises, and in the lies she told to survive. There wasn’t cowardice in her dishonesty, there was honor in it. Lies were the only way she’d survived four years as a child bride, and she taught me that I could survive that way too. It wasn’t the type of lying you do when you cheat on a test. Gabby showed me lies would be my armor. Soon I would lie so much, I wouldn’t know who I was. If the real Frankie died, he could never get to me. I looked at Gabby, wondering who she had been four years ago, and shivered again—maybe because of the cold, but probably not.

Gabby watched me shiver as if she wanted to say something, but instead asked, “Can you keep a secret?”

I raised a brow. “Even if I couldn’t, who am I going to tell? The Beast?” As if we shared so much. “Picture that.”

“Good point.” Gabby scooted closer to me on the patio. “I’m pregnant.”

I raised a brow. “Is that good news?” I imagined the Beast’s baby inside of me. Just the thought of it had me tightening the grip on my dove gray sweater.

“You asked me the other day why I didn’t run. I think I will run now.” Gabby touched her stomach. When she’d come to me I’d wondered why she didn’t just run away. I had Papa to think about, but Gabby? Why didn’t she just flee?

“It was nice to know you, Gabby,” I said. “Even for a little while.”

“I’m not leaving just yet, but still, before I go, you need to know—there are cameras.” She reached for the pitcher of hot chocolate again. “They all have them.” I froze. So he could see me, right now? He could see me all the time? I thought about everything I’d ever done and dismay washed over me. I was never alone.

“Don’t worry.” Gabby touched my arm upon seeing my face. “There aren’t any cameras out here. There is one in your room. It faces the bed, because of course it does right?” She laughed. “Once you know what to look for you’ll see them everywhere. They look like shiny black bugs.”

“So he heard everything we talked about? When you came to visit me the first night?” We’d talked about such private things. I know it’s ridiculous to expect privacy, but she’d let me in on such a huge secret. She’d told me how Gabriella was what the men called her but Gabby was her true name. With fairies and other mythological creatures, the only way to kill them was by learning their true name. It was a closely guarded secret, and when she’d told me her name, I’d felt as though she had let me in on hers. Maybe it was dumb, but I felt privileged. Why would she—

“They don’t have sound,” Gabby said. Oh.

“Where is it located?” I asked.

“The painting.” I nodded again, trying to stymie the nausea creeping over me. I remembered how Gabby had looked at the painting and it made sense. I loved that painting. Much like most of the Beast’s paintings, it was abstract. Many nights I couldn’t sleep and I stared at that painting. The longer I stared, the more the haphazard and aimless strokes took form.

Of course it was tainted.

I hadn’t read the journal in a few days, but that first time, the time Nikolai commented, I had hidden it under the mattress. Had the Beast seen? How could he not have?

Nausea twisted in my gut.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Gabby said. “Don’t worry about the cameras. Really. There are much worse things to worry about.” She added the last bit quietly, almost as an afterthought.

“We’re all out of hot chocolate,” I said numbly, standing to my feet. “I’ll go get more.” Gabby gripped my arm, a fierce, frightened look coming over her features.

“You should really let your boy do that,” she said.

My features twisted. “My boy?”

“The blond one.”

“Nikolai?” I asked. “I can get my own hot chocolate, thanks.” I tried to shrug her off but she wouldn’t let go. “Let me go, Gabby.” I twisted in her hold and eventually she released me, reluctance written across her face as if she knew she couldn’t stop me. Her voice drifted over my shoulder as I walked through the patio doors.

“He won’t be happy…” It was haunted, and it nearly stopped me, but I shook my head and kept going.

* * *

In the kitchen, I hunted for packs of hot chocolate. I tore open the pantry, rifling through shelves, but couldn’t find anything. Figured. The cocoa did taste like that ridiculously expensive kind, the kind made on a stove—the kind that’s literally melted chocolate. Of course there wasn’t going to be some packet of dyed sugar lying around. I sighed, setting the pitcher down.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Jesus!” I jumped at the voice, spinning around to see Nikolai.

“You need to go back to the patio.” His face was stern, the scar twisted with a scowl. Blond curls fell over his harsh glare.

“I’m getting hot chocolate.” I raised the pitcher up for emphasis.

“Let me do it.” He reached to grab it from me but I held it from him.

“You and Gabby,” I said. “What the fuck? I can get my own hot chocolate.” I’d gotten, I don’t know, comfy. It sounds weird, because jail is the antithesis of comfort, but Beast had been letting me go to and from the rooms and the library without complaint. I’d settled into a bit of a routine and my fear was starting to subside.

That comfort was a mistake.

My ease was wrong.

I’d forgotten that I was to latch onto the fear and never let it go. Fear was my compass. Without it, I was walking blind.

Nikolai’s frown deepened. “You’re still failing to grasp how things work around here.” It was my turn to frown.

“And how do they work?” I asked, setting the pitcher down. The metal bottom collided with the counter with a resounding clang. Nikolai’s frown momentarily dissipated. He looked scared, eyes widening, gaze flashing up to the second floor. For a moment my gut clenched in fear and I followed his gaze. When I saw nothing, my gut returned to normal.

“Who are you?” I probed. “What do you want from me?”

“I told you I was your friend,” Nikolai whispered.

“No you didn’t,” I hissed, lowering my voice to match. “You said you had secrets too. Hitler had secrets, so did Mussolini, but I wouldn’t consider them friends.”

Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. “You can trust me.”

I scoffed. “How?”

“Has the Beast said anything to you about the journal? Have you been punished?”

I said nothing. Then I remembered what Gabby had just told me. “You could have just told me about the cameras.”

“I wasn’t sure if you could be trusted,” Nikolai replied. “Like I said, you’re not the only one with secrets.”

I folded my arms. Nikolai took the opportunity to reach around me and snatch the pitcher. “I am your friend, Frankie,” he said. “I deleted and have been deleting incriminating videos of you.”

“Why?” I asked. Then seconds later I said, “What incriminating videos?” All I could think of was the journal. Were there other things I’d been doing that would get me in trouble? I scanned through my memories like looking through an old Rolodex.

“I’m going to refill this pitcher. You’re going to go back to the patio.” I opened my mouth to rebut, but Nikolai added, “There are cameras all over this house, Frankie. We’re in a blind spot. He’s up in his office, watching the feed. If you keep pushing this, I won’t be able to erase what he’s already seen. Go back and play your role.” Nikolai took the pitcher and walked over to the stove. The conversation was clearly over, at least on his end, but I stayed for a moment. Then, with a heavy sigh, I walked away.

The entire time I walked back, I felt that I was being watched. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if the Beast just sat somewhere, watching me, like some version of God. I was nearly to the hallway when a clipped British accent drifted down the stairs. I should have ignored it, but then I heard “Arlo”. His name still made my gut clench. The Beast said he’d taken care of him, but why should I trust him? I looked up the stairs. I wasn’t allowed to walk there.

My curiosity and dread got the better of me. Looking behind me to where Nikolai was still in the kitchen, I climbed the stairs. What did Nikolai really know, anyway? It wasn’t like the Beast could see me all the time. He wasn’t really God.

My stupid, naive comfort.

I arrived at a big, wooden door and a voice drifted out. “The council found out about Arlo.”

“And?” The Beast’s annoyed voice drew me closer. I hesitated. If he was already pissed, I definitely didn’t want him catching me.

“His severed cock was shoved into his mouth.” My eyes widened. I should have turned around and run back to the patio but I had to know. Why was he found that way? What happened?

“I still fail to grasp what you’re trying to say,” Beast replied. A man scoffed.

“So it’s pretty fucking obvious why you killed him,” another man spoke, his voice elevated, though not yelling. I recognized that voice—it was one of the assholes, Little O or Big O maybe? “Any fucking idiot with a brain can see the point you were making.” My brows knit together in confusion. I stared at shadows on the hardwood, trying to understand.

“Good. Maybe the next person will think before taking what doesn’t belong to them,” Beast replied. I stilled. What doesn’t belong to them? That night flashed into my brain, when Beast had come into the room after. I had felt his need so clearly, it had been like a tangible entity in the room—the need to mark me, claim me so no one else could. Now here he was saying that he’d proclaimed it to the world.

My gut stirred, my throat went dry, and I swallowed. I knew I should be afraid, but the reason I couldn’t move was not fear.

“The council will be up your ass,” someone said, cutting into my thoughts. Pretty Boy, maybe? I couldn’t be sure.

Beast laughed. “They’d have to get off theirs first.”

“You committed an honor killing over a slave, man. It’s…wrong.” I gasped, then quickly covered my mouth. I couldn’t help it. What was an honor killing and why had Beast done it for me? A part of me screamed out the answer but just as quickly I snuffed that part out.

With my hand over my mouth I waited for more information but it was just silence, complete and utter dead silence. I could only hear the sound of my heart beat. It would have been a good time to tiptoe back, but I waited, wondering if I would discover more.

It was like a drug to me, the knowledge. Like the journal, I craved knowing more.

Then the door flung open. Beast was in the doorway, looking completely unsurprised to see me.

“Hello Frankie.”

* * *

“I was just…” I stuttered. Looking behind him, I could see a room that appeared to be a study. It was huge, as was the theme in the penthouse, with the same floor-to-ceiling windows as the rest of the apartment. There was an imposing desk made of what appeared to be all types of wood. It was beautiful.

Oh and there were the assholes, except for that silent, thin one—he was missing. In his place was a man I’d never seen before, with a shaved head and dark skin. He was different than the others, somehow less threatening. His features weren’t hardened like theirs.

“Getting something from the kitchen,” I added, realizing I hadn’t finished my sentence. In one single motion Beast slammed the door shut behind him and grabbed me by the hair. I gasped, reaching for his hands to alleviate the pressure. He pulled me away and I stumbled, my feet slipping against the floor.

He dragged me down the stairs and I was sure my neck would crack with the way he pulled and tugged. My heels dragged against the carpet, against the hardwood, until we reached his bedroom. He pushed open the door to his bedroom and threw me on the bed.

I gasped, gathering air in big, heaving breaths that left my lungs feeling raw. It was all I could do to focus on my breathing, to focus on returning my body to homeostasis. When I felt a bit more steady, I glanced up, and his look, the feral intensity with which he regarded me, shook me back to instability.

“I think you’re getting entirely too comfortable here,” he said and then walked away. He shut the door behind him. I heard a clicking noise I assumed was a lock. I thought to Gabby sitting on the patio. What would happen to her baby? Would she have to go home to the man who beat her? I felt horrible, like an idiot. Both she and Nikolai had warned me.

You’re still failing to grasp how things work around here.

Nikolai’s words blasted through me then ricocheted around my body. It was in that moment that I should’ve come back to reality. I should’ve realized what both he and Gabby had been trying to warn me about: the Beast was not a man. No matter how many times he let me go to the library, he would still be a Beast.

But I still didn’t see it.

I was sure I was done hoping.

But I still wasn’t broken.

Sitting on the bed, what Gabby said came to mind. I searched around for cameras. She’d said they would look like little black bugs. In the corner where the ceiling and the wall joined, I spotted one. Now that I knew what to look for, I couldn’t miss it. It was just as she said, like a shiny black bug. A round beetle. I quickly looked away, so as not to draw attention to my staring. Casually I snooped, trying to find more.

On the nightstand one stuck to a statue, as if leering at me. I rubbed my arms for warmth. They probably were leering at me. I looked away, trying not to focus on the cameras, trying to act normal. I wondered if Gabby had been sent home, back to her shitty husband, the one that gave her all those bruises.

I wondered if she’d run away already.

Then the door opened and all my thoughts dissolved. Beast stalked over to me, his aura dark, sucking up the shadows as he came to me.

“Do you remember what I said to you, Frankie?” he asked, our shins colliding. I shook my head, lying. I remembered perfectly what he’d said to me. I would never forget it. He’d told me he’d stop trying to persuade me that he wasn’t a monster.

I wasn’t aware he’d been trying in the first place.

He grinned and said, “Too bad.”

* * *

Pinned beneath the Beast, his hands worked black magic on me. His lips seared curses into my skin. I moaned. It was getting a lot harder not to moan.

“Come for me,” he growled.

I might not have a choice in the matter, yet through my delirium, I found some self-control and whispered, “No.”

He pulled my head back by the hair and snarled, “Come for me.”

“Even if you manage to make me orgasm, I will never come for you,” I spat. The Beast reeled. He blinked. I took advantage of his stupor and yanked my head back. Strands of hair ripped from my head, but I crawled away. I didn’t want to look at him, afraid I would go back.

I cowered by the bedpost, holding on to my shreds of freedom, unable to stop the onslaught of shame. God, I couldn’t believe I’d given in like that. I made it so easy for him. All he had to do was kiss me and I unraveled like a sweater with a loose thread. I let him undress me. I let him touch me.

No, I did more than that.

I wanted it. I craved it. I demanded it, even. Each time he comes at me I try a new defense, and each time, his offense obliterates me. This time, in the beginning, I’d hardened myself like stone, told myself he would not break through my rocks. The problem with rock, though, is that it’s nothing against the force of water. He was fluid, dynamic, he adapted to anything.

I hate him.

I want him like nothing I’ve ever wanted before.

I gripped the bedpost for dear life, afraid he would come for me and I would jump for him as well. Instead I heard him stand up and put on his pants. I sighed a little bit internally.

Big mistake. Next thing I knew I was being hoisted up by my arms. He tied each of my arms to hooks in the ceiling. I could hardly react to the fact that he had freaking hooks in the ceiling because my feet were tied to the bedposts next. Like a starfish, I hung. A naked starfish. I stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Was he serious? Of course he was serious. He was a psychopath.

He stared at me for a minute, admiring his work, then left. That’s right, he left, and I was once again reminded why I couldn’t give in. One minute I was feeling like it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to let my guard down and feel safe with this Beast, and the next I was hanging naked from the ceiling.

I screamed and screamed. He couldn’t just leave me like this. What if I needed to go the bathroom?

I screamed until I felt my throat would bleed.

A moment later the Beast returned.

He eyed me and said, “Quiet.” He spoke with cool ease that enraged me, as though I was being ridiculous and blowing this out of proportion. I glared in response. As the Beast turned to leave, I opened my mouth and shrieked. When he turned around, he was calm and cold. My skin broke out in shivers. The calm, cool way he approached had me trying to pull myself inward. He slowly walked up to me, bluegreen eyes penetrating. I put my chin to my chest but he grabbed it, jerking it with one movement so I was forced to look at him.

“Hush.” His grip was strong and painful. Anger rippled through me. Pure, hot loathing. Hush? He was telling me to hush? Fuck you, this is the natural response to being hung naked from the ceiling. In an act that could only be described as brief insanity, I spat in his face. His cheek quirked upward, but only slightly, then he dropped my chin. He wiped the spit away, uncaring. He was weird like that. I couldn’t figure out what set him off. I spat at him, tried to murder him, clawed his face up, and he didn’t care. Crawl away from him in bed, however, and spend the night chained up like a circus freak.

“I like you all tied up.” I glared at him. “It suits you,” Beast continued. “You’ve got a little too much fight.” He thumbed my lower lip. God, how I wanted to take that thumb and bite it off. Instead I held still, letting him thumb my lip. He moved his caress up my jaw and around my neck. My entire body froze.

“Shh…” he whispered against my ear, as though I was some kind of frightened doe. He took me by the mouth and kissed me. I wanted to tear away, but of course the restraints prevented that. I tried to keep my lips shut but he was too powerful. His soft lips overcame me, forcing them open.

His tongue entered me, simultaneously rough and knowing. I was fighting, but he was winning.

And then he stopped.

Stepped back.

And walked away.

I was panting, fear and lust twisting inside my chest and coming out in furious breaths. My head swiveled to the left and right as if I would suddenly find the key to my freedom. Each step he took, the feeling of doom magnified. How long was I going to stay up here? All night? Longer?

“Wait! Wait!” I attempted to stop his retreating figure. “What if I have to pee?” I asked him just as he was disappearing through the door.

He paused and said, “Then it will be better for you.” My face contorted in confusion at his response. Wait what? What would be better for me? His hand touched the doorknob and primal terror seized me.

“No!” I jerked on the restraints. “I will never stop screaming. If you leave me here, I will scream until my throat bleeds, asshole.” I immediately regretted saying it. It fell out of my mouth because he was an asshole—but I didn’t want to anger him even more, I just wanted to be released. Beast paused with his hand on the knob and my breath hitched. He turned around.

“Never?” he queried. I shook my head vehemently. “Well, what are we to do about that?” I breathed a sigh of relief when he walked to the dresser. He was going to get the key, thank God. In the same instant, my relief twisted and transmogrified into horror.

“No!” I screeched, words getting lost in the fear and hate and indignation. The Beast held up a gag, but it wasn’t a normal gag. I’d seen the type before, briefly in porn. It had a hole where the ball gag should be. I didn’t want to imagine what would go inside the empty hole.

“I’ll be good,” I pleaded. My voice sounded soft, so unlike me.

“So be good,” the Beast said sternly. I thrashed and fought as he placed the gag over my mouth, but it was useless. He clamped the thing tightly around my skull. When he was done, he lightly caressed the pad of his finger along my jaw. “That’s a good look on you, Frankie.” I was fuming. My jaw hurt, not just from the gag, but from biting down against it in anger. My chest rose and fell in furious breaths, and yet, I was powerless.

Beast backed away and began undoing his belt. He dropped his pants just enough to spring forth his cock. I was so certain he was going to make me suck it this time. I thought I’d been certain in the kitchen, but now I knew. The gag he’d placed on my mouth prevented me from fighting back. The circular metal trapped my mouth into perfect blow-job formation. I was helpless.

And I just knew he was going to do it—he was going to make me suck him.

But then he did something that surprised me.

Something that was even worse.

He stepped back and started stroking himself. Gaze fixed on me, he stayed about a foot away, rough fingers curled around his length. Going up and down in a continuous, enthralling motion, I was helpless to do anything but watch, feeling my control slipping. I got lost in the way his callused fingers stroked the smooth, wet skin.

If I closed my eyes I could pretend he wasn’t there.

I should close my eyes.

God, I need to close my fucking eyes.

There wasn’t anything forcing me to watch him, and he knew that. He knew that I was powerless to watch him, not because I was strung up on the wall, but because I wanted to look. By hanging me up and gagging me, he’d made my walls crumble so that instead of forcing himself inside me, he’d forced me to acknowledge the desires inside myself. He’d made it easy to fall into his hell.

And hell looked a lot like heaven.

It was like all those little voices I’d been fighting since the beginning, the ones that told me I shouldn’t want this, that I should be afraid, that I should run, were silenced. All I could hear was that one dark voice, the one that said it was okay to want it. The voice was emboldened in my weak state. The walls I put up were gone and my body was responding, eager to see him. Somewhere, one of the silenced voices was saying This is what he wants. It was saying I should stop, I should close my eyes, because this was more dangerous than everything else he’d done.

But I didn’t care.

I was becoming hot and demanding. I stared at his hand stroking up and down, rapt, feeling hungry. The movement was mesmerizing and drugging.

He didn’t moan.

He didn’t groan.

He didn’t even come.

It was like he didn’t even enjoy it. I knew why, too—because he was doing this for me, to make me fall and cave. Despite the small part of myself crying not to give in, it worked. I was getting lost. I hazarded a glance up at him, and it was an absolute mistake—but one that would save me for a little while, at least. My eyes locked with his bluegreen ones, and for a moment I was trapped inside his head. It was like tumbling down a tunnel of razorblades and chewing on broken glass.

I quickly closed my lids.

Cut off from the drug, my senses came rushing back. I realized how much I’d almost given away, how far I’d let myself go. I refused to open my eyes; I didn’t trust myself. I held my eyes shut tight as if he was about to come over there and pry them open lid by lid. Instead I heard the shuffle of clothing, the sound of a zipper. Next, Beast ripped the bindings from the ceiling. With my eyes still shut, I fell to the bed in sweet comfort. My muscles ached in places I didn’t even know existed. All I wanted was to disappear in the sheets.

I kept my eyes closed and listened as the door clicked shut. When I was sure he was gone, I still didn’t open my eyes. In the blackness I didn’t have to acknowledge what had just happened.

The worst part wasn’t that I’d caved, it wasn’t that I’d lost a bit of myself. The worst part had been the way we’d locked eyes. For that brief second, he’d not been inside me, but I inside him. No amount of showers or therapy would ever erase that.

Ten

She was trying so hard to stay under control. Brows slowly pulling inward, mouth just parting, releasing the most tempting sigh, still she wouldn’t just give in.

“Give in, Frankie,” Anteros said, surprised at the edge in his voice. Anteros was not used to losing. He’d never lost. In his thirty-odd years of life, he’d never once lost—it was how he’d survived so long. In the mafia, you lose, you die. He’d started out thinking Frankie would eventually lose, would give in to him, but the edge in his voice was the kind he’d heard thousands of times before. It was the kind that came just before a man gave into his fate.

Hardening her gaze, she breathed heavily and said, “Never.” He upped the intensity on the vibrator, but all that served to do was to cause her to bite her bottom lip until blood welled beneath the surface like water in a balloon. She gripped the sheets, not even trying to get away. She was resigned to her torture, willing to take whatever he gave her, but never willing to give anything back.

No matter how hard her cunt seized against it, now matter how her clit throbbed and pulsed, she kept her morbid stare, as if her insides were stone. He could make her body come, but her mind stayed stone. Yesterday there had been a brief glimmer. While she’d been strung up on the wall, she’d let go and nearly come to him, but it had faded—just like all the other brief glimmers with her. Her self-control was all at once a powerful aphrodisiac and completely maddening.

Abruptly he turned the device off, throwing it to the floor. It was a rare device he’d ordered just for her, shaped like a rose. It slammed against the hardwood, splitting in two. He stood up and walked toward the door. When he looked back at her, she was blinking, as if coming out of a fog.

“We have company coming,” he said.

“Company?” Frankie blanched. Anteros couldn’t blame her. The last time he’d had company, it had ended with her bloody and nearly despoiled on the floor of a bathroom.

“You will like this company,” he explained. “Gabriella and her husband, Giovani.” A split-second frown covered her face but it was replaced just as quickly with a tepid smile. He had half a mind to ask her what had upset her, but the impulse left him. Who cared? Women were fickle, even more so when it came to their friends.

“You have an hour to ready yourself.” He left her, slamming the door shut behind him. Now he’d been driven out of his own fucking bedroom. A month ago he wouldn’t have questioned throwing a woman out of his room—no, a month ago he wouldn’t have had a woman in his bedroom.

Now he was stalking angrily away from the place. Like a fool. Because the woman in his bed refused to warm it.

With an hour left before company arrived and Frankie hijacking his bedroom, he went to his office. He shut the door behind him. Night fell quickly with winter and as it was nearly halfway through December, it was already full dark outside despite it only being the evening. In New York City, that hardly mattered. It was never dark, at least not completely. In his office, a few electronics glowed in different spots and the city lights twinkled through his floor-to-ceiling windows.

Feet padding against the hardwood floor, he made a stop at the bar. He hadn’t bothered to grab his shirt off the floor, so he walked bare-chested. He selected the elegantly studded Baccarat glass bottle and poured himself a glass of Rémy Martin Louis XIII.

Anteros raised the glass, looking into the muddled honey depths for a moment before taking a large swig. His phone buzzed, drawing his attention. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the words.

Pretty Boy: New shipment rdy for The Institute. U coming?

Shit, Anteros thought, putting the phone away. He had completely forgotten what day it was. Once upon a time Anteros had declared he would be the one to approve new women before they were shipped to The Institute. Without him down there to approve it, the shipment wouldn’t go through, yet here he was about to host a dinner party.

A fucking dinner party.

He told himself keeping the De Lucas happy was good for business, but he’d never given a shit about De Lucas before. He took another sip of honey-colored cognac, staring out at the city. He should just cancel the fucking dinner and go down to the docks. It was more important than the De Lucas. Nothing came before business, before being Boss. Yet as Anteros took another sip, focusing on the way light refracted off the buildings outside, he wondered what Frankie would look like tonight, if she would wear her hair down or if she would wear it up, exposing her slender neck. Finding out was suddenly more important than approving some shipment to The Institute.

* * *

Anteros reached for his champagne glass, which was nearing empty, and made a motion with his hand. Nikolai walked forward with the Dom Perignon and poured, gold liquid streaming into the crystal. Anteros swallowed. The sound of silverware clinked against the fine china.

Giovani and Gabriella De Luca were seated on the opposite side of his modern glass table. Normally Anteros sat at the head of the table, but for the sake of balance, he sat next to Frankie. Wax dripped down the thin sides of the tapers and onto the radiant silver holders, a reminder of how long the painfully stiff dinner had already lasted. Above them, a massive crystal chandelier hung. Swarovski crystals dangled from it like hundreds of glass tears and light refracted off them, illumining the room with shimmering light.

Anteros opened his mouth to attempt conversation for the fifth time when his thigh buzzed. Head down, he pulled out his phone.

Pretty Boy: Where r u?

Anteros quickly stuffed the phone back into his pocket and turned back to the table. “Do you not enjoy lamb, Gabriella?” he asked, inclining his head toward the rack of lamb cooked to perfection. Gabriella was sitting stock still, having touched nothing save the napkin she put in her lap. Gabriella’s eyes shot to Giovani, who paused from his carnage to grunt in her direction.

She smiled at Anteros and reached a hand out to her plate; at the same time, Giovani reached his own paw out and slapped hers away. Chagrined, Gabriella placed her hands back in her lap. With mouth in the middle of chewing, Giovani took a gulp of wine and turned to Gabriella.

“You eat when I tell you to eat, you know that.”

Gabriella nodded her head gracefully and said to Anteros, “It looks delicious, thank you.”

Anteros tightened his grip on his knife. Giovani wasn’t insulting him. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he even cared. It wasn’t the first time he’d eaten with Giovani, nor was it the first time Anteros had eaten with someone like Giovani. It wasn’t rare for the men he had dinner with to control their women completely. There had been times where women were forced to sit on their knees and eat scraps. No, it wasn’t unusual at all.

What was unusual was Anteros.

Taking another bite of the artfully spiced lamb, Anteros tried to stomach the thought that he should be down at the docks, not having dinner. Why the fuck was he even doing this? He wasn’t Lucio. He never entertained De Lucas. Anteros adjusted his tie and shot a glance at Frankie. She’d barely touched her meal, instead staring hard at Gabriella. With a sigh, Anteros put both his utensils down.

“Eat,” Anteros said.

“I’m not very hungry,” Frankie stated simply. Giovani paused his ravaging to look up, waiting to see how “the Beast” would respond to that act of insolence.

“You will eat anyway,” Anteros growled. Lightly, he set his fork down and snaked his hand under the table, gripping her thigh until the pressure transformed into pain. Releasing a small yip of pain, Frankie lifted her own fork up and ate with robotic motion. Giovani returned to his food.

His phone buzzed again and he set his fork down. Keeping his hand tight on Frankie, he used his free hand to read the text.

Big O: Everthin k?

Anteros looked up at the table. Everyone’s head was down and they were picking at their food or pushing it around the plate. It was as if they were in the mourning. The only exception was Giovani, scarfing his food obliviously. Anteros looked back at the text, his finger hovering over the reply button. Frustrated, he shoved his phone back in his pocket.

Giovani sat up, removing the napkin from his lap to rub his greasy mouth. He leaned back, hand on his stomach, and waved a hand at Gabriella. “You may eat.” As she was about to lift up a fork he added, “Wait!” She froze. Though no muscle in her body moved, her eyes strained against the sides of her sockets, waiting to see what he would do.

Giovani took the plate from her and scraped her food onto his own plate. Both Frankie and Anteros paused their meal to watch the action. When it was over, half of her food was on his plate.

“Gotta keep her thin, you know?” He winked at Anteros then waved a hand to Gabriella. “Continue.”

As Giovani was about to dig into his second portion, Anteros said, “Her lamb is cold now. Maybe you’d prefer a fresher slice.”

“’S fine,” Giovani grunted, shoveling food into his mouth. Frankie’s disapproval was like a heater set right next to his body. He shouldn’t care.

He didn’t care.

Following Giovani’s lead, Anteros took a large bite of lamb and followed it with an even bigger swallow of champagne. The dinner passed in the same pressure-filled hush until all plates were cleared. It was customary for Anteros to have cigars with Giovani after dinner, but Anteros was having a hard time with custom. He really wanted to tell the guy to fuck off. He’d made his bed, though, so he had to lie in it. Now that he had invited Giovani into his home, he couldn’t be too uncivil. Giovani might be trivial, but he was a De Luca, and custom permitted him a fucking cigar.

So, while they all left the dining room, Anteros told Giovani to wait for him upstairs. Giovani nodded and ascended the stairs, taking Gabriella with him. Frankie followed, probably assuming she was to go with Gabriella, but Anteros grabbed her arm. He pushed her against the wall so they were hidden by the shadows of the hallway.

“You look very lovely today, Frankie.” Brushing an open palm over her shoulder, he felt her dress. It was a little rough against his skin, as if he could feel each shimmer of the pale gold fabric. The dress appeared painted to her skin—deep inside her breast, high on one shoulder, low on the other. The fabric was uneven along her skin, as if the painter himself had stuttered at her beauty. If you looked closely, there were little cracks in the flowers where her skin peeked through. Shimmery gold florets adorned one shoulder but not the other.

“Did you like the lamb?” One hand fell to her waist, fingering the material lightly between his thumb and forefinger. There the shimmery gold material ended and met stark, creamy white. Like freshly fallen snow, it fell to the ground without any wrinkle.

“It was very…” Her unflinchingly clear gaze, bright even in the shadows, settled on him. “Biblical.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along to the chef.” He pulled her other arm up to his mouth. The forearm was decorated in the same gold florets as the other shoulder and her bust, but her wrist was bare. He turned the arm around, kissing her gently on her skin. She’d worn her hair down, and it fell in apparently effortless curls he couldn’t wait to ruin.

Just as his mouth met her skin, his phone buzzed. And then it buzzed again. And again. Frankie looked to his pocket, where the thing vibrated with purpose.

“Do you need to get that?” she asked.

“It’s not important,” he replied, finishing the kiss against her wrist as if to prove the point. Frankie watched him, her eyebrows drawing together. He could feel her pulse quicken against the flesh of her wrist, like a thrum thrum thrum against his lips.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked, her question caught on a breath. He gently lowered her wrist, keeping his gaze locked on hers the entire time. He opened his mouth to respond, when another’s voice superseded his.

“Insolent girl!” Giovani yelled. Both Frankie and Anteros's heads snapped to the sound of Giovani’s voice, just in time to see him push Gabriella down the stairs.

Well, that was certainly going to ruin the mood.

* * *

Anteros watched Gabriella fall down his white staircase. Luckily she only fell down the stairs—as it was an open floor plan so she could have fallen off and to the ground. He sighed, dropping Frankie's arm completely.

Giovani was impatient and short-tempered. The De Lucas had picked him to marry Gabriella because he fit certain standards. One, he was the right class. Two, he was willing to take the woman’s last name and continue on the De Luca line.

No one said they were very high standards.

In all other respects, Giovani was worthless. Unkempt. Ugly. Stupid. Angry. If he were a dog, he would have been put down. If his last name weren’t De Luca, Anteros would have been the one to put him down.

Frankie pushed past Anteros and rushed to the bottom of the stairs, falling to Gabriella’s side. With much less haste, Anteros joined her. Frankie immediately began fussing. She checked Gabriella’s extremities, looking for injury. The bottom white part of Frankie's dress had begun to wrinkle, he noted absently.

“Call 911, assholes!” Frankie screamed. Giovani’s eyes raged at the insult, but one look from Anteros put him in his place. Frankie turned her attention back to Gabriella. “Gabby—Gabriella—You here? What hurts?” Gabriella moaned in response. Anteros took out his phone to dial the house physician. In the same instant, his phone buzzed with a text.

Crazy A: Where the fuck are you?

He felt the muscles in his forehead pull together. Closing the text, he instead dialed the physician. When the physician confirmed, he put his phone back and focused on the situation at hand. Frankie’s hands hovered over her friend’s body, apparently afraid to touch her.

Smart.

Anteros had seen one too many broken necks turned paralysis. Once again, Anteros was impressed by Frankie. Giovani had finally finished his walk down the stairs and eyed Frankie as if she was a nuisance.

“I’ll just have my boy put her in the car,” Giovani said. “I’m sorry if she scratched anything on the way down.” Frankie’s eyes flashed up at him, burning so bright with anger they nearly ignited. With a deep, scorching look, she turned her attention back to Gabriella. She placed her hand on Gabriella’s stomach and bent over to whisper something in her ear. Anteros frowned at the placement of her hand.

“Come here, Frankie,” Anteros said, holding his palm out for her.

“Go fuck yourself,” she growled, keeping her lips beside Gabriella’s ear.

Anteros exhaled and turned to Giovani. “Leave us,” he said.

“Excuse me?” Giovani said, not even trying to hide his indignation. Anteros dropped all pretenses of civility then. With his cold, cruel stare, he warned Giovani not to mistake thinking that because he wore a suit now, or because he lived in a nice apartment, and hosted dinner parties, that made him a gentleman.

He was not a gentleman. He was a beast, and beasts were hungry for blood. Beasts liked to rip people apart.

Giovani swallowed and turned to leave. He hesitated at the door, turning back. Anteros kept his stare on him the entire time and when their eyes locked, Giovani quickly scurried out.

“Do you think you can talk to me like that?” Anteros asked, turning to Frankie. “Do you want to end up like your friend?”

Frankie's eyes flared, though she kept her gaze on Gabriella. Anteros could see the vitriol just beneath the surface, but to her credit, it stayed there. “No,” she said, but it was quiet, barely audible.

“I didn’t hear you.” He flicked a piece of lint off his suit. “Maybe you should stand and respond to my face, like a civilized person.” Frankie stood, reluctance pouring from every muscle in her body. Her jaw was clenched as she walked toward him.

When she was within his reach, he gripped her by both arms, pulling her close. Surprise and fear flashed across her face. “Don’t forget who I am, Frankie, who you are,” he hissed.

“I’d sooner forget how to breathe,” she replied just as quickly and with as much vehemence. They shared a heated look then he released his grasp. She walked back to Gabriella, resuming her position of fussing and fretting. She gently stroked her hand over Gabriella’s blonde streaks. Her brow knit in concentration as she stared at her friend’s unconscious body. A few minutes must have passed as he watched her. Since laying down the rules, it had appeared she’d been trying to obey. With all things Frankie, though, appearances were never as they seemed. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, if anything, it intrigued him more.

At last he said, “The night is over, Frankie.”

Her head shot up, indignant. “You expect me to just leave her?”

“I’ve called a doctor.” Her shoulders loosened slightly, but the tightness in her features remained. Her hands guarded Gabriella like a mother lion. “Come,” he added, gesturing with his hand.

“But what if Giovani returns?” she asked, not moving an inch. Anteros exhaled again, the sound rocky with impatience as it came through his chest. His pocket buzzed and he hastily pulled the thing out, ready to either turn it off or chuck it against the wall.

Crazy A: If you don’t pull a Houdini and get down here now the shipment will be late.

Anteros read the message once, then again, then a third time. His hand hovered over the power button. Fuck. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the dark locks. He couldn’t keep doing this.

He glanced at Frankie.

He was all kinds of messed up.

Nothing made sense. He still didn’t know why he’d even had this fucking dinner. Everything in his mind screamed to shut it down and leave, but his finger kept hovering over the power button instead of texting back, as he should. Never in his life had he ignored his Wolves like he’d done that night.

For a fucking dinner party. Lucio used to throw them to keep the De Lucas happy, but that had never been his game. He stared at the words on the screen, as if reading it would resolve all he’d just ruined. He glanced back up at Frankie and froze.

She was gazing at him fiercely, unafraid and determined. Her dark, elegantly shaped brows arched deep over her sea glass eyes, challenging him but also utterly captivating. He shook his head, breaking the spell, and looked back down. He was about to text Crazy A that he was on his way when Frankie asked, “What if he returns?”

Her question drew him back up again. Frankie’s eyes were wide in expectation, earnestly waiting for a response. He turned the phone off without responding and stuffed it back into his pocket.

“He’s her husband,” Anteros said simply. Her body recoiled like a snake about to strike.

“He’s a bastard,” she said.

“Actually, no.” Anteros leaned against an exposed brick column, folding his arms. “He comes from very good Italian stock.” Frankie rolled her eyes, returning her attention to Gabriella. She kept her hands on her abdomen, glare fierce.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Anteros growled. “Come now.”

“You just did,” she said, face turned away. In one motion Anteros grabbed her by the loose curls spilling down behind her head. She grappled with him as she was forced to stand. Yelping and screeching, feet sliding on the floor, he pulled her out of the room. He kept his hold tight on her hair all the way down the hall and to his room. When he reached the room, he let go, flinging her in the direction of his bed.

She rubbed her head, glaring at him. “I thought I knew the depths of your evil,” she spat. “But an injured woman is down there, alone—” She flung her hand out toward the door just as Anteros advanced and overtook her, causing her to stumble back on the mattress.

“You will tell me right now, Frankie,” he said. “Is Gabriella pregnant?”

She sputtered. “W-what?”

“Is Gabriella pregnant?” The spot Frankie had placed her hand on had aroused his suspicion. She had fiercely protected Gabriella’s abdomen, as if there was something inside to lose.

For a split second, Frankie’s face gave her away, but then she responded, “With how fucking stupid you’re acting, I’d think you’re the one who fell down some stairs.”

“I warn you.” Anteros leaned down, caging her with his arms. “You will not be punished for what you said because you are grieving. Say anything else and you’ll wish you were Gabriella.” Anteros could see the swell of her throat as she took in his threat. He pushed off the mattress and left the room, shutting the door behind him to deal with the mess.

When Anteros arrived back in the room, Giovani was leaning over Gabriella. Knees bent, he fingered a strand of her blonde hair, the locks falling through his pudgy fingers like water until they landed on her semi-conscious cheeks.

“Step away from Gabriella,” Anteros uttered, voice like the wintery wind outside. Giovani blinked his glare, clearly surprised, but also upset.

“She is my wife,” he sputtered.

“As if I needed a reminder.” He let the world know the same way a rancher branded cattle. Anteros beckoned Giovani over with a wave of his hand. Reluctantly, Giovani stood and followed. Anteros led him through the house until he reached the door to the cigar den.

“I could use a good cigar,” Giovani said, relief in his voice.

“You and me both,” Anteros replied, though he didn’t open the door. Turning, Anteros leaned against the wood and studied Giovani. Hands in pockets, Giovani waited for Anteros. You could see the relation between him and Councilman Sal De Luca. They were both fat, balding, and apparently unable to work a razor on their chin.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Anteros stated. “Badly.”

“What?” Giovani’s eyes widened.

“You ruined my evening with your domestic shit.” Grabbing Giovani’s collar, he thrust him against the wall.

“You-you…” Giovani sputtered, looking from Anteros to the floor to the ceiling, back to Anteros. “You have to ask The Council first.”

“I don’t think I’ll do that.” Anteros readied his arm then swung it so it collided perfectly with Giovani’s nose.

“But I’m a De Luca! My uncle is a councilman! This isn’t how things are done, Beast,” Giovani sputtered blood. Anteros readied another punch, this time going for the gut. Giovani gasped and groaned.

“It is now.” Anteros cracked Giovani across the jaw, the sound like lightning breaking a branch. Giovani’s head fell, and Anteros paused to roll up his sleeves, buttoning them at his elbow.

“My uncle will have your head,” Giovani said, still sideways. Anteros paused for a moment, and Giovani gave him a sidelong glance. Narrowing his eyes, Anteros cracked Giovani underneath the jaw.

He kept up, making expert hits to the jaw, eyes, nose, and ribs. He had intended to only punch Giovani a few times, as a small discipline. Then his fist collided with his jaw and it was like a well was released. A dam burst. His internal storm flowed freely through his fists.

“There were rumors that the Beast was going soft,” Giovani sputtered through punches. “Rumors that a slave had turned his cold blood warm. I didn’t believe them, but now…” He laughed, showing bloody red teeth. “Your punches are like my mother’s kisses at Christmas.”

Anteros gripped Giovani by the collar of his suit, lifted him up a few inches, and then slammed his head against the wooden floor, producing a sickening crack.

“Nikolai?” Anteros called as he walked back out into the main room of the penthouse. He unbuttoned the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them back down once more, and called out again.

“Yes, Boss?” Nikolai appeared seconds later.

“Mr. and Mrs. De Luca will need a ride home,” he replied, rolling down the last of his sleeve. It hardly mattered, though, as the fabric was completely drenched with blood.

Nikolai nodded. “Yes, Boss.”

* * *

Sometime later, after the maid had been informed that a special cleaning was needed, Anteros crept down the hall. He was outside the door to his bedroom, ready to go inside, when he pulled out his phone.

He dialed.

“Are you bleeding?” Crazy A’s harsh brogue came on at once. “Dead on the ground? You’d have to be to have any leg to stand on right now.”

“Something came up,” Anteros replied. His hand rested on the knob, brass with elegant detail. “You have permission to approve the order.”

“Well that’s fucking great but the order is already late,” Crazy A snapped. “You know what that means.” Anteros traced his finger along the intricate lines of the doorknob, barely listening to what Crazy A was saying. He knew what it meant, had known the entire night—he just couldn’t find it in him to care. What it meant was The Institute would be very displeased.

If The Institute was displeased, they could revoke his charter, a charter they relied on to make their earnings. The Institute was about fifty percent of their business, drugs about twenty-five, guns maybe fifteen, and ten percent truly legitimate business. He fingered the knob, feeling the cool brass against his palm, wondering if he was going crazy.

“What the fuck happened?” Crazy A demanded. “Are you okay? Do you need backup?” Again, Anteros didn’t respond. He turned the knob, gently pushing the door open. “You can’t just disappear on us and not give us a reason,” Crazy A continued.

“Actually, I can.” He hung up, pushing the door open all the way. Light streamed over the bed and onto Frankie's body. He stood for a moment in the doorway, watching her chest rise and fall.

It was another night where she had fallen asleep in his bed. Another night where he should wake her up and make her go to her own room.

Instead he shut the door and walked to the bed. He didn’t bother taking off his clothes, didn’t even bother taking off the blood-stained shirt. He simply took off his belt and shoes and got into bed.

With an arm behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the shadows. It was like alarm bells were going off in his head, but all he heard was music.

“Did you tell him?” Frankie’s voice ghosted through the silence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anteros replied.

There was a brief pause, and then she asked, “Really?” Frankie sounded less annoyed, more defeated. “You’re going to make me say it?” Anteros didn’t respond. “Fine.” She sighed. “Did you tell Giovani that Gabriella is pregnant?”

The rustle of the bed was heard in the dark as Anteros rolled to the other side. His back now faced Frankie. “Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Eleven

“Giovani is dead.”

“What?” I asked, jumping to my feet. The book I had in my lap fell with a final-sounding thunk. “What do you mean he’s dead?” I stared wide-eyed at the Beast, waiting for him to explain further. He gave me a skeptical glare.

“I didn’t know you two were so close,” he replied. Of course we weren’t close. I hated Giovani almost as much as I hated the man staring curiously at me. It had only been a few days since that fateful dinner and life had continued on as soul-sucking perdition for me. With one exception: I saw Gabby in the park.

One brief moment where she’d confessed her intent.

One brief moment of utter terror when Nikolai had stopped the car and told me to get out because Gabby was waiting for me. I hadn’t planned any of it. I’d refused to get out—terrified Beast would know, but then I saw her and was compelled.

“I…” Stuttering, memories took hold of my tongue. It had felt so strange when my feet hit the pavement. My eyes had left Gabby, wandering around the snowy city, breathing in icy freedom.

Then she’d confessed her intent and my eyes snapped back.

She wanted to murder Giovani

I didn’t think she would do it. It was Gabby after all. Gabby shook when she poured hot chocolate—she wouldn’t murder her husband. I’d only thought she was angry, hurt, understandably abject; because what she’d suggested to me was suicide.

“I—” Quickly I swallowed the memory and returned my gaze to Beast. “I’m not. I’m just surprised is all. Is she okay?” The memories of our encounter continued to wash over me as Beast stepped closer. He reached his hand out and ran a thumb across my lower lip, studying my reaction.

I reeled at the contact, my body swaying slightly. Following the dinner, Beast had been uncharacteristically absent. There’d been no attempts at forced orgasms, no confusing gentleness. He’d been completely gone. I hadn’t expected to miss him, it was what I’d been wishing for since arriving, but there was an ache in my chest. A deep pang existed there, like my heart had been beaten and was constantly sore from the fight.

Now going from zero to Beast had it hammering.

“It’s unfortunate,” Beast said, tugging at my lip. He dipped his thumb into my mouth and I closed my eyes, trying to resist. The ache in my heart was soothed, but in its place was an urgent need. I’d been so foolish, getting used to a life without this constant pressure.

He brushed the rough pad of his thumb against my tongue. I tried to do nothing, but my mouth watered anyway.

“I’m only informing you as Gabriella will most likely be killed,” he murmured. “Or sold into slavery.”

“What?” I asked. At least that did it. The spell was broken and, as if water had been thrown on my body, I jumped back. “But why?” I turned my head to the fireplace in the library, watching the flames crackle. It was just so cruel. She had somehow figured out a way to kill Giovani and now she was to be killed?

“She killed her husband,” Beast replied.

“But she didn’t do it,” I lied quickly, snapping my attention back to his. Beast gave me a tired look, reaching for the book I’d dropped to the ground.

“House of the Dead?” He turned the book over to look at the cover. “Fyodor Dostoyevski. Didn’t I see you reading Crime and Punishment earlier in the week? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there was a theme here.”

“What about a trial?” I asked, ignoring him.

“There will be one,” he said. “But she will lose.”

“She needs a lawyer.” I snatched the book from him.

“It’s not that kind of trial.”

“But…” I desperately tried to grasp for some way to save her. I had to. It just wasn’t fair. She’d been married to a complete horror since she was a child, lived under the torment of a man who pushed her down the stairs because he didn’t like her tone, and now she was going to either be killed or sold into slavery because she’d freed herself?

No fucking way.

“Enough, Frankie. I informed you out of courtesy. I don’t want to hear any more.” He hardened his eyes, like stone trapped under a glacial chill. I swallowed. Anything I said now would end badly, but I just had to, for Gabby.

I stepped up to Beast, fingers curling on his forearm. His suit jacket felt like cream. He looked at my hand then back to me. For a moment, I thought he would do something because his eyes drilled into mine with that savage, carnal fury that had been absent the past few days. Then he shucked me off and left the room.

* * *

I tried to go back to reading, but couldn’t. It was late, nearly past twelve in the morning, and my eyelids were heavy. Barely two days had passed since dinner with Gabby and Giovani, and now she was going to be killed—not to mention Gabby had been arrested. Arrested.

When Nikolai forced our meet at Gramercy Park she told me the story, the story that would lead to Giovani’s death. I remembered how her bruises looked fresh beneath the expensive foundation, and that was because they were. Instead of being left to recover after being pushed down a flight of stairs, left to mourn the loss of her child, Giovani took to beating her.

So she’d snapped.

After almost five years of constant abuse she fled the house.

Screaming.

And he had her arrested.

My fingers curled around the book until my knuckles turned white. Death was too good for a man like Giovani. My mind went back to the day at the park when she’d intimated her plan to kill him. There’d been a brief moment when she’d smiled. Gabby had told me about some cop she met while at the precinct and she was like a girl with a crush, not someone about to commit murder. But then Giovani had come back into focus, as he always would, and her smile had fallen.

“I don’t want you going back to that man,” I said. “You can still run. I’ll help you!”

“Don’t worry.” Gabby kissed me on the cheek, readying to leave. “It will give you wrinkles, and then what would the Beast want with you? Or never mind. Worry lots.”

The words had been so out of character, so blasé. I should have known then. That day in the park I saw it in her eyes. Her baby was murdered the moment her body hit the floor and that was the final straw. Gone was her unassuming, timid aspect and in its place was a deadly determination. She wasn’t going to stop.

Apparently she hadn’t.

With a sigh, I set the book down. I rubbed a palm to my forehead and looked from the fireplace to the door. If I was going to help Gabby this time, I had to do it on my own.

I left the library and walked out, past the open room and to the foot of the stairs. Up there was his study. It wasn’t the first time I’d ascended; the first being the day I’d truly met Nikolai. It was also what led to me being strung up on a fucking wall for a day. My hands gripped the banister, shaking. This is for Gabby, I said to myself.

I climbed the stairs slowly, my mind screaming for me to turn around. When my foot met the floor, I took a deep breath and walked down the hall. Surprisingly, the door was open. He was seated behind his desk, head down. For a moment, I just watched him work.

My fingers went to my lip, the one he’d touched. I wondered if this was where he’d been the past two days, right under my nose, not even bothering to leave the penthouse. It was his house after all.

“Can I at least be there?” I blurted. “When it happens? She was kind to me.”

“What purpose would that serve?” He didn’t even look up from his desk.

“Moral support,” I lied.

“She won’t be present.” Still he didn’t look up.

I desperately searched inside myself for another reason, but came up empty. “Please?” He paused his work and looked up at me. Our eyes locked and for a moment, hope blossomed inside of me. Then his gaze shifted over my shoulder. I glanced behind me and, surprised, I saw that Nikolai had appeared behind me.

“Frankie has lost her way,” Beast said. “Help her find it.” His head returned to his work just as Nikolai nodded and gently took hold of my elbow, steering me out of the Beast’s study.

I still couldn’t figure Nikolai out. He’d been the sole reason I was able to visit Gabby in the park. I mean, he fucking orchestrated it! As far as I knew, he’d not said a word to Beast about our clandestine meeting, yet he wasn’t like Gabby. He wasn’t talking to me; we weren’t sharing our most intimate selves. All I knew about Nikolai was his first name and that he had “secrets”—not particularly comforting.

Maybe one of those secrets was that his name wasn’t Nikolai; so maybe I didn’t know anything at all.

“Will you be needing anything else?” Nikolai asked as we reached my room. It was nearing one in the morning, so I was most likely just going to hop into bed. I shook my head and he left.

The morning after that terrible dinner I’d awoken in Beast’s bed and he was gone. Nikolai brought me back to the white room and ever since I’d been sleeping in the white room—my room—which was fine. It was how I wanted it anyway. It was a little over two weeks since trading my life to the Beast, December was halfway over, and I realized most of the time I slept in his room.

There were parts of me that had started getting used to his room. They’d gotten used to the way his sheets felt against my skin and how much heavier his comforter was than mine. They’d begun to expect the way his smell wrapped around me even when he wasn’t there. But those weren’t good things. I shouldn’t get used to anything involving the Beast; my mind or body shouldn’t expect or want or need anything from him.

I went over to the bed and sat on the edge, the plush mattress sinking with my weight. I stared out the window, wondering if Gabby was looking out at the same frigid, dark world I was.

Or if she’d already been killed.

I dropped my head, everything feeling heavy, even my eyelids. When I lifted my head, Nikolai was still in the doorway. I’d learned with Nikolai that this meant he was about to tell me something. Any time he hesitated to leave, I was about to get some kind of secret spilled.

“The Beast will leave soon,” Nikolai started. “You will be alone for approximately three and a half hours.” He bowed his head and left. My skin creased as my forehead pulled together. Informing me of the Beast’s whereabouts was a new thing Nikolai had started doing. No matter how many times he did it, though, I was still uncertain.

Still, Nikolai gave me the only times I could read the journal comfortably.

Even though I was practically asleep, I walked over to the corner that was in the blind spot of the cameras. I lifted up the rug, undoing the loose floorboard I’d started using to hide the journal. It was easier than the brick outside. Pulling out the weathered journal, I sat down and started where I left off. I remembered in the last entry Sofia had overheard some terribly shocking news about a Pavoni Princess. The rest of the page had been ripped out though, so I hadn’t been able to read any more about that. Curious, I opened the book to the next page.

Lucio Senior died today. You can feel the tension in the air, like hot, sticky poisoned gas. It’s been twenty years since the death of Valeria Marchesi. She died before me, in childbirth, as women do. I don’t expect the air felt as it does today when she died, though. I hear fast talking, rushed curses. Some of Lucio Senior’s brothers think he has lost his way living in America for so long. They want to split as it used to be: a family in America, a family in Sicily, both autonomous.

Papa believes there will be blood, at least that’s what he says at night when he thinks I’m not listening. Is it wrong that I don’t care? I sneak away while everyone is talking about blood and war and meet Alessio. Now that Lucio is dead and our world is going up in flames, we can stand together in the heat. I love him so much. His kisses are like whiskey, warm and numbing. I used to think we were doomed, that nothing could become of us, but maybe if our world is doomed first, we can be saved.

* * *

It felt like I had only just put the journal away, only just fallen asleep, when I was being jerked awake.

“Get up.”

I rolled over, groggy with sleep, swatting at the voice. The journal was still fresh in my mind, sort of how when you fall asleep studying math you wake up thinking about numbers. I was in Sofia’s world, feeling her hope that she and her love could be together despite their crumbling world. It was interesting, too, that I shared a name—well, a middle name—with someone in her life. It was like seeing a celebrity whose birthday I shared.

“I said get up.” The voice grabbed my arm, pulling me from my warm sleep.

“What’s happening?” I asked as my feet hit the floor, the cold wood waking me up. I rubbed my eyes, adjusting to my new, awake state. The Beast stood in front of me, dressed for the day in an impeccable gray suit. I glanced at the clock: four in the morning. I’d only just fallen asleep two hours ago.

“You’re going to the gallows,” he said. I knew it was either serious or deadly when he didn’t let me dress. The Beast valued appearances above most anything else, and he was rushing me down to the garage in my nighty.

I was shoved into an already running town car, barely having time to register what was happening. By the time I collected my thoughts enough to see where we were, Beast was already telling Nikolai to “keep the car running.”

My bare feet were, unsurprisingly, not great for winter. The snow numbed them immediately, the wet slush sinking under my soles as we ascended steps into a faceless skyscraper. Beast shoved me into the building as I tried to see the cross street.

The Financial District.

Then the doors shut and we were in an elevator. Beast was paying the least attention he had to me since I’d been thrust into his world. He pushed the button, checked his watch, and readjusted his sleeve to cover it. I played the little game I’d invented and also became master of since falling into this world, the one that allowed me to be okay with being wet, cold, and half naked in a building smack dab in the middle of the Financial District in the middle of the night.

A game I liked to call cognitive dissonance.

The elevator door opened on the top floor and he shoved me once more into another room. Five men sat around a big wooden table. The surface shined as if painted with a coat of gold. The seats were all designed Louis XIV style with thick gold molding and plush velvet. Most had their hands folded above the wood, gold rings on their fingers, and menace oozed from them like steam out of a grate. I tugged on the hem of my gown, as if I could pull it past my ass.

The lights were dimmed. It was only us plus Beast’s personal body guard, Tino, who were standing. Tino had appeared out of nowhere like he always did—I wondered if he had taken the stairs. The only sounds came from the outside and even those were hushed.

It felt like I was caught in a Mexican stare-off.

“Do you take us for a fool, boy?” one of them finally asked. He had sharp angular features and short, slicked blond hair that was so gelled it gleamed in the dim light. His goatee was as sharp as his angular features.

“Not right,” another growled. My gaze flicked to his.

“First an unsanctioned kill of a family member and now this? Bringing a slave?” They went from ice-cold silence to thwacking the ice with a hammer. Shards flew in all directions, they were talking so fast. My eyes flashed from one person to the next, trying to learn as much as I could. The person who had just spoken had a slight accent, and though he was dressed well like the rest, his shave was unkempt, his hair balding, and the rings on his fingers only made his fingers look that much pudgier.

He looked a little like Giovani.

“Rumor has it you’re planning something with Emilio,” one said. The one with the sharp goatee shifted.

“I think you’re forgetting your place,” the Giovani lookalike said, rubbing the scruff on his jaw. “Perhaps you think you are Boss.”

“I haven’t changed any ranks,” Beast uttered coolly. “Lucio is still Don and I’m still under him. Emilio is where he’s always been, a soldier.” Beast looked pointedly to the one with a goatee.

“The Beast as boss.” An older-looking one with white hair laughed, as though the very concept was the most amusing thing in the world to him. Beast clenched his jaw and looked away, annoyance on his features, though he didn’t respond.

Everything happened so fast after that. Italian and English flew back and forth and the three men who were talking stood up. One had hands on the table, another looked like he was going to reach for his gun. I barely had time to process anything, but then the one with goatee spoke. Quietly. Deadly.

“I think it’s time we talk to you. Alone.” Beast raised a brow but said no more.

I was escorted out by Tino. I craned my head to see what was going on but was carried around the corner. The last thing I saw was Beast rolling his shoulders back, looking entirely unfazed. Then I heard yelling. More silence followed until I heard Beast’s voice drift out.

“Say that again,” he said in a calm, easy way that gave me shivers. “See what happens.”

“The girl should have been sold to The Institute,” a voice said. “Instead you killed Arlo. Are the rumors true? Are you going soft?” My mouth fell open. They were talking about me. They had to be. I glanced at Tino, looking for any sign in his face. He stared straight ahead into the darkness.

“Arlo’s dead because he tried to take something that didn’t belong to him. Why do you care anyway? He’s a Moretti.” I frowned, soaking in the conversation. With slow, careful steps, I scooted against the wall, trying to get closer to the edge. Tino didn’t appear to notice, and I watched him, waiting for the perfect moment to get a glimpse back inside the room. Just when he sneezed, I shot my head around the corner to see the Giovani lookalike yell, “Giovani was not a Moretti! Giovani was my blood.” My eyes widened at that but I had to dart my head back into place.

“Giovani’s death was not my doing,” Beast replied, his deadly patience giving way to annoyance.

“You’re right.” The voice that spoke was cold, cruel, tinged with bothered arrogance, as if the Beast was demanding the answer to two plus two in a calculus class. “That was Gabriella’s fault,” it continued. My gut filled with ice. Things were not going well.

“She killed her husband,” another spoke. “She will be dealt with.” I cursed myself for not learning all their intonations before being dragged out of the room. I was pretty sure I could tell when the fat, scratchy Giovani relative spoke and I was starting to distinguish the cold, cruel one, but the other three were a complete mystery to me.

“According to the girl out there,” Beast replied, “she did not kill her husband.”

“You expect us to take the word of your slave?” Someone audibly scoffed. I hazarded a glance at Tino and noticed that his eyes were actually drooping—he was tired! Taking advantage, I snuck a peek around the corner.

“No,” Beast growled. “You will take my word.”

“My daughter has always been trouble,” the cruel one spoke. He was the one with a goatee, I noted, and gelled hair. “She is like her mother in that regard. This does not surprise me.” My eyebrows shot past my hairline. Gabriella’s own father was sentencing her to death? I desperately tried to get a better look in the room. My father wasn’t winning any awards, but at least I knew he would never sentence me to death. If he had the choice, he would save me.

“In any case,” Beast continued. “Gabriella De Luca is of no use to us dead.” I perked up; what did Beast mean by that? I craned to get a better listen, but then the door slammed shut. All their faces and voices disappeared and at the same time a hand grasped my shoulder, tugging me back.

“You tryna sneak a peek?” Tino asked, glaring. The slam must have woken him up. He let me go when I didn’t answer and thrust me back against the wall. This time, though, he kept his glare pinned on me. I couldn’t move an inch without him seeing.

What felt like an hour later, Beast emerged. He straightened the lapels on his suit and walked toward me. As we walked to the elevator, I desperately searched his face, trying to drink in anything that might let me know what happened.

Nothing.

His face was blanker than paper. Nikolai was waiting for us on the curb, door open, and snow had started to fall with fury. It was hard to even see the hand at the end of my arm. In nothing but my nightgown, it was freezing. In the few seconds’ walk from the building to the car, my skin turned cherry red and I shivered as the door shut behind us, soaking in the heat from the car. Beast slid into the car, still completely ignoring me. When the car pulled from the curb, I was about to scream.

“What happened?” I asked. “Is Gabby—Gabriella going to be okay?” Beast pulled his phone out, the blue glow creating harsh shadows on his face. It was like I wasn’t even there. What had happened in that room? Questions pressed against my lips, demanding to be set free. I knew if I kept pressing, though, I might never know. Not only that, if I angered him, he might reverse whatever decision he’d made.

It felt like I was holding in a geyser. I eyed him, biting my lip to keep from begging, fisting my fingers. Snowflakes in my hair melted from the heat of the car, tickling down my forehead. In any other position I would have been uncomfortable, but all I could do was focus on him. Suddenly the car jolted to a stop. I pulled my stare from Beast’s face and looked around, noticing we weren’t at the penthouse, though it was hard to see where we were exactly through the flurry outside.

The door opened, snow whipping into the car as if trying to escape its own tormented flurry. I couldn’t even see Nikolai through the white mess.

“Nikolai,” Beast said, stepping out, “be sure Frankie is comfortable,” which was Beast for Frankie, don’t leave the car. Beast got out of the car and walked into the furious blizzard as if it were a summer day. We were at the docks, I finally saw, stopped outside what appeared to be the same warehouse he’d taken me to when I had only just sold my life to him.

I stared out the window, trying to see what was going on, and swallowed when I made them out. Those men I recognized—assholes number 1, 2, 3, and 4. Pretty Boy, as he was called. Big O and Little O. The silent one, Crazy A.

I snapped my head from the window, instead focusing on my warming fingers. Every memory I had that involved those men was bad; I didn’t have any urgent need to make more. Goose bumps formed on my skin.

“Cold, mistress?” Nikolai’s voice carried from the front.

“A little,” I said, staring at my fingers.

“Do you like music?” My gaze flitted to his, unsure of his game. His jade gaze stared back through the rearview mirror, eyes so much older than himself.

“Yes.”

“What would you like to listen to?” I frowned at his question. The car had always been quiet, not even the nameless, obsequious trill of classical music played. It was what I imagined death sounded like.

I used to like all kinds of music. Top 40. Classic rock. Indie. Now? I could barely remember the sound. I slowly shook my head. “Surprise me.” A melancholy, delirious melody engulfed the town car. The vibration was deep in my bones, echoing in my soul. The woman’s voice was rough, like she’d had too much whiskey.

She was asking someone to save her.

From herself.

Suddenly the song shut off and the car went back to static silence. Nikolai stepped out of the car and I brought my open palm up to my cheek, wiping away the hot tear just as the door opposite me opened. Ice-cold air rushed into the car with snowflakes finer than powdered sugar. The Beast slid in.

The car pulled away and even though he’d said nothing, I knew we were headed back to the penthouse.

“Is Gabby going to be okay?” I dared to ask.

He glanced up from the blue light of his phone. “Yes.”

“They believe me?” He blinked then looked back at his phone. I did my best to hide my glee, but I could feel the corners of my mouth twitching, so I grabbed my palm and dug my fingernail into the skin until all I knew was pain.

* * *

By the time we made it back to the penthouse sun was rising. I was so exhausted my eyelids were drooping of their own accord and yawns were arriving every other minute. I had never been so excited to see that fucking white painted door before, or the quilted bed.

Just as I did a swan dive into the sheets, Beast’s low rumble came from the door. “Get dressed, Frankie. You have a funeral to attend.” I groaned, pressing my forehead deeper into the pillows. Distantly I wondered if it was my own funeral. Could exhaustion kill?

“You only have twenty minutes,” he continued. “Maybe you can think about whether or not she was worth it while you’re yawning through her husband’s funeral.” I heard his footfalls disappear and sat up on the bed. In that moment, I felt sad.

So I’d lost a night’s sleep.

Of course she was worth it.

She was worth many nights’ sleep, but he didn’t understand that, and that was tragic.

Thirty minutes later we were filing through wet snow and hoards of people in black. There were no colors visible that day. All the women were either wearing black hats or veils, so it was hard to identify Gabby.

There was some kind of order everyone had to stand in, so I paused, waiting for the Beast. He’d gone to talk to someone. This was my first real introduction into mafia life beyond the Beast and his men. It was pretty in line with what I’d experienced so far. All the men were savage yet well dressed, all their women missing something vital from themselves. I noticed one particular woman behind a veil crying really hard. I frowned, wondering who on earth could miss a toad like Giovani that much. Then I focused harder. Quickly glancing over to where the Beast was still talking, I discreetly walked over to the person.

“How are you doing that?” I whispered.

“What?” Gabby cried through her veil.

“Crying so hard.”

“Onions,” Gabby responded. “I keep rubbing them in my eyes.”

I whistled low. “Jesus.”

“I have a cover to maintain,” she explained. I snorted. When people looked in our direction, I wiped my nose, pretending it was tears. Beast caught my eye and I saw he was finished with whoever had distracted his attention.

I gave Gabby’s hand a squeeze and walked back to my jailor. We took our spots and as a light dusting of snow began to fall, the funeral started. It was actually quite beautiful—not the ceremony, but the way the white snow contrasted with the black garb of the attendees. I found myself staring at how pure it looked, and how dark everyone else looked, thinking it was pretty fitting.

The Beast was the only one with leeway to walk around, and he did. He left my side every few moments to talk with someone else. Halfway through the funeral, my eyes drooped. I was so tired and it was so boring. Maybe that was a terrible thing to say, but I held no sentiment for Giovani De Luca. He was a murderer and a wife beater; he was better off in the ground.

“Frankie Notte?” a man whispered at my side. I look to see who it was, but he added quickly, “Keep looking ahead.” I stared as the priest continued to read from the Bible, feeling hot despite the cold weather.

“My name is Levi, I’m an undercover cop at the 72nd precinct.” I didn’t respond. Gabby had never shared the name of the cop she was crushing on, but I had a gut feeling this Levi was him. I had no idea why he was at the funeral, blowing his cover to me, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like it.

“I helped cover up Giovani’s murder with Gabby,” he continued. Not very well, I thought, my eyes flashing to Gabby, face still invisible under her black veil, and then to Beast, who was still talking with a group of men I didn’t know.

“What do you want?” I hissed.

“It’s not what I want, it’s what you want,” he whispered. “I can help you. I want to help both of you.” In my peripheral I saw Beast walk away from the group of men and make his way back toward me.

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up,” I replied. “Go away.” I didn’t know if Levi did go away since I kept my eyes forward as directed, but he did at least shut the fuck up. The Beast settled next to me, my heart pounding. I focused on the priest, trying to act normal. A minute passed and I let out the breath I was holding.

Then I sucked it back in.

The Beast pulled me closer and my eyes popped open. He pulled me to his chest, covering me with his coat, and then lifted up the back of my dress. My eyes spun frantically in their sockets, wondering if anyone could see what was happening. They were all too busy paying attention to the priest. At least the guy—Levi—wasn’t next to me anymore.

“What are you doing?” I hissed. It was pointless, completely pointless to question the Beast. Why did I still think I had any control?

At least he somewhat hid what he was doing…unlike other times.

His cock was at my bare ass. Was he going to take me now? At a funeral? Hot tears branded my lids. People looked at me with sympathy, just another mourner. If only they knew.

He’d been ignoring me for days and of course now he chose to shower me with attention. It was sick and twisted, just his style. He didn’t enter me with his cock, though. Instead he snaked his hand around and slid his fingers under the lace of my lingerie.

His skin was so hot and that was all I could focus on. While my cheeks were numbed by the cold, his hot hand settled over my naked flesh. I swallowed, waiting. One long glide of his middle finger slowly separated my lips. I clenched, trying to keep his fingers still. That made him laugh.

“We’re at a funeral,” I said, mostly to myself. Just when I was sure I’d reached the bottom of his depravity, I realized he was bottomless.

I would never stop falling.

He chuckled, pulling me closer and entering me at the same time. “I’m bored.”

While the priest lamented a life lost too early, talked about heaven and those who would be lost to hell, the Beast fucked me with his finger. People cried around me, sniffed into handkerchiefs, and he rubbed me until I was slick and wet.

“Don’t act like you give a fuck about Giovani,” he whispered into my ear. “You covered up his murder.”

“Wh-why?” I stuttered against his ministrations. Why had he helped if he’d known I’d been lying the entire time? More importantly, what was I going to have to give up in return? I couldn’t think of much else I had left to give. The Beast didn’t respond, another question that would be left answerless.

“I’m going to make you scream. Here.” He pulled me against him, filling me with another finger.

“No,” I pleaded, but it was to myself, a cry to hold on to my sanity even though with each tweak and motion of his finger, my belly ached to lie back. Give in. Let go.

“Yes,” he growled. I bit my tongue as his thumb rubbed against my clit. I tried to breathe evenly as he slid gently along my folds, up and down, massaging me. I worried that I had become a game, that all he wanted was for me to come for him, and then I would be tossed aside. I had started wondering lately what it would mean to be tossed aside by the Beast. He wasn’t going to kill me, that was clear, so what was he going to do with me? What would happen if he really got bored with me?

It was too much living with the Beast. Worrying about what he would do to me, worrying about keeping my dignity, eventually giving in—my psyche just couldn’t handle it. It also didn’t help that he was actually pretty stellar in bed. Each time my body betrayed me, my mind moved closer to joining my body’s team.

Even here, at a freaking funeral, I couldn’t hold back the flood. As he rubbed me slowly, meticulously, a sigh left my mouth. He wanted me to scream, and I knew he was going to get his wish.

It was a lost cause, a war already decided.

The sparks had caught and I could feel myself going with them.

And when I opened my mouth and the scream finally fell, I fell to the ground as well—no, really, I actually fell. I was so fucking confused as the world shift sideways, my body colliding with the ground. Wet snow tickled my back and neck.

It took me a minute to come back to reality, and when I did, reality had changed. Beast was on top of me, the mourners were screaming.

Bullets were flying.

“What are you doing?” I gasped, staring up at him. His hand held my head, keeping me pressed to the wet, cold ground. His sharp chin was against my forehead as his eyes darted furiously around us.

“Saving your life.”

Twelve

Anteros reached across and brushed a bit of broken glass from Frankie's cheek. She flinched but stilled, and he continued to rub the dirt and debris from her face. She watched him warily.

“Are you all right?” he asked. He pulled back his thumb, hovering above her cheek even though there was nothing left for him to swipe away.

“I didn’t get shot.” She swallowed. “I don’t think…I don’t think anything else hit me.” That wasn’t what he meant, but he wasn’t about to clarify. Instead he nodded and sat back.

Nikolai pulled to a stop at the docks. There would be no mourning today—not that there would have been much for Giovani anyway, but the pretense had been shattered. Anteros ran a hand through his hair. He would meet with the Wolves, who would already have their own ideas as to who’d orchestrated the assault. Rhys too. The Council would want to meet with him, but he would put that off as long as possible.

When Nikolai opened the door, he got out.

“Where are you going?” Frankie gripped his forearm. He stared at her fingers, dusted with dirt, the radiant skin beneath was like a sunflower hidden beneath earth. She crushed the fabric of his suit as he attempted to leave. Her eyes were wide, pleading.

His voice was hoarse when he responded, “Nikolai will take you back to the penthouse.”

“Okay.” Her voice didn’t waver and she looked away. It was the same callous strength he’d come to expect from her over the short time they’d spent together. Anteros expected her to go inside herself, to harden to petrified wood and quickly calcify all that she was so that nothing—especially him—could get to her, but still she didn’t release her hold of his arm. Anteros waited, but Frankie looked gone, her eyes misted. It was like she didn’t even notice him though her fist still clasped his suit.

Anteros knelt, Gucci shoes smashing the snow. He had every intent to rip her arm off him, tell Nikolai to drive away, and go finish business.

Instead he placed his own hand over hers and said, “Come.”

* * *

The discomfort was palpable. The minute Anteros entered the building with Frankie in tow, everyone closed up. His Wolves and Rhys watched silently as Anteros walked through the office. He knew what they were thinking; it was what they had been thinking yesterday at the warehouse, even if Crazy A was the only one to say it aloud.

“Giovani is dead,” Anteros said, addressing the Wolves as snow flurried around them. “The Council is distracted, which means plans for Emilio will go smoother than expected.”

“Is she in the car?” Crazy A asked, interrupting him. “Did you bring her tonight?’

Anteros glared. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Pretty Boy, Little O, and Big O shifted.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Crazy A growled. “Forget The Council, the bitch in that car is going to ruin everything, just like the delivery.” Anteros had been purposely putting space between himself and Frankie for the past few days. It was less than a week before Emilio was to be put in place, and he couldn’t afford any distractions like at the dinner. When she’d shown up at his office, begging for her friend, somehow all of that was forgotten.

“I know what the fuck I’m doing,” Anteros said, turning to walk back to the car.

Anteros took a seat behind his desk, noting that Crazy A was absent. Not showing up to a meeting without warning was something none of the Wolves had ever done before. It was a huge disrespect.

“Who is responsible?” Anteros asked, pushing Crazy A to the back of his mind. Frankie sat herself on the ratty couch by the window, staring out to where ice dotted the Hudson. Only the sharp curve of her cheekbones and jaw could be seen from beneath her hat. The tall black thing was entirely too extravagant juxtaposed against the fogged warehouse window, but it was what the funeral had called for. She turned and he caught a glimpse of her eye, just as quickly it disappeared beneath layers of matte and shiny fabric when she returned her gaze to the window.

She looked like a Victorian lady fallen through time. The collar of her ebony dress went up to where her throat betrayed her unease with large gulps and was tied with a black satin bow that fell to her rising breast. The bow was held together with a diamond broach, and soft velvet fell to the hands she pressed against the windowpane and kept falling beyond the knees she crossed, to her ankles.

Elegant, but beyond that, bold.

He remembered seeing her for the first time before the funeral. Something had occurred to him: if he kept dressing her like a queen, people wouldn’t question her ascension. He shook the thought quickly; the soft velvet had bunched just as easily as any fabric. He’d been able to grip it, pull it up, and do whatever he wanted to the girl beneath, just as he had with all the other dresses she wore.

“Who is responsible for this?” Anteros asked again. Everyone in the office exchanged looks. Since the night Anteros had missed the delivery with The Institute things had been strained. “Well?” Anteros repeated.

Rhys was the first to speak up. He looked to Frankie then back to the Beast. “I think you’d prefer we discussed this in private.”

* * *

After Frankie had been escorted out, Anteros turned to them, impatience on his face. None of them had taken a seat except for Little O who lounged in the chair. Standing uncomfortably, arms folded, feet wide, they watched him, waiting.

“What?” Anteros snapped.

Pretty Boy ran his fingers through perfectly coiffed hair, eyes darting to the men in the room. There was obviously something on their minds. He could see it pressing against their lips, words they wanted to say but were keeping inside. Like bees inside their mouths, the buzz was loud against his ears, and the pain of keeping it inside was palpable.

Rhys shifted. Big O looked to Pretty Boy. They still stood, which was out of the norm.

“Do you know who did this?” Anteros asked.

“No one has come forward, exactly…” Big O said.

“Was it the Russians?” Anteros asked, brow furrowed. He had mostly destroyed the Bratva, the Russian mafia, years ago, but you never know—they were like weeds.

“It could be The Institute…” Pretty Boy said, eyes flicking away so he didn’t have to make eye contact. Anteros scowled. The Institute was known for getting pissed, but they often gave warning first. Plus, the way Pretty Boy spoke belied that he thought it was something else.

“Am I playing twenty questions?” Anteros asked with a growl. “How many guesses do I have left?

“We have reason to believe the Pavoni Princess is behind the attack,” Big O started.

Beast stood from his chair. “What? She’s alive?” He thought to Frankie, sitting downstairs in the warehouse, dressed like a queen.

Little O shook his head and sat up a little bit in the chair. “No. Dumbass means the rumor is behind the attack. We know there have always been radicals within the Pavoni family…” Little O trailed off, probably thinking about the rumor. “We think the rumor has given them strength.”

“Apparently there’s a rumor that you have a girl who may be the princess,” Pretty Boy said. Anteros sat back down and reached across his desk. Grabbing a loose piece of paper, he crushed it in his hand. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them he already had Nikolai looking into that rumor and whether there was any merit to it.

Instead he said, “That’s bullshit, and you know it. She’s my fucking slave, the daughter of some loser in Jersey.” Even as Anteros said the words he didn’t quite believe them.

“After today’s attacks,” Rhys said, stepping forward. “The veracity doesn’t matter.”

“You know what you have to do,” Pretty Boy said.

Anteros exhaled. “I know.”

“Your position was untenable before,” Rhys said. “Now it is…”

“Now everyone thinks you have a pretty little Princess Peach,” Little O started.

“And you have to kill her before a-Mario comes looking,” Big O finished, tacking on an exaggerated Italian accent.

“I said I know,” Anteros growled. Standing up, he gestured to the door. “Leave. With all the shit that went down at the funeral, I’ve got a fuckton of work.” He sat back down, not bothering to watch them leave. It wasn’t so much work that drove Anteros to send his men away. The idea of killing Frankie was fucking impossible and he was not eager to have them see his weakness.

Focusing on his clenched fist, Anteros thought about business. In the few weeks Frankie had been in his life, he’d made more mistakes, cost himself more money, and made more senseless decisions than in his entire life. He knew his men were right; Frankie needed to be terminated. With an exhale, Anteros stood, but when he looked up, Rhys was still there.

“This may not be the best time,” Rhys said, shifting slightly.

“Spit it out.”

“It’s Gabriella,” Rhys continued. “She must be remarried, right? She still hasn’t born any children.” Anteros headed to the door. He hadn’t taken off his coat, which was still dusted with snow and dirt from the funeral.

“I said as much to the official council,” he replied. “I assume you have a person in mind?” That was how he’d procured Gabriella’s life. Gabriella was a broodmare who hadn’t bred, he’d reminded them. To kill her now was a complete waste.

“This would be an excellent time to move into Africa,” Rhys said, following him.

Anteros nodded. “Make the arrangement.” Anteros remembered the look on Frankie's face when she thought The Council had believed her story. She’d tried so hard to hide her joy. Like a child told not to guess at what presents lie beneath the wrapping paper, she shook the box anyway to try to figure it out. He hadn’t corrected her assumption.

Together he and Rhys left the office, and Anteros walked down the stairs to where Frankie waited. He imagined the look on her face when she discovered Gabriella would be sold and sent away. The Council would also be unhappy that Ekwensi wouldn’t take the De Luca name…but all he could picture was Frankie’s face.

* * *

When the car pulled up to the penthouse, Frankie was asleep. Her head rested against the juncture of between the seat and the window in what looked to be an uncomfortable position, but she was completely out. Anteros assumed she was not used to staying up for days like he was. He leaned forward to wake her, but stopped short, hand midair.

She looked so peaceful. Her lashes fell against smooth honey cheeks and she breathed even, steady breaths. Her lips were slightly parted. The tone of her skin was paler, almost feverish, and Anteros assumed that was due to lack of sleep or the day’s events.

Nikolai opened the car door, breaking the spell and ushering in the light from the garage. Anteros stepped out and without thought, immediately walked to the other side—her side—and opened the door. He pulled her out from her car door into his arms. She stirred a little but then situated herself against him, head on his chest.

There was something right about holding her.

Something that fit a piece that he hadn’t realized was missing.

Walking past Nikolai, who was stunned to the spot, Anteros pressed the button for the elevator and stepped inside. He saw himself in the reflection of the brassy walls. Her head fell right into the crook of his neck, obscuring her face. His arm encircled her waist and his hand spanned the length of her ass. His other arm carried her beneath her knees. Looking at their metallic reflection, the words of his Wolves echoed in his mind. He knew he needed to rid himself of Frankie, whether by ending her life or somehow selling her.

He couldn’t figure out which was more merciful.

He couldn’t send her to The Institute—once a contract was forfeited they didn’t renegotiate—but he could still sell her. The Institute wasn’t the only way to sell a woman. Still, the type of man who buys a woman isn’t usually the type to treat them right. There were exceptions to the rule, but it would take time—months, usually—to do the proper background checks and personality tests to weed out the psychos and sadists.

And his Wolves wouldn’t go for that.

No one would.

It was pretty much insanity to insist on such treatment.

As he was trying to work out what to do, she wound her arms around his neck. She made a small noise, almost a sigh, and nuzzled farther into his shoulder. Her hat had fallen off in the car, so her hair fell in a brunette cascade down his shoulder. Everything else was forgotten then. He stared at the way she looked against him in the elevator doors until they opened, splitting the image to reveal his penthouse.

He carried her to his bedroom, putting her to bed with her clothes still on, and then shut the door quietly behind him. With his fist on the doorknob, he stared at the wood a moment, thoughts still on the woman behind him. Shaking his head, he released the knob and walked to his office. Once seated behind his desk, he pressed the call button for Nikolai. The boy arrived within a minute.

“What do you have for me?” Anteros asked at once. Nikolai lightly shut the door behind him.

“The Notte residence is abandoned, Boss,” Nikolai replied, not needing further clarification. “By the state of the food in the refrigerator, it appears Notte has been gone for at least a week.” The lines in Anteros’s forehead deepened at the news. All of the Pavoni Princess talk earlier had made the need for resolution even more important, but Nikolai was simply adding more confusion to the mix.

“Track him down,” Anteros growled.

“Already on it.” Nikolai bowed and walked back out of the office. Anteros tried to work. He pulled out his laptop, attempting to hammer out details for what was to come for Emilio. In the end, his mind was lost, eyes stuck on the window, watching the ceaseless onslaught of snow. He thought of the funeral.

And of Frankie.

With a frustrated groan, Anteros stood up and left his office. It was dark, the house lights off save for the ethereal glow of white nightlights lining the floors. The padding of his feet was the only sound in the whole place. Anteros was nearly to the hallway to his bedroom when he stopped.

There was someone in the shadows, someone who didn’t belong. Someone covered in blood.

* * *

Recognition came seconds later and Anteros snapped, “What the fuck, Crazy A?” Stepping out from the shadows, clothes and skin caked in blood, was Crazy A. Blood splattered his face, obscured the lips that didn’t smile. None of the blood appeared to be his.

“The Pavoni Princess rumor originated in The Council,” Crazy A said grimly.

Anteros rubbed a hand to his neck and said, “That’s not exactly news.” The Council had been twisting the rumor for awhile. He was sure they were the ones who started the whole estraneo thing. Truthfully, he hadn’t been sure they’d begun the stuff about Frankie, but it would make sense, and if that was the case, then he could call off Nikolai.

And he wouldn’t have to terminate Frankie.

He exhaled slightly.

Crazy A narrowed his eyes. “They’re behind the attack today.”

“How do you know that?” A second later Anteros surveyed the blood on Crazy A and amended his question. “How much of a shit storm did you create getting that information?”

“The Council isn’t what worries me,” Crazy A replied, eyes still hard and narrow.

Anteros raised a brow. “Oh?”

“You’re looking into the rumor,” Crazy A said. “You got Nikolai looking into the truth of it.”

Anteros narrowed his eyes, matching Crazy A’s fierce glare. “Are you following me?”

Crazy A shrugged. “I gotta wonder why you’re keeping that from us.” It was true Anteros hadn’t informed his Wolves he had Nikolai looking into Frankie. He’d never kept anything from them before, but then again, he was the Boss—he didn’t have to tell them shit.

“It’s nonsense,” Anteros said. “Rumors.”

“You know I never questioned you.” Crazy A paused, looking at the blood on his hands. “Even while you got us jumping through all of these hoops with Emilio and with the fucking government, I didn’t question. I knew you must have some bigger plan, some greater idea that we just couldn’t see yet.”

Anteros folded his arms and narrowed his eyes, waiting for Crazy A to get to the point.

“When we were just soldiers, you were still the Boss. You’re the reason for all of this.” Crazy A gestured to the penthouse. “You are the reason. You killed a hundred men single-handed. You climbed from slave to soldier to Boss. And you brought us with you. ”

“I don’t need a reminder,” Anteros replied. “I was there.” Over the years Anteros had seen a lot of shit with his Wolves, even if their brotherhood had started with blackmail. Little and Big O he’d found stealing from the Family, Pretty Boy had been having an affair with a Councilman’s wife, and Crazy A’s secret was never mentioned. Anteros kept their secrets, in exchange for their support. Pretty Boy had been all too keen, as the Councilman they sent to death was the husband of the wife he was boning. In the end the debt had evolved to something much greater. They became something much greater.

“Maybe you do,” Crazy A said, looking at the caked blood on his fingers. “Do you remember what happened ten years ago? I didn’t question you then. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t.” Anteros narrowed his eyes even more. The two of them never mentioned their history. It wasn’t pretty. It was ugly and fucked up and it had nearly torn them apart. None of the Wolves knew what had happened between Anteros and Crazy A, how Anteros and Crazy A had nearly killed each other.

Crazy A slowly looked up from his hands, capturing Anteros’s stare, hard faced. “I’m questioning you now.”

“You sure about that?” Anteros asked.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Crazy A continued. “That the moment you took her she’d never go to The Institute or anywhere else.” Anteros folded his arms, letting his stony silence be his response.

Crazy A was unperturbed. “I got to wonder if it goes beyond that, if you knew you’d never be able to let her go.”

“Careful.” Anteros was icy, tone grim and foreboding. “You might say something that can’t be unsaid.”

“There’s a girl up in that room. In your room—” Crazy A gestured down the hall “—threatening everything we’ve ever built. She’s a massive complication. Forget the rumor, she distracts you and you can’t see your priorities shifting. I’ve never seen you miss a delivery. Gotta wonder why she’s still breathing, Anteros.” Anteros folded his arms, eyes locked with Crazy A’s in a fierce glare. Crazy A hadn’t used his name in years, since the day that he’d earned the name Beast. Crazy A matched his glare with intensity for a few more beats, then he pushed past him with a shove. He pounded through Anteros’s house as if he hadn’t just broken in, and then he left.

Anteros watched him pull open the front door and slam it shut. He stared at the door for a few beats then glanced down the shadowy hallway he’d been heading toward before Crazy A had interrupted, where Frankie slept soundly in his room.

Thirteen

With the shooting at the funeral, Beast had been so busy that for the past day and a half, I hadn’t seen him. We’d not been together since that moment after the funeral when he’d brushed the debris from my cheek and taken me inside his lair.

I put a hand up to my face as if I could still feel it.

Then there was after when he’d carried me up to the penthouse and to his room. I’d been asleep, but when he’d put me to bed, I’d woken up. In that brief, fleeting moment, I saw him. It wasn’t Beast, it was someone else. What I mean is, I saw a man. There was a tenderness to him. He put me to bed, covered me up. He didn’t touch me inappropriately.

And…fuck.

I didn’t sleep. I waited for him, hoping he would come back, but he never did. I watched the sunrise alone and Nikolai escorted me back to the white room.

My room. Where I’ve been now for nearly two days, alone.

Dumb.

I’m so dumb.

Alone is good.

I shook my head, trying to get the thoughts out, and reached for Sofia’s journal from beneath the floorboards. That’s what I’d been doing lately when I felt my control slipping, or when I started to feel like I might not entirely hate my situation—I read. I suppressed it. It helped that I had so much reading material. It was how I had escaped my life before. When I was too sick, or too lonely, or when Papa went on one of his tangents, I would read.

There was a massive power in reading. Whenever I used to meet people who didn’t read, I would imagine what wonderful life they led—they’d have to have one. I wouldn’t have survived being sick had I not been able to disappear into different worlds every day.

I sat down in the cozy area I’d made in the blind spot in my room using a pile of pillows and blankets. I would claim they were dirty if the Beast asked what happened to them. It felt like forever since I’d been able to read Sofia’s journal. The last time I’d been with Sofia, someone major in their world had died, but she’d been too busy with Alessio to care.

I opened the book, starting off.

I met Alessio at our spot again today. Oh my it’s so silly, I have my hand to my cheek as I write this, as if I can capture some of the warmth of his hand, as if I can still feel the way he caressed my bruise. But I can still see the fervor in his eyes when he saw the latest from Dario.

I can still hear his words to me.

“I’ll kill him,” he’d promised. His voice was so low, it reminded me of the wolves in the fairytales. Knowing what I know about his temperament, how can I ever tell him that his brother, Emilio, cornered me and pressed his lips against mine? I froze, letting him stick his slimy tongue down my throat. I don’t know what to do.

I write in this journal, hoping my tumultuous emotions will make sense.

How do I tell Alessio that his brother kissed me?

Will he believe me when I say I didn’t want any of it? No matter how many times I write it out, no matter the scenario, it doesn’t end well. Men. Boys. Uncles… I have been called pretty by them my entire life as if a compliment from them is the best currency. Most days I contemplate burning my skin so they don’t look at me.

Now both the Pavoni boys are looking in my direction. This will not end well for me. I know the rules. I’ve been told them since I was young enough to remember. I still remember Mama wagging her finger at me the day I let my tongue slip and confessed my attraction for Alessio.

This kiss is something I need to put inside of me and hope doesn’t resurface.

If Alessio finds out, I know he’ll kill Emilio.

At the sound of footfalls outside my room, I closed the journal. Quickly I stashed it under the loose floorboard and threw the blankets and pillows in the closet. It was a haphazard attempt at hiding but it would have to do. I was pretty sure it was just going to be Nikolai with the tea I’d requested. He’d told me I had three hours until the Beast would be back. Even so, I could never be too sure.

I ran back to the bed and sat on the edge, running a finger through a stray lock. A moment later there was a knock on the door. I released a small sigh of relief, feeling my tense joints relax. The Beast never knocked.

“Come in,” I said, going back to the closet to grab the blankets and pillows. As I was setting back up, he placed the tea on the ground beside me. I picked up a beautiful china cup, inhaling the fragrant, steaming herbs. The liquid was hot on my tongue—just the right temperature for sipping.

When I set it back down on the silver tray, I paused. There was a flyer in the way.

“Wait,” I asked, stopping Nikolai from leaving and picking it up. “What is this?” I turned the thin paper in my hand, reading the bold text: The Pavoni Princess Lives.

Nikolai didn’t turn around when he answered. “The future.”

* * *

The Pavoni Princess Lives. I lifted up the cheap colored paper, which felt smooth yet scratchy in my hand, and stared at the big, blocky letters. They demanded my attention, demanded to be read. Believed. My brows wrinkled as I tried to assign meaning to them. Sofia had mentioned something about a Pavoni Princess in the journal, but that didn’t help me understand it any better.

I was still trying to make sense of it when a soft knock sounded on the door. I looked up to see Gabby gently push it open, inching her head through.

“Is this a good time?” she asked. “Nikolai came and got me but I can come back later…” Gabby pushed the door open the rest of the way. She stood in the doorway, fidgeting with her oversized sweater.

“Of course it’s a good time,” I said, setting the flyer back down, still absorbed by it and Nikolai’s mysticism. “Nikolai came and got you?” I asked as Gabby took a seat among the soft blankets in the blind spot of the camera.

“He said you’d probably want to see me.” She pulled in her lip, uncertain. “If that’s not the case, I can go.” My eyes narrowed. I mean I did want to see Gabby, but what business did Nikolai have guessing at my intentions, especially without asking first? Nikolai had shoved the two of us together before Gabby had murdered her husband, too. I looked down at the flyer. Now what was he up to?

“Gabby, what do you know about Nikolai?” I asked. Giving the flyer one last look, I stashed it back under the tea.

“Not much,” she said. “I know of him. He’s been a slave to the Beast since he was a little boy.” Beast had said as much, but he’d phrased it very differently, had made it sound like he’d saved Nikolai’s life.

“So you didn’t know him? You weren’t friends?”

“Frankie…” Her face transformed as if thinking about something powerful. “Frankie, before you, I didn’t know anyone other than Giovani. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to kill him if I hadn’t met you at the park.”

“But that was Nikolai,” I pointed out. “Nikolai brought us together.”

“I suppose…” She didn’t seem very convinced, but I wasn’t letting it go. Something about Nikolai wasn’t right.

“Do you think he wants something?”

“From me?” She was shocked. “What could I possibly offer him?”

“From me then?” I asked. Gabby chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking. It was a little while before she spoke again.

“You know everyone said Beast should have killed him?” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “He killed his entire family but saved Nikolai.” I thought back to what Beast had said: I saved him. He’d killed Nikolai’s family but not him. Why?

“That was probably a mercy,” I said.

“I think it would have been mercy to kill him,” Gabby said flatly. I glanced at her. Occasionally she said things like that, things that belied her submissive exterior and gave way to the darkness inside of her—a darkness that living your youth as a virtual sex slave to a man twice your age will beget. “And I think Nikolai would agree with me.”

In the silence that followed, my thoughts drifted. To what Nikolai wanted. To what I would want if someone killed my family and then enslaved me for ten years. I knew immediately: revenge. I just wasn’t sure how Gabby and I fit into his plans.

I exhaled, changing the subject. “Are you going to tell me what really happened with Giovani? I had a cop show up and say some pretty interesting shit to me at the funeral. Beast was right there when he talked to me.” Ever since the funeral, I’d been dying to know what had actually happened after our meeting at the park. At my question, her entire body transformed, glowing bright. It wasn’t really the reaction I’d been expecting when asking her about the murder of her husband.

She got up on her knees, put her hands in her lap, and, almost as if it were a secret, said, “I fell in love.”

“You fell in love?” I asked.

“With Levi, the cop.” A broad smile spread across her cheeks, undeterred by my incredulity. A moment later she added, “Oh, and he helped me cover up Giovani’s death.” She didn’t give me a second to ask about that because immediately she followed with, “Frankie, he’s so wonderful. He’s kind and he’s caring and I just feel so much with him. I never knew I could feel this way before.”

“You’re in love,” I repeated it as if it would help me understand.

“When Giovani had me arrested, he was the one who booked me,” she explained. “He had the brownest eyes, and even under the fluorescent lights, his hair was the most gorgeous shade of brown. They called him Red Bear, Bear for short, because they’re racist jerks—his mom is Native American—but his name is really Levi. Levi Luchessi. He followed me home and after that…” She kept going on and on, hardly taking a breath. I watched her face change as she told me different parts of the story, going from sadness, to pure bliss, to anger, and back again to bliss. I wasn’t sure what to say. She looked like a girl in high school talking about a crush, not a person describing the man who helped cover up the murder of her husband.

Was it even my place to question? This was the only happiness Gabby had ever known. I wasn’t really the one to judge, anyway. I wasn’t exactly the poster girl for healthy emotions. Maybe they were in love. He’d helped her cover up the murder, after all. If that wasn’t true love, then what was?

“Isn’t he dirty?” The thought popped into my head and out of my mouth. Gabby had been booked at the 72nd precinct, which was the dirtiest, most rotten precinct in New York.

“Clean as a whistle.” Gabby paused. “Except for the whole murder cover-up. He’s undercover,” she explained. “He’s trying to take down the 72nd and the Pavonis.”

“Huh.” I sat back at that revelation: an undercover cop who was actually trying to help us. Suddenly it was like there was a break in all the rocks that had caved in. “So he’s trying to help us?”

“Yep.” Gabby held a pillow to her chest and looked over my head, out to the city.

“So he could get me out of here?” I asked. “Get us out of here?”

“No.” The answer was immediate.

I didn’t understand. “But why?”

“He’s not going to be part of this life,” Gabby said. “Ever.” It was on the tip of my tongue to remind her that she was part of this life, but then I realized how silly that was. Of course Gabby knew that, had agonized over it. I’d been part of this life for less than a month while Gabby had been born into it. There wasn’t a minute that went by that she wasn’t aware of her situation.

“What are you going to do?” I asked eventually.

Gabby swallowed and fiddled with the pillow. Then she looked up at me. “Love always finds a way, right? If it’s real and true?”

I blinked. She was waiting, really waiting for me to answer.

Oh God.

She really thought true love could fix everything. My chest ached from the way she looked at me, eyes big and brown, searching.

“Um…” I exhaled. Her stare was unwavering. My own caught a glimpse of something shiny and metallic, and I latched on to it immediately—anything to change the subject.

“Gabby, is that a flask?” I was a bit stunned. As far as I knew, Gabby didn’t carry flasks, or drink. She blinked as if coming out of a trance then looked into her coat pocket.

“Oh, yes.” She pulled it out. “It’s just me now in Giovani’s house. I mean the Family stops by daily to check on me, but it’s mostly me. It’s the most freedom I’ve ever had. He never let me touch anything. Today I picked this up. I think it belonged to Giovani.” She looked at me, eyes wide, so young. “Have you ever been drunk?” No, I’d never been drunk. She looked at me again, with those big doe eyes. While a big part of me wanted to drink and give a big Fuck you to Beast’s rules, I thought about everything she’d just told me.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You’re probably right…” Her face dropped. “Giovani never let me have alcohol.” She sighed and set the flask down amidst the blankets. I eyed it as she started to speak again. I didn’t think it was a good idea for Gabby to get drunk but I couldn’t stop imagining being drunk around Beast. I could finally have a buffer between him and whatever it was he did to me.

“Frankie?”

“Sorry?” I turned back to her.

“News just broke that Senator Hatch is a serial rapist,” she said.

My eyes widened. “Seriously? The Senator Hatch? Clooney lookalike and one of the longest-serving senators?” She held up her phone, showing me the headline. I blinked rapidly. A phone? The Beast didn’t allow me a phone. I wondered what the world had been up to in the three weeks I’d been away.

Well, this, apparently. The way the bright letters slashed across his face made him look surprised and guilty at the same time. I shook my head. More evidence that beauty lies.

“Where’d you get the phone?” I asked, more interested in that than the news.

“Levi.” Her face broke out in that wide, love drunk smile again. Gabby sighed and pulled her phone into her lap. “Rumor is Hatch is going to resign and Governor Dubois is going to appoint someone interim…” Gabby continued, leaning against the wall. She told me all about the terrible things the news was saying about the victims. I pulled my lips between my teeth, chest feeling tight. With a sigh, I reached for the pitcher of tea, and as I lifted it the flyer stuck to the bottom.

“What is that?” she asked, reaching for it.

“Oh, uh…” I wasn’t sure how to answer, but Gabby didn’t wait for me to do so anyway. She snatched the flyer off, her eyes flashing from the paper to me.

“Why do you have this?” Her eyes were wide, filled with some kind of excitement I couldn’t understand.

“Nikolai left it under my tea,” I replied. Gabby turned it over and looked at the blank side, then turned it back around and examined the big, blocky letters. When she was done, her eyes found mine again, now even rounder.

“Did he say what for?” Her lips were twitching as if she was trying to hold back a smile.

“He said, and I quote, ‘the future.’” I raised both my hands in the air, did finger quotes, and then dropped them to my sides.

“But did he say why he gave it to you?” She repeated her question, voice hurried. This time she didn’t try to hide her smile.

“No…” I trailed off. Watching her expression, I tried to figure out what she was so excited about. There was simultaneous excitement and awe written across her face. It showed in the way her eyes rounded and the way her smile brightened and stretched.

“I’ve seen these flyers around.” She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. “I thought it was like every other soldier rumor.” Gabby set the flyer down and grabbed my hands frantically.

“What?” I insisted. “What rumor?”

“Frankie…” As if about to unload something huge, Gabby took a breath before she began. “Do you know the story of the Pavoni Princess?” I shook my head. Gabby gripped my hands tighter and scooted forward. She said the Pavoni Princess was nothing more than fairytale, like Cinderella. At first it was something Pavonis made up to comfort themselves after they’d basically massacred their entire bloodline. Then it became something that purists twisted after Beast had risen to power, a story about a lost Pavoni girl who would someday retake the Family.

“Wow,” I said when she finished. “That’s some story.”

“Frankie,” Gabby said earnestly. “I think you’re her. That must be why Nikolai gave this to you, don’t you see?” She looked at me, her pink lips spreading into an even bigger smile. I balked. As Gabby held my hands, I suddenly had a flashback to junior high. It was just like the few sleepovers I’d been able to attend—gossiping, spilling secrets and stories with such vehemence that the truth didn’t matter. Even the way she sat with her legs crossed and her blonde hair spilling over one shoulder, was familiar.

She looked so young, but what she was talking about was deadly.

“Well?” she asked, tugging on my hands.

“I’m not…a…a…princess,” I sputtered as I tugged my hands back, but Gabby wouldn’t let go. “Gabby,” I implored, tugging harder. Reluctantly, she let me go. From the way Gabby told me the story, I could tell the princess was a big deal—but I knew I wasn’t her, and if people believed I was, it wouldn’t end well for me. She nodded slowly, but her eyes were still huge, looking at me with awe and trying to see something that wasn’t there.

“Gabby,” I said sharply.

“But…” Her face dropped again, and she looked so defeated. “Why else would he give this to you?” She held the paper between her hands, as if trying to assign meaning.

Because he’s a manipulator, is what I wanted to say.

Instead I said, “I don’t know, Gabby.” She set the flyer back down. Trying to avoid further conversation, I took the flyer and quickly stuffed it in the journal. Gabby watched, getting a weird look in her eyes. The previous awe and excitement vanished, replaced by what looked like fear. The look on her face was gone so quickly I couldn’t be sure.

Eventually she reached out and touched the journal, her fingers playing over the leather. It was my turn to watch as she opened it up to the first page and read the inscription aloud.

“Sofia De Luca.” Her eyes widened. I’d had the journal out with her before, but a thought occurred to me, one I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of before: maybe Gabby knew Sofia—after all, she was a De Luca herself. I mentally kicked myself. There was so much I could have been learning.

“I found it in the library,” I said. “Do you know who it is? Do you know who wrote the journal?” I sat forward, waiting for the response. Gabby stared at the inscription, an unreadable expression on her face. It was so deadpan, so utterly devoid of anything discernible, the opposite of everything I’d come to know about Gabby in our short time. Gabby was eager, a little naive, but light—this face was nothing like that.

“Sofia de Luca was my mother. She died when I was very young.” I sat back, her words hitting me like a punch to the gut. Gabby didn’t look up when she spoke, her voice sounding distant and lost. It was a few moments before I spoke again.

“I guess we have that in common,” I said eventually. “Do you want it? It’s yours.” She looked up as if I’d just offered her something very tempting, but something she shouldn’t have. Her fingers grazed the leather face, longingly looking at the cover.

“I have to go,” Gabby said suddenly, pushing the book away.

“But the journal—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Ever. Keep it, I don’t care, just don’t tell me about it.” I pulled my face in a frown at her words and the weird vibe that followed them.

I opened my mouth to press, but Gabby quickly said, “I need to go. If I leave now I can spend an hour with Levi. Nikolai covers for me. Levi said he was going to make me grilled cheese.” Her cheek quirked slightly, betraying the happiness she was feeling. “I’ve always wanted to try it.” I frowned for a split second, still wanting to know what Nikolai got out of the arrangement, but pushed the bad thoughts from my mind.

“You should have left a long time ago,” I said.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked as we hugged goodbye. I nearly scoffed—was I going to be okay?—but whatever had bothered Gabby about the journal, she had buried beneath the earth.

“I’ll be fine,” I said into her shoulder as she squeezed me into another hug. We disentangled and I sat down on the blankets just as the door closed. I probably should have opened the journal and read more, used the last bit of freedom I had, but my eyes were focused on something to the right of it.

The flask.

Gabby had left it behind.

I waited a few moments, hands dancing in my lap, for her to come back for it. When she didn’t, I picked it up. It was cool and smooth in my hand and I looked into the dark opening. No alcohol was one of Beast’s stupid rules. Don’t swear, don’t leave without permission, and don’t drink. The aroma singed my nostrils, but I wanted to drink anyway. It would be another way to say fuck you without actually saying it. I put it to my lips and tilted the burnished metal up. 1…2…3….4… I coughed.

It tasted awful.

My eyes watered.

What the hell was in that? People actually liked that shit? I leaned against the wall, waiting for something to happen. To be honest, I’d never really been drunk before, so I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for.

“Princess,” I muttered, picking up the bright pink paper. “Of course they went with pink.” I rolled my eyes, setting it back down. My teeth tingled and I opened my mouth as if that would help. Gabby’s words scrolled through my brain as if on projection, and I wondered what Beast would do if he found me drunk.

There was a knock at the door and I jumped. I watched, waiting for someone to enter. I knew it was just Nikolai, but my blood rushed through my ears in a loud whoosh.

Nikolai entered, carrying a dress bag, and I suddenly felt very confident. I wanted to ask him all the questions on my mind. What do you want from me? From Gabby? Why did you put this stupid flyer on my tray? What are you after?

Instead I stayed put, watching him.

Feeling a little fuzzy.

Without any words exchanged, Nikolai hung up the dress. He came over, picked up the flask, put it on the tray with the tea—minus the flyer now stashed in my journal—and left. I stared after him a moment, wondering. It couldn’t possibly be what Gabby thought. With another loud exhale, I went and unzipped the dress bag.

Beast clearly had something planned for me.

This dress could take me to the red carpet, but considering Beast, it could also take me to takeout. There was no lingerie, and I knew what that meant. As I tried to slide the dress on, I stumbled and fell over. I gave up and decided the only way I was getting into the fucking thing was by sitting on the bed and doing it one foot at a time.

Once it was on, I studied myself in the mirror, running a hand down my hip. Thousands of pale, rose gold sequins made up the dress, so many of them that it shimmered on its own. It was sleek, hugging every curve. The back fell in a cowl neck and the necklace went straight across my collarbone. The only coverage I had on my arms were small cap sleeves, so I assumed that was what the black satin gloves were for.

I had to imagine what Beast had planned for me didn’t include being outside. Even if I wore the gloves, I would freeze.

I wondered what Levi and Gabby were doing. In my mind they were eating grilled cheese and sitting in comfy clothes on an even comfier couch. It was dark outside, so maybe the lamp was on, a warm yellow, or maybe it was off, and only the glow of the TV lit the space. And they would cuddle under the blankets not because it was cold, but because they wanted to be close.

She was wearing his t-shirt and sweatpants and they were watching silly TV shows and laughing. They would kiss and they would love each other, but he would ask her first. If she said no, they would go back to laughing and eating food.

They probably even had hot chocolate.

I wiped a stray tear from my eye, patting down the material on my abdomen.

I really hoped that was what Levi and Gabby were doing.

* * *

“Ishn’t it too cold to eat on the roof?” Oh shit, had I just slurred my words? He didn’t respond, as usual, and gripped my gloved hand; if he’d noticed my slurring, he didn’t let me know. I’d never been on the roof, didn’t even know it was an option. Just a short thirty minutes after I’d dressed, the Beast had returned and informed me of our destination. I’ll admit, a part of me was thrilled.

How fucking stupid.

We stepped into the elevator and he pressed the uppermost button.

“Wow,” I said on an exhale as the elevator opened. It’s like a real date, I thought. From every angle the city sparkled. The jutting skyscrapers reminded me of stacks of glitter. Even though the city drowned out the stars, it didn’t matter, because above us lights hung on strings, twinkling, and in the center of it all was a round table covered with a pristine white tablecloth to match the snow. A single black rose jutted out of a clear, skinny vase.

I looked to Beast, waiting for him to ruin it all. He gestured to the seats. Gingerly I stepped forward and took the nearest one. While he was seating himself, I scanned the rest of the rooftop. On the other side I could make out covered seating. It was hard to tell in the winter, but there appeared to be a covered pool as well. The hot tub was open though.

I swallowed.

“Thirsty?” he asked, holding out a bottle.

“Hot chocolate?” I gasped. He poured the liquid into a mottled gold mug in response. Tendrils of steam whispered into the air. A covered silver platter contained something I couldn’t see, but that smelled absolutely divine. Awestruck, I turned my head to his.

“What is this?” I asked, confused. Heat lamps kept us warm, though the occasional gust of wind set my flesh with goose bumps. He took my black-gloved hand in his own bare hand. I stared as his hand encapsulated mine. So much raw maleness just in those fingers.

“It’s dinner,” he replied.

“You’ve been busy,” I said. “I haven’t seen you since the funeral.”

His eyes flashed. “Miss me?” The Beast was dressed impeccably, as usual, wearing a charcoal colored fitted suit with hair falling in waves behind the corded muscles of his neck. His eyes were deep and shadowed but somehow glowing in their intensity. It was his jaw that had me captivated, though, because it was ticked up in a smile. I focused on that, my stomach fluttering. Even though it was small, barely even a smirk, it changed his entire face. His eyes softened and warmed, and I melted.

I wanted to be on the couch like Gabby and Levi. I wanted him holding me. I wanted to feel his arms wrap around me.

“I…” I stuttered, suddenly realizing the downside of being drunk. My thoughts spun from me and my tongue flapped without warrant. “Only curious…is all…”

“I had work.” His eyes bore into mine and it was as if he were digging a hole into my soul. I could feel the grinding, the turning, the bits he ripped up to get deeper into me.

“You make me sleep in your room and then you’re gone all day,” I said. “All we do is sleep.” Words kept tumbling out of my mouth like vomit. I couldn’t stop them. I was seeing through this rosy, drunken haze and for some fucking reason, I thought I could speak freely. All we’d been doing lately was sleeping; it was so peculiar. He didn’t even try to force my orgasms anymore. I was so lost in this house. Ever since the funeral—no, since after the dinner—he had been distant.

Which is good. I smacked those words into my brain like I was running into a wall head first. I should like it. I should want him to be distant.

“We don’t do anything but sleep,” I continued, despite the voice in my head screaming for me to shut the fuck up.

“Are you asking me why I don’t fuck you, Frankie?” His eyes narrowed on mine.

My eyes widened. “Of course not! That’s not what I want. I would never want that.” I tugged at my hand, but he gripped it tighter. Then all at once he dropped it.

“If you didn’t want to be my slut, maybe you shouldn’t have given your life up for such a worthless one.” He opened the silver platter, placing some kind of meat with sauce on his plate.

“He is my father,” I said. “Something you apparently cannot understand.” The minute the words came out of my mouth, I knew they were a mistake. I hadn’t meant it to be an insult. To me the Beast existed in a world without any love, so how could he understand my love for my father? The Beast paused and I stilled with him, waiting for his response.

“I may be an orphan,” he replied. “But I understand fathers well enough. I know yours to be worthless.” Beast nearly threw me with that—orphan? He didn’t have any parents? Was he raised in some kind of home?

All alone?

Still.

I understood that Papa wasn’t the best father, he wasn’t even the best person, but he was worth more than me. I was sick; my body probably wasn’t going to last long. Sure the doctors said I was fine now, but I didn’t know. I was more tired than most people. Occasionally I would get fevers for no reason at all. My heart beat faster than normal, but because I wasn’t passing out all the time they didn’t care. It just wasn’t right, letting him die when my life was so worthless.

I would go back and do it again, and again, and again.

I was a community college dropout going nowhere with my life. I lived under a staircase. I’d never had any boyfriends or any real friends. All I’d ever been in life was sick.

At least now I could say I’d done something with my life.

I saved Papa.

“He is twice the man you will ever be,” I said, voice getting louder.

“Oh really?” The Beast continued his meal, chewing with simultaneous poise and ferocity.

“He is good and kind!” I yelled, filled with drunken courage.

He laughed but said nothing.

I went cold. “I don’t know why I bother. You can dress up as fancy as you like and do up all these nice trimmings,” I gestured to the lights and table, “but you’ll still be a beast. You’ll never understand what it means to be a good man.”

His eyes flashed. “Does a good man send their child to slaughter?”

“What did you say?” I stammered. Beast went silent. “What do you mean?” I asked. I stood up from the chair, knocking mine over, emboldened with a fiery curiosity. “What? What do you know?”

He said nothing and I gulped, feeling as if I was drowning in the air around us. “What?” I asked. Lifting his napkin from his lap, he lightly set it on the table then looked at me. Though his countenance appeared calm, I knew better. His stare was ferocious, filled with wildfire.

“I gave your father the choice to take you back and he chose to leave you.” As if deciding what he said wasn’t hurtful enough, Beast added for emphasis, “With me.”

I gasped, stumbling back, tripping over the chair I’d knocked over. “Liar.”

Beast laughed harshly. “I have no need to lie about such things.”

“My papa wouldn’t leave me with you,” I seethed.

Beast shrugged. “He did.” I spun around, looking for anything that might give meaning to the words he was saying. Papa had left me? Beast had given him the opportunity to take me back? When had this happened? I could have been free? None of this needed to happen? Questions tumbled through my mind, too fast for me to even comprehend them. It felt like the uncertainty and betrayal swarmed me, wrapping around my legs until I couldn’t stand.

Stumbling back, I fell, ass hitting the cold, wet ground.

* * *

The ground was too cold. My head was spinning, the liquor working its way through my blood and making my world hazy. I knew I shouldn’t have been having this conversation right then. I was too impaired, but at the same time, the liquor was making me bold. It was making me dangerous. I felt I needed to confront him.

I didn’t believe it—believe him.

I couldn’t believe that my own papa had thrown me to the wolves.

“Maybe he didn’t believe you,” I whispered. “Maybe if you give me back, he’ll see you’re serious.”

“Frankie…” The Beast’s face contorted into what I believed was pity, or at least his version of it. He stood up out of his chair and came over, reaching a hand out to me. I attempted to smack it away, but the buzz made my attempt poor and uncoordinated.

“What?” I asked. “Just take me to him.” If I could just see Papa, I knew he would take me. He couldn’t have just left me. I mean, Papa wasn’t the best—he often forgot to get dinner and pay the bills, so by the time I could read, I’d taken on those responsibilities—but I was fine with that. Papa was Papa; he loved me in other ways. When I was younger, he would hold me and we would listen to old music. There was that one time that he got too angry and slipped and hit me, but that wasn’t his fault—he’d been drinking for days.

He was Papa.

He had his issues, but he loved me.

“It’s not that simple,” Beast replied.

“Why won’t you just let me leave then?” I snapped. “If you were going to give me back to Papa, why can’t I just go?”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yes!” The moment the words left my lips, I knew I wasn’t so sure. I’d been staying because I thought I had to, for Papa. Now he was saying that Papa didn’t want me, that Papa had fucking abandoned me. If for a second I entertained the idea that Beast was telling the truth, that Papa had actually left me here…

No.

I shook my head.

That wasn’t true.

Beast was just playing mind games.

He got to his knees and reached a hand out, fingers clasping my chin. “Who’s lying now?” There was no malice in his question, and I found myself leaning into his grasp. His gaze was heady and insistent.

What if he was telling the truth?

The hurt branded my soul, hot and searing and scarring. The worst part, though, was that the Beast had called my bluff. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to leave. I’d been using Papa as a cushion, a reason not to address what had been happening between us. No matter what happened between Beast and me, no matter what became of me, it had always been for the greater good. Now what?

What did that make me?

“I don’t believe you,” I whispered against his fingers.

“Yes you do,” he said, voice low, “but you don’t want to acknowledge it yet.” He probed me with his eyes, demanding I get lost in them.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I ripped my gaze away and snapped my chin from his grasp. I attempted to get up, but stumbled, so I placed my hand on the heat lamp to steady myself. My ass was wet, my hands red and frozen from pressing into the snowy ground. I focused on the individual bricks in the ground to stop the world from swirling. For a moment I’d forgotten I was drunk, I’d been so focused on him.

“Then why are you here?” he asked to my back.

Was he serious? I snapped my head up. “Because I have no choice.”

“You’d still risk your life for a father who abandoned you?”

“You’ll still kill him if I leave?” I countered.

“You have a choice, Frankie…” He came to me, closing the distance between us in two slow and deliberate steps. “I won’t come after you if you leave.” His index finger gently trailed across my cheek, pulling my gaze back to his. “But if you stay, you’re mine. I own you, every inch of you.” The finger that had been so lightly caressing my cheek came down to my neck and he opened his palm. I sucked in a breath as his fingers wrapped around my neck. It wasn’t harsh, just enough to pull me to him.

I came, leaning so close I could smell the taste of him on his lips. Just when I was sure he was going to kiss me, he let me go.

“But if I go you’ll kill my father,” I whispered my fear.

“Yes.”

I broke away, stumbling across the roof. I had to put distance between us. “That’s not much of a choice,” I said, over my shoulder. “I’m in exactly the same position.” Oh God, it felt like each minute I was getting drunker and drunker. Everything was getting blurry and I was having a hard time standing.

This would be a good time to admit I’d never really had anything to drink.

Ever.

“If that’s how you feel.” His voice was suddenly right next to me, but all around me at once. I waved a hand out to grasp at it, and I met something solid. At first I thought it was Beast, but then I saw my hand slip on the table and knock over the pitcher of hot chocolate. It melted pretty brown rivers into the snow.

“Are you drunk?” I had half a split second to register his voice sounding angry before he gripped my wrist and threw me to the table. The food crashed to the ground. The vase shattered, and I shuddered as he threw my dress up. Beast’s fingers curled around my neck, keeping my body in place. This is it, I thought, he’s going to do it again. The small reprieve I’d had since the first night was over. He’s going to enter me again. It’s going to happen. It’s going to be just as dirty and dark and violent as the first time.

The worst part was that earlier I’d been asking him about it. I’d been wondering where he’d gone.

“Are you asking me why I don’t fuck you Frankie?”

“As long as you’re here, I own you Frankie,” he growled. “You keep forgetting that. I owe you no answers. I owe you no bargains. And you are to obey me.” His fingers curled around my thighs, skin digging into skin. “I don’t know where the fuck you got alcohol but I’m going to find out.”

A sob caught in my throat. “I should just go then.”

He leaned down, his whispered words like razors against my ear. “You should.”

“You would kill him though,” I spat. “You fucking murderer, you leave me no choice. It would be like I’d put the knife in his belly myself.” With a violent shove, he pushed me away. The small table shuddered with the movement. I heard his footfalls soften, the elevator ding, and then I assumed I was alone. Afraid to move, I stayed where I was. Exposed. Open. The frigid air licking at my skin.

My head pounded rough and brutal. I felt awful. It was like my emotions were coopting my drunken state and twisting it for their use.

“So stay.” When he spoke, I jumped. I’d thought he’d gone back down with the elevator. “And put the knife in your own belly instead.” I heard the elevator close and this time I was certain he was gone.

I stared at the shattered glass shards on the ground, made blurry by the snow.

Or maybe those were the tears in my eyes.

Fourteen

Anteros woke with a start, bright light streaming through the windows. He must have fallen asleep on the desk. The last thing he remembered doing after dinner with Frankie was going to the office. He stayed up but he didn’t work at all. He stared out the windows at the glimmering, devil-eyed city trying to work out a different problem.

Frankie.

He’d taken Frankie to the roof, had a dinner prepared. She’d been drunk. Anteros hated those who couldn’t handle their liquor, but that wasn’t what drove him to madness with her. It wasn’t that she’d somehow circumvented his rules and found alcohol, it was that her drunken state was another reminder of what he already knew: he was losing it.

With her, he was out of control.

The morning after the funeral when he’d awoken and seen Frankie in his bed, he’d realized just how close to the sun he was flying. He knew he should have sold her that morning, gotten rid of her somehow, but instead he’d prepared a date for her. He was addicted to the heat on his wings.

She constantly drove him to do things he would never do, to say things he had no intention of saying. He hadn’t planned to tell her about her father, had every intention of locating the idiot and continuing their arrangement, but the words had fallen like a loose tooth from his mouth. Even still, she drove more from him. Anteros was a collected and calm man. In interrogations, he never spilled, and the scars on his body were testament to that.

With Frankie, he spilled like a tipped over oil can.

He knew what was happening, too, but still it didn’t help. For some reason, Anteros couldn’t lie to her. He could keep secrets from anyone else, but if Frankie asked him point blank, he was compelled to tell her. Where he once had been so calculated he was almost robotic, now he was becoming…sloppy, emotional even.

Anteros stared at the door, wondering. He’d basically opened the door for her and said, Go. He hadn’t seen her since leaving her at the table and driving the point home. She was so blind to what she was doing by staying with him. There was no honor in staying, and for another fucking reason he couldn’t figure out, he’d had to show her that. He half expected to walk out and find her gone.

He exhaled through his nostrils. No, she wouldn’t go.

She was too attached to her fuckhead of a father.

Did she not realize what a complete craven she sacrificed herself for? Why did she keep risking everything for such a complete piece of human garbage? Still, when he gave her the opportunity to run far away, to never see him again, she kept risking herself. Loyalty was something to be admired, but not when it was at the expense of the person giving it. She was just so fucking maddening.

She should take his bargain and run far, far away from him. It would kill many birds. If she left, he wouldn’t have to worry about the Wolves, about fucking up his life. She would be gone, out of his hair. He could go back to his normal self.

He stared at the grains in the door, wondering if she had gone. Anteros had turned off the video monitors the night before, not wanting to watch her, trying to get her out of his system like a junkie during a detox. He had no idea if she’d gone to bed or if she’d slipped out the front door.

Maybe she was out in New York.

Or maybe she’d gone back to Jersey, to the empty home where her father had abandoned her. He put his hands together on his desk and leaned forward, staring at the door, fighting the urge to stand and check. The clock ticked one…two…three seconds, and Anteros folded his hands together, so tight the nails dug into the skin. Another few seconds passed, his eyes boring into the wood. If she left, it would fix so many of his problems.

“This is fucking stupid,” Anteros said to himself. He stood just as the door opened. With his hands pressed flat on the desk, he paused, waiting to see who would come through the door. He knew who it was—it was the person who always came at this hour—yet for some reason he thought it might be someone else.

Someone with long, curling brown hair.

Nikolai appeared in the doorway. “To the docks, Boss?”

* * *

Anteros arrived at the docks at the same time as Rhys and Emilio.

“Senator Hatch is, of course, upset,” Rhys said. As Anteros opened the door and took a seat behind his desk, Rhys walked to the middle of the room and Emilio slouched onto the couch. Unlike his Wolves, Rhys never took a seat. He never was entirely comfortable in the office. Anteros leaned back while Rhys continued. “He was under the impression we were going to allow him to simply step down.”

“Well,” Anteros said, leaning forward and bringing his fingers together in a point. “He was a fool.”

“I am still concerned about damage control…” Rhys continued, but Anteros found his focus waning, thoughts drifting to the night before. Frankie had looked radiant, her gold dress catching the lights above them like dragon scales. Anteros still wasn’t sure where she’d gotten the alcohol, but if he had learned anything about Frankie these short weeks, it was that she had hidden depths of intelligence and she was full of surprises. Finding alcohol was probably the least she could do.

“And,” Rhys continued, “I have sources that say he’s not going to let this go—” The door burst open, cutting Rhys’s words off at the quick. His wolves, minus Crazy A, came barreling through.

“Have you heard of knocking?” Rhys asked, irritation lacing his tongue. “We were in the middle of something.”

“What’s that?” Big O asked, taking a seat on the couch.

“Knocking?” Pretty Boy put a hand to his chin, sliding into his seat. “Is that a British thing?”

“The bald bastard and the De Luca bastard have more manners than us,” Little O commented, taking a seat. “They weren’t raised by wolves.” He grinned, baring teeth.

Rhys’s eyes clouded under a furrowed brow. “Always good to see you, Nico, Orlando, Ottavio.” Rhys nodded to them, tone clipped. He adjusted his coat, making a motion to leave. Turning to Anteros, he said, “I will fill you in later, Mr. Drago.” He headed toward the door and Emilio trailed after like a puppy.

When they were gone, Anteros turned to his Wolves. “Has Crazy A spoken with you all?” Anteros disguised the fact that he wasn’t sure. It was obvious that Crazy A wasn’t at the meeting, and that would have been a mortal insult had Anteros decided to address it. The other Wolves probably thought that Anteros was allowing it, and Anteros chose to let that implication lie.

“I haven’t seen him since before the funeral,” Pretty Boy said. Little O and Big O nodded in agreement, and Anteros paused for a moment. If no one had seen Crazy A, then that meant they knew nothing about The Council’s involvement with the attack. Before Frankie, he’d never before questioned whether to fill his Wolves in on anything, but he sat behind his desk, fingers thrumming on the wood, uncertain yet again.

“Just means I get the chair.” Little O shrugged deeper into the seat in the corner.

“What is it Boss?” Big O asked, noting the way Anteros thrummed his fingers. Anteros watched the pads of his fingers connect with the wood, slowly shifting his head back up to them.

“It’s nothing,” Anteros replied after a few moments. At his words, he thought back to Crazy A. I’m questioning you now. He’d never lied to his Wolves before or kept anything from them, but here he was, keeping a secret.

“I’ve been thinking about what Crazy A said down at the docks,” Pretty Boy said. “Ever since you bought the slave, things have been getting really fucked up. Just look at the funeral.”

“That had nothing to do with Frankie,” Anteros replied, louder than he had intended.

“Frankie?” Pretty Boy’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead.

“The slave,” he amended. A few minutes passed in silence. Big O stood up off the couch and picked the plush basketball off the ground, unperturbed by the quiet. The low rumble of the heater sounded, vibrating through the walls. Kneading the ball between his fingers, Big O watched Anteros. They all did.

“With all due respect…” Pretty Boy said with a cough, breaking the silence. “Nothing to do with the slave?”

“You committed a fucking honor killing,” Little O pointed out.

“Arlo’s dead because he tried to take something that didn’t belong to him,” Anteros said, fists curled. There was an edge to his voice that even he was surprised to hear. Little O’s eyes went wide and he quickly shut his mouth, sitting back in the seat. Someone, maybe Big O, sucked in a breath.

As if trying to change the subject, Little O said, “So I’ve started beating up the homeless. We’ve never gone this long without a hit and I’m pent the fuck up.”

“Where are you doing that?” Big O asked curiously. “I haven’t seen any homeless.”

“I don’t know if they’re homeless,” Little O confessed. “They could be hipsters.”

Big O nodded and, putting a finger to his lip, pointed it back at his brother. “Doing God’s work.”

Barely a moment passed before Pretty Boy said, “She isn’t good for you, Boss. You need to get rid of her.”

“It’s off the fucking table,” Anteros yelled, slamming his fist down on the table. The wood cracked a little. After all the abuse it had suffered, it was a wonder it had lasted so long. In the ensuing silence that followed, Anteros stared at his fist on the table. He could feel their eyes on him, their surprise and confusion hot like irons. Anteros never lost his cool, never got emotional. Then again, they hadn’t been around him and Frankie.

He exhaled.

His Wolves made a point.

“Just get the fuck out.” Anteros sat back down, rubbing his fingers through the muscles on his forehead. “All of you.”

* * *

Anteros was knotted up when he got home, filled with a fury that couldn’t be wetted. The morning started off terribly and the day didn’t go any better. Everything his Wolves said was rational, yet his mind warred against it.

He was unrested.

Angry.

He needed an outlet for his anger. When he was a soldier, he killed so often, there was always something or someone to punch. As Boss, it was spreadsheets and organizing kills, not real blood. Red, sticky liquid coating your hands—that was the reason he’d been at Antonio Notte’s.

He’d felt caged.

Anteros stood in the foyer of his home, coat hanging from his hand. Floor-to-ceiling windows sprawled from the first floor to the second, but he felt it again, the caged feeling. His gaze drifted to the library.

He dropped his coat.

Anteros expected her to be on the chair as she always was, but it was vacant. Alarm overcame him. He curled his fists and sucked in a breath, stymying his anger—anger not at Frankie, but at himself…foolish, stupid, anger that he’d given Frankie the okay to leave in the first place. Confronted with the reality of her departure, he realized he would never, could never—

Then he saw her. On her knees, book in hand, she appeared to be grabbing something from the bottom shelf. She looked so beautiful, so submissive like that, but it wasn’t her pose that stopped him in his tracks.

“What are you wearing?” His voice was hoarse. Frankie gasped at his voice, dropping the book. She turned to look at him then looked down at herself.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It was what was laid out today.” He groaned. There must have been a mix-up with the stylist, but for once he didn’t care. The mistake was fantastic.

Frankie was in his shirt and all she wore underneath were tight gray leggings.

“It’s a bit odd.” She fell back on her heels with a sigh. “But I’ve stopped questioning it. I assume they’re wearing this stupid sh—stuff in Paris or something?” Frankie looked up at Anteros, eyes big and bright. The shirt she wore—his shirt—was unbuttoned down to her collarbone. It was so much larger than her that it hung off her shoulder

With a growl he gripped her palm, pulling her up until she was pressed against him. “This is my shirt.”

She looked down again and laughed. “Duh…” Trailing off, her gaze traveled back to his. Her eyes widened as if taking him in for the first time. Her face twisted in fear, afraid the harsh fury clouding him was directed at her. She wiggled as if she could escape. Anteros grasped her harder, anchoring her against him.

He found he wasn’t so angry anymore.

Frankie had twisted his rage into burning lust.

“It’s not my fault,” Frankie began hastily. “I didn’t go into your closet. This was on my bed. I didn’t do anyth—”

Anteros silenced her with a kiss.

* * *

Anteros broke the kiss and Frankie looked up at him, her face a mix of confusion and lust. He wasn’t done with her, though. His blood felt boiled, it was as if he was jonesing for her. Demanding Frankie’s gaze, demanding her stare, Anteros stuck his hand into her leggings. Her lids widened then dropped to half-mast. She was hot and wet. He slid his palm against her then removed his hand, placing his fingers against his lips. He groaned as he licked the taste from them.

She was so fucking good.

“How I’ve still yet to taste you from the source…” Anteros trailed off, cupping her face with both of his hands and plunging his tongue into her mouth so she could taste the little bit of her on his tongue. Her body uncoiled, eventually slackening against him and his tongue, and she groaned into his mouth.

Anteros kissed her cheek, her ear, down her jaw, trailing the column of her neck to the hollow of her throat and along the wings of her collarbone. He was overcome, needing to taste every part of her within seconds. Falling to his knees, he lifted up the shirt to see her slightly rounded tummy. Frankie gripped his shoulders as if trying to remain steady. He kissed the honey-colored flesh below her belly button and tugged at the tight fabric of her leggings, lowering them past her round ass.

He was savage in his need to taste her, blinded with red-hot lust. All he could think about was getting the fucking fabric off her body, his flesh to her flesh.

“Wait!” Anteros looked up at the beseeching tone in Frankie’s voice. “I just…never mind.” She looked away, resigned. Pausing, he frowned. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d revealed her father’s betrayal. She was probably mourning, either the father she’d thought she had, or a life she could have had, but she knew the rules: if she stayed, he owned her. Yet something inside of him told him to stop. He held her ass and, with a groan, leaned his head against her thigh.

“Tell me to stop and I will, mio cuore.” The words sounded odd coming from his mouth. It was not his usual cadence; it was soothing and caressing, as if talking to a frightened doe. Frankie frowned at him anyway, disbelief etched into every line in her face.

Anteros let his grip fall from her ass slowly and stood up. Her pants were nearly past her thighs, shirt up to her chest. Her hair was a mess, her face flushed in that delicious ruby glow. Every part of him screamed to take her, to make her his. Still, he couldn’t, not until she gave him the okay. Her lips were pulled as if holding in words. With a frustrated groan, Anteros turned to leave the library. He was nearly out the door when—

“Wait,” Frankie's throaty whisper called to him. He turned back to see she was chewing on her lower lip, crystal gaze flickering from him to the fire. Anteros raised a brow. “Don’t go,” she said, eyes locking with his at last. Before she could change her mind, Anteros closed the short distance between them. He cupped her by the ass and waist, placing her on the floor.

He ripped her pants off the rest of the way and spread her legs with his shoulders. The way Frankie wrapped her legs around him and speared her hands into his hair showed she had no intention of stopping. Good, Anteros thought. There was no way he could stop now. Lust had taken control.

When he saw her he hissed. He’d seen her bare, seen her up close, even, but now he was so close he could nearly taste her. The fire made her glow. Frankie was so wet, the juices dripped down her and sparkled like diamonds. With his fingers he gently opened her, spreading her for his tongue. Frankie gasped when he tasted her, Anteros groaned as she hit the back of his throat. So fucking delicious, so utterly Frankie. He could stay there for hours, getting high on her.

He gripped her thighs, needing more of her. She was so fucking wet, she dripped past his lips and down his jaw. Anteros thought he might drown in it, in her. Frankie’s fingers tugged at his hair, tight and hard, pulling at the roots in a painful way. It was a good pain, a pain that let him know how close to madness he was driving her.

In sync with the melody of her pants and moans, he flattened his tongue against her slit in one long lick that ended against her clit, where he sucked her long, slow, and hard. Her back arched and her toes turned to points against the flesh of his back. Against his mouth he felt her throb and pulse as she came undone.

“Oh God,” she gasped. “Oh I’m…I’m…” Her words trailed off into a long, melodic moan. He looked up, watching her face. Her jaw slackened, her eyes rolled back and she lolled her head to the side, looking utterly spent. For a moment, she lost herself. Anteros latched onto that moment like a bee to honey, because seconds later awareness returned. She realized what she’d just done, how much she’d given away, and she was untangling herself from him, pulling his shirt down, looking for her pants.

Anteros slid up like a panther, taking her into his arms. He didn’t care that she’d pulled away. Didn’t care that she was stiff and rigid against him. Didn’t care that she covered her body again.

He’d just had a glimpse of her naked soul.

Fifteen

This must be a fantasy, or at least my brain has finally broken under the torment and I’ve gone insane.

What he just did to my body, it was—Jesus. For a moment my soul fractured. That thing I’d been safeguarding against fucking happened. I knew the Beast could make me orgasm, that wasn’t a shock—he’d basically been doing it since day one. I tried to fight it but, I mean, there was little I could do about it since one, he apparently knew his way around the female form and two, he had more sex toys than Doc Johnson.

But coming?

Giving my mind and soul over to him?

Yeah, I could do something about that. When he touched me like that, though, I fell apart. It was so gentle and tender and it felt like he was with me, whoever he was before the Beast. I’d given him a piece of myself.

Dammit.

After what he said to me on the roof, I’d told myself I would steel myself to his advances, really steel myself. If I had to live here, then there would be no more of this push-pull crap. I decided I wouldn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe him. My papa wouldn’t leave me here. That was just, that was not even a possibility. What was a possibility, though, was that the big bad mafia Beast that I’d traded myself to was a liar.

That made a hell of a lot of sense.

After I…well, after…I tried to get away from him, tried to crawl away, but he captured me. Now he was holding me, like we were spooning, like fucking cuddling or something. I stared into the fire, wishing I could throw my memories into it, wishing I could make them burn into ash.

“Are you hungry?” His breath was hot against my neck.

“No,” I lied.

“You lie.” He pulled away from me and then his hand was reaching for mine. Warily I grasped it. He tugged me up from the floor, and then he kept me at a standstill, his hand holding mine, not letting us leave. There was space between us, but his stare consumed the distance. His gaze raked over me, hungry, devouring.

God, I feel so stupid.

Not just about giving up a piece of myself, but the fucking shirt. What fucking idiot puts on a men’s shirt thinking it’s haute couture?

An idiot who’s never left the suburbs, that’s who.

“Are we going to get food or what?” I finally asked, gaze pinned to the soft-looking carpet.

“Just looking at you, mio cuore.” His words were tinted with amusement and I glanced up to see his face twisting in a wicked grin. Beast pulled me quickly into him, and the distance we had suddenly, sharply, vanished. Pressed against his chest, I felt everything—not just the physical of his muscles and his hard, even breaths, but the emotional, his deep, penetrating gaze. “Does my stare bother you?”

I shrugged against him. “No,” I said defensively. “Just thought you wanted food.” He held me against him a moment, not talking.

“You’re right,” he said, and let me go. I followed him out of the library and into the kitchen. Then my eyes widened, bewildered, as Beast started taking things out of the fridge and pantry. He turned on the stove and placed a pan over the fire, arranging meats, vegetables, and other ingredients…things that looked like milk, or dressing? I don’t know, I don’t cook.

“You cook?” I asked skeptically—because I didn’t think the Beast cooked either.

Beast placed the meat in the pan with an amused expression on his face. “Sometimes I wonder how you think I’ve survived this life, mio cuore.” I narrowed my eyes slightly. He called me that thing again, mee-oh something. What did it mean? Was it like Italian for slave?

He looked at me, waiting.

“You have people that cook for you.” I gestured to the giant ass penthouse we were currently in. “You have people make you eggs every morning.”

The hiss of oil meeting flesh sounded as the chicken hit the pan. “I was not always waited on hand and foot.”

“You were an orphan,” I said, remembering what he’d said that fateful night on the roof before everything went to shit. He nodded, adding some kind of sauce to the chicken. I waited for any sign that he would expound, add meaning to the word. He simply continued to cook, adding vegetables to bowls, spices to the chicken.

I wasn’t a cook; the most I could do was make various sandwiches—PB & J, grilled cheese, ham and Swiss. I started “cooking” when I was like five. Mom died when I was three, and she was the cook. Papa tried for a year. I mean, he did his best. He had his own limitations. We all have our limitations. You wouldn’t ask someone without arms to lift boxes.

I didn’t ask Papa to cook.

Some of the things Beast was cooking I didn’t even know the name for. It was all very colorful, very fresh smelling, yet also buttery too, thick and creamy.

My mouth watered.

He placed the yummy-smelling food on plates then brought them around to the bar. From behind my careful perch, guarded by the kitchen counter, I watched him sit down with the dinner.

Beast gestured for me. “Come, sit.” I could feel the frown on my face, the lines of incredulity and skepticism. Beast was being way too nice. That night on the roof he’d basically said if I stayed, not only was I staying his slave but I was stupid, that by not killing my dad I was killing myself. Had he really just made me dinner? I gripped the counter as if it was a shield. Beast watched my fingers tighten on the granite, his face slowly morphing from patience to frustration.

I knew that face.

Hesitantly I walked around and attempted to take a seat next to him. He stopped me, gripping my arm so I couldn’t sit. Dread filled my gut. What had I done?

“What?” I asked.

“You will eat with me.” He tugged at me, pulling me closer. The motion twisted me off balance and I fell into his lap.

* * *

“I don’t really know how I can eat like this,” I said. I faced the Beast, not the plate. My arms were on my lap, as I refused to put them around his neck.

“You can’t,” he said with trademark laconic dispassion. I looked into his sharp, stolid features for what he meant, but was met instead with impassivity. I shifted slightly, uncomfortable and unbalanced on his lap. What did he mean? Should I just watch him eat?

My gut dropped.

Probably.

I clenched my jaw, swallowing, and focused on the opposite wall. We sat in silence again, rushing and straining until I couldn’t breathe from the quiet. My face got hot with emotion, and I hated myself for it, hated that I’d given so much already, hated that I gave a little more each day. I hated that he could touch me and I crumbled; I hated that he showed me kindness and I caved completely.

Mostly I hated that there was a part of me that hoped, a part that kept giving and giving despite all the other parts yelling not to, because that part hoped he would eventually give back too. No matter how much I hardened myself, if I was honest, I knew part of me would keep giving and keep hoping. It was like trying to cover a leak in a boat when you didn’t know where the leak was. I closed my eyes, trying to crush the avalanche of emotion in my chest.

Wet. Delicious.

My eyes shot to his, wide. Something probed my lips, wet and buttery. He pressed a fork to my lips, filled with a bite of the sauce-covered meat—chicken, maybe.

In silence I let him feed me, too afraid to ruin it. I stared into his eyes as he brought the silverware up to my lips, eyes locked with mine. He would return the fork to the plate, appearing to pick the pieces carefully. The entire time I kept my eyes locked with his, until he set the fork down, pausing.

“Tell me something about yourself, mio cuore.”

“What do you want to know?

“Anything.”

“Um,” I smacked my lips, unsure of what to say.

He smiled. I focused on that smile. “I had a cat,” I wished I could take the words back immediately. I didn’t want Beast to have this part of me, but I’d focused on his smile, on how warm and unbeastly it was, and it had just slipped out.

“Tell me more,” he urged.

“It wasn’t really my cat.” It was a stray and I wished I could bring him inside, but Papa was completely against it. I would bring food out to him and we would sit together.

“What was its name?”

“Cleary.” Cleary had the biggest purr; it sounded like a truck. The vibrations would reverberate through your entire body and make everything better.

His cheek quirked. “Unusual name.”

“I looked it up in an old baby book,” I explained. “It means ‘to gain knowledge from old books.’” It fit him. Beast smiled but said nothing. I whispered, “People say black cats are unlucky, but he was the only thing that got me through being sick.”

“You were sick?” Beast was staring at me earnestly. There was no twisting in his stare, no will to transform or use what I said against me. Still, I just couldn’t go any further, couldn’t reveal any more of myself. Cleary had been my best friend—my only friend—but one day he never came back and it had absolutely destroyed me.

“I don’t…” I turned back to the plate, half full with food. “I’m still hungry.” I could feel his desire to press, to open me up. I knew if he kept probing, I probably would spill everything, spill what happened to Cleary, all the years I was sick, and Beast would own yet another part of me.

But Beast picked up the fork, and continued to feed me.

It was a ritual.

I opened for him, my lips enveloped the flavor, swallow, repeat, eyes and minds connected the entire time.

“Full?” he asked. I nodded, but I wasn’t even sure. I wasn’t paying attention to my stomach. He placed the silverware down behind me with a clank and shoved the lot of it into the adjacent sink. They landed with a crash and it sounded like something might have broken.

“But you haven’t eaten.” My voice was hardly above a whisper.

“Suddenly I’m not hungry for food.” His lips descended on mine, arms tugging me closer to him. I was pressed so close I was sure my ribs might crack but I found myself thinking it would be a wonderful pain. He lessened his hold on me, running his hands along my back, fingers pressing deep into my flesh. Distantly my mind told me I should stop, that there was a reason I should be fighting, but I couldn’t find the will to make it matter in that moment. All that mattered was the smell of him, rich and spicy, the touch of him, enveloping and demanding.

I could feel him hardening beneath me.

His tongue probed me, as if looking for all of my secret spots, but was somehow also maddeningly teasing. Sweeping and sucking and tracing, only giving me what he allowed, only allowing me to give him what he permitted. I groaned as his hands found their way into my hair, tugging me closer, as if trying to swallow my soul from my body.

Gently he pulled away, and I was gasping, panting, staring at my fingers fisted in his shirt as if they were alien. When had I done that?

“Mio cuore,” He looked deeply at me, almost frustrated.

“What?” I asked breathlessly.

He traced my cheek with his knuckles. “I have to leave.” He gently lifted me off his lap then set me back on the stool. I watched his motions, watched him walk down the hall, enter his room. He changed into a new suit. I watched everything, as if glued to a screen.

I watched him leave.

Yep. I’ve definitely gone insane, but I don’t want to take the pills. I never want this to end.

* * *

Some time after the Beast left, I pulled myself off the stool and walked down to my room. I was nearly there when I was tugged harshly to the side.

“Nikolai,” I said, heart hammering. “You really need to work on your intros.”

“You need to be made aware of something,” Nikolai hissed. “Beast is telling the truth about your father.”

“What?” It felt like someone punched me in the chest. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he is telling the truth. Your father was given the option to take you back and he said no, but that’s not what you need to know, Frankie.”

“I…” I stumbled away, my back hitting the door to my room. “I can’t…” My fingers quickly fumbled with the knob to my bedroom door and I pushed it open. I slammed it against Nikolai.

Rude, I know.

But I just couldn’t deal with Nikolai and whatever his manipulations were that day.

I lay in bed, staring at the door, thinking. Sometimes slaughterhouses give the animals a really great last day. Like, their lives are so shitty so their final day is filled with pets and yummy food, a day out in the wild, whatever to-be-slaughtered animals crave. I wondered if that was what today was.

The horrible truth was, the thing I craved was Beast—his touch, his affection. Beast said that by staying here, by not leaving, instead of putting the knife in Papa, I was putting it in myself. Nikolai had confirmed what Beast had said, and I had no reason not to trust him. If I was being completely honest…I had known Beast wasn’t lying.

I just didn’t want to admit it.

I could leave. I could leave and Papa would die…or I could stay. Today had been, well, kind of marvelous. If I stayed, all the days might be like today, but what did that say about me?

I stared so long at the white wood, wondering which person I should betray by staying or leaving, that the wood began to distort. My eyes got tired with unblinking. I worried if I blinked, I would see inside myself.

I couldn’t go inside of myself; there was too much truth.

The door burst open and I jumped, falling back with a scream. I looked up, expecting Beast, but instead Gabby stood in the doorframe.

“Gabby.” I said her name on an exhale. Gripping the edge of the bed, I pulled myself up and continued, “Jesus. You scared me.” Yep, that’s it. I’m not terrified by my inner demons.

“Gabby?” Her eyes were red and puffy, so swollen, and her face was splotchy. She looked like an absolute mess. I was grateful for her tears, and that sounds so shitty, but her problems provided an outlet for me to forget about mine. I just could not process what was going on with me. I couldn’t think about Papa, couldn’t start to wrap my mind around it, so I focused on her.

“Gabby, what’s wrong?” I climbed back up on the bed and crawled over to where Gabby sat. She hiccupped a cry, as if unable to talk through the pain. The last time we’d met, we’d talked about that stupid flyer and Levi.

Everything had been really good for her.

“I learned something about Levi today,” she said, her words breathless with pain. I paused, prepared for the worst. “The Pavonis…” She swallowed. “They sold his mother to The Institute.”

“The Institute?” I questioned. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“The Institute,” she said, taking a deep breath. “It’s, um, it’s like…” Her eyes filled with tears. “They buy women and they sell them to others. They’re like a middleman. Women get sold to them and then they have auctions. If no one buys the woman, then they, um…” She choked up. “I can’t.” She stood up off the bed and paced. “I can’t believe this is happening.” Now I remembered, from that night at the club, when the assholes had talked about how I was going to be sold to The Institute.

I shivered slightly but refocused my attention on Gabby.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I mean, it’s really awful—terrible—but why are you so upset?” It was kind of par for the course. Gabby had grown up with shit like that happening.

“I asked him to run away with me,” she continued. “To get out.” Gabby paused for a moment when she said that, her eyes betraying something to me, something that didn’t need to be said. I understood it clearly. Given the chance, I would run away too. At least, I used to think I would.

Shaking my head, I asked, “What did he say?”

“That’s when he told me about his mother.”

I frowned. “Oh.”

“He said he would get me out,” Gabby said. “That he would help get me out, get me in WITSEC until he could take them down, but…” She trailed off and we both stared ahead, the conclusion bright as a neon sign in our brains. There was no taking them down. Levi would die first, and Gabby would be forced to watch.

Suddenly Gabby turned to me, filled with eagerness. “Look I’ve been doing some research about the Pavoni Princess. Maybe you can help. You can take them down.”

“What?” I asked, actually throwing my head back. “Gabby I’m sorry, but no. I’m not a princess.” Her brown eyes were so big and beseeching. I felt like such a tool, but me take down the Beast? Was she insane? Her entire body deflated, sadness filling her up like toxic gas.

I quickly changed the topic. “Can you explain it to him? Explain what’s really going to happen?”

She threw up a hand in frustration and walked away. “He just kept repeating witness protection, witness protection. He doesn’t understand there is no hiding from the Family, at least not with the government. He’s so determined to get his mother back.”

“Did you tell him about The Institute?” I asked. “Tell him that…that his mother is probably dead?” A long, painful silence followed my question. When she spoke the shame and sadness in her voice was so deep the word sounded like the death howl of a dying dog.

“No.”

My face twisted in a sorrowful grimace. “Gabby…”

“How could I?” She rounded on me. “You try being the one to tell your boyfriend that. It’s the one thing he has of his family, and my family took it from him.”

“I know.” I sighed. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve stopped returning his calls, stopped seeing him.”

“That’s not going to stop him.”

She fidgeted with her coat. “I, um, I made a call to his original precinct, to 69. I, um, I told them he’d been compromised.”

My hand flew to my mouth in a gasp. “He’s going to hate you.”

“He won’t know it was me for awhile.” Gabby tugged hard on the edge of her coat. “And it’s better than him being dead.” Silence fell again. She walked back and forth, pacing across the floor. I waited for her to share more information, or for her to come over to me. It was like she didn’t want comfort, like there was a war going on inside her head.

I understood that.

All at once Gabby stopped her pacing and looked at the clock on the wall. “I have to go. I only had thirty minutes.” She didn’t say anything else, we didn’t exchange hugs.

When she left, sadness clung in my gut like a dead weight. I wished I could help her somehow. I wasn’t a princess though. When she closed the door, I was back to staring at it, but this time my thoughts weren’t about myself.

When the door opened again, I was still thinking about Gabby.

* * *

Beast walked over and scooped me up off the bed, carrying me out of my room. At first I stiffened, fearful of the new way he was holding me and certain it was going to end badly. Then my fear transformed into complete shock.

He’s carrying me?

“Did you enjoy your friend?” he asked as we walked down the hallway like it was perfectly normal for him to be carrying me this way.

“You sent Gabby?” I immediately wished I could take it back. At the shock in my voice, he narrowed his eyes.

“Who else would have?” he asked. I had assumed it was Nikolai, that he was thrusting us together again. I should have known Beast wouldn’t have known that. He kicked open his bedroom door and walked us both inside.

“I was just surprised,” I said, changing the subject. “Thank you.” He set me down on the bed then kneeled between my thighs.

He touched my cheek. “You look upset.”

I leaned into the embrace. “Gabby was having a hard day.” The cameras had recorded our entire conversation, crying and all, so I had to come up with something. Gabby had been too upset to think about them, and it was all on tape. Beast nodded, stood up, and began taking off his suit jacket. He stretched out his tie and pulled it over his head. Next, he unbuttoned his cuff links, then he began unbuttoning the shirt itself. I realized what was happening: Beast was undressing in front of me, and not in a sexual way.

Well, it was sexual in the sense that everything with Beast was sexual, but he was clearly just undressing, just coming home from whatever work he’d had to do.

I was mesmerized.

It was like I was witnessing something special, like I was let in on a secret, as if I was witnessing the Aurora Borealis, or something even more rare, like those meteors that only come every hundred years or so.

When he was finished, he was shirtless but still in his pants. He came over to me. “Your mouth is open.”

I blinked, shaking my head and closing my mouth. Then I glanced at his pants, at the massive tent that had grown in them, and swallowed. He gripped my lip between his thumb and forefinger, nudging my mouth back open. I obeyed. My gaze shifted from his, back down to his pants.

It was so hard. Demanding.

I found myself reaching for his trousers. In seconds I had unzipped them and reached inside. I’d never given anyone a blowjob before—remember how I’d never even really been kissed before? Yet I was in some kind of trance, filled with an insane person’s courage and boldness. I grasped his cock. It was so hot and smooth and the feel of it in my palm felt like victory. I looked for a sign that what I was doing was okay. His gaze was intense, burning like molten liquid, scorching me to my core. I parted my lips, needing a breath just from looking at him. Everything about him was so feral, as if he wanted to tear into me. Beneath all that intensity I saw a need, a burning need that matched my own. I pulled him out, my fingers not even fitting around his cock.

His fingers whispered against my neck, gently clasping my hair from the base and gathering it into a ponytail. At the same time, I opened my mouth, ready to take him in. I was so ready, I throbbed at the sight of it. He was thick and veiny and somehow so soft. I lifted his cock, guiding it toward my mouth. The Beast emitted a low, virile moan when my lips met the hot skin. The hands that had once gently held my hair wound themselves in a knot.

My lips smoothed along his shaft as I sucked him in, my tongue twirling and licking him. I took in as much of him as I could at a time, attempting all the tricks I’d seen in porn and read about in books. I looked up to check that I wasn’t completely screwing it up and the way he looked at me, with such intensity and adoration, did something to me. It awakened something primal inside me and it made me do something bold—I lightly grazed my teeth along his shaft.

The shift was instantaneous. The fingers in my hair tightened, the grip sharp and painful and so good. He commanded me. I no longer fucked him, but he me. It was a fast and hard and unrelenting rhythm. He plowed into my mouth and his groans grew louder.

I snuck a peek at his face. He was totally losing it. I felt a wash of something new: power. I had power over him. I snaked my tongue lightly against him. He groaned, his whole body tensing. This was new. I actually had power. All my earlier hesitations vanished. I grabbed his ass and pulled him closer, sucking hard on his cock. He pulled my hair hard and his cock throbbed dangerously in my mouth. He was about to come.

The Beast sensed it as well and tugged me off him by my hair. I looked up at him, my lips drenched in saliva and his pre-cum. He growled, his face masked by too many thoughts and feelings. I raised my brow, head slightly cocked.

I tried to reach back to suck him back in, and in that moment, I realized something. The realization broke through the lusty trance.

I wanted his come in my mouth.

I didn’t have a moment to analyze, to freak out, because he came. Hot spurts splashed on my chest, and then I was in his arms.

* * *

He opened up the window and the frigid air was a chilly whisper on my neck. I cuddled deeper into the blankets. Naked, he looked out over New York City. Sweat glistened on the muscles of his back. His muscles were like steel wrapped in velvet. Everything was perfect, from the curve in his shoulders, to the faint spirals of scars on his skin, down to his dimpled ass, and his thick, roped thighs.

I sighed.

It wasn’t his beautiful body that had me staring, though. It was like he’d gotten hit on the head or something these past twenty-four hours. He was a completely different person. There was absolutely no fucking way I was calling the doctor, though; this person was kind and gentle.

I rolled away from him, dragging the blankets with me, and stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t let me clean off, hadn’t cleaned me off either. Afterward he’d pulled me up, smashing against him in a sticky, hot mess. Now I was dry and caked but I didn’t feel gross; I felt so good. My limbs felt warm and used, like after the gym. I couldn’t help from flexing and releasing my toes beneath the blankets and a stupid, dopey smile was on my face.

“What does mee-oh kwore-ay mean?” I asked, still staring up at the ceiling. I tried to say the word he’d been using but exaggerated a bit and failed to roll my R properly.

“What is this?” he asked. I rolled over on my stomach to get a better look at him. Was it possible that I was actually happy? No, that was dumb. I couldn’t be happy. It was just that he had been treating me so well the past day. It was crazy, like some light switch had been flipped in his head. I had this stupid, insane thought that maybe I could have my cake and eat it too. Papa could go on living his stupid, asshole life and I could live here, with Beast.

What was the harm?

Papa would get to live and I would get happiness. I’d never had happiness before. I realized that now. You don’t really realize you don’t have it until you do. It’s like being in the dark and suddenly having the lights turned on. In the dark you’re used to the black, but now with the lights on, I realized how dingy everything was before.

“What is what?” I asked.

He held up a pink flyer.

My eyes widened. I knew what that flyer was, but it wasn’t the flyer. My flyer was safely tucked away in Sofia’s journal, so what the fuck was that flyer doing there?

“I don’t know,” I responded, trying to stay cool. “What is it?”

“Are you telling me you have no idea what this is?” he replied. His voice had gone cold, cruel, like the first night and nearly every night after. I sat up and grabbed the sheets, pulling them up past my breasts. He stalked over to me, keeping the window open behind him. His gaze had gone dark, like the midnight sky. I looked beyond him to the moon outside then back.

“I don’t know what that is, but you’re scaring me,” I said. He leaned over me, menacing, towering. His arm shot out and his hand gripped me by the throat in a flash. I grappled with the sensation, his grip closing tighter as he lifted me up off the bed by my throat.

The sheets fell from my body, my legs slipped against the bed, and I grasped his hands. My eyes were probably wide, but everything was dimming as my breath got weaker. Then he chucked me to the ground.

Like garbage.

I had seconds to feel hurt and broken before he was advancing toward me again. Naked, I scrambled away as he stalked closer. I stood up and ran to the door.

“Get the fuck out,” he growled. His low voice had gotten even lower, and it warbled with the bass and intensity. I rushed outside into the hallway and the door slammed shut behind me.

Never again, I vowed. I will never again let myself be this vulnerable.

Sixteen

Never again, Anteros thought, taking another shot. He would never again let himself be that exposed. He would never turn into that person. He was The Beast, not some fucking pussy.

He took another shot and signaled to the nearest woman for another round. Anteros had left the penthouse minutes after slamming his bedroom door in Frankie's face. Then he spent the night in one of his clubs, hammering shots like water.

The club was like a sultan’s harem in a Victorian world. Decorative chandeliers hung from wrought iron stems, their crystal beads oozing sensual red light. Gauzy jewel-toned fabrics hung from the ceiling, ranging from sheer to thick draperies, creating the illusion of privacy. The music was a deep, sensual beat that thrummed in your veins.

All the men were dressed in tuxedos, all except for the Beast, who had thrown on a pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt in his haste. The women ranged from completely naked to fully dressed, but all of them were in masquerade masks.

All you had to do was ask, and they would strip. Every single one.

Anteros took another shot.

“Just like the old days,” Little O said, lifting up a veil and taking a seat. A woman in nothing save gold jewelry placed another drink at Anteros’s table. The gold was thin but heavy, starting at her neck and covering her body so that her nipples were erect through the chain.

Anteros took another shot as Pretty Boy, Big O, and Crazy A came through the curtains and slid into the velvet booth.

“You know the one thing that will get Crazy A out of his hole is naked women,” Big O said. Beast glanced at Crazy A. The Wolf’s scowl was deep, making the grooves in his face appear like caverns.

“Yeah,” Anteros growled, taking a shot. “Right.”

“So,” Pretty Boy said, signaling at another nearly naked woman carrying drinks. “What’s going on?”

“This—”Anteros slammed the flyer down on the table “—was on my window.”

* * *

Pretty Boy picked up the flyer, held it to the ruby light, and examined it. “There’s no way that was an accident,” he said, handing it to the others at the table. Big O looked at it and passed it down the line. “You’re too high up for it to have been wind.”

“Exactly,” Anteros replied. “Someone was in my home. Someone planted that.” Anteros raised his hand, signaling for another girl. This time he ordered a drink to go along with his shots.

“Did you look at the tapes?” Big O asked.

“Obviously I looked at the fucking tapes. Erased.” The pink flyer reached Crazy A and Anteros watched, waiting for him to reveal the fact that he’d known The Council was behind this for some time. Instead he stood up, placed it on the small round table in the center of their private booth, and slid back into his seat. A moment later, another nearly naked woman appeared and placed Anteros’s drink down on top of the pink paper.

Anteros picked up the drink, thinking about the flyer, the tapes. There were only a few people with enough manpower to get into his guarded house and erase them, and those people sat at the top of a ubiquitous tower in the center of the Financial District. Judging by the silence in the booth, his Wolves were thinking the exact same thing.

“Why now?” Pretty Boy asked but seconds later Pretty Boy answered his own question: “The Pavoni Princess gave them clout, didn’t she?”

“If The Council is behind the attacks and rumor, then it’s about time we end them,” Big O said.

“More than,” Little O said. “I’ve been waiting to kill those fuckers for years.” Anteros took another shot, looking to Crazy A. Still he sat quietly in the shadows.

“Yes,” Anteros responded, setting his drink down, empty. “We have to end The Council.”

Big O jumped up. “All right. About fucking time we kill those old pricks.” He punched the air, fist hitting fabric.

“But,” Anteros added, narrowing his eyes at Big O’s grand display. “We can’t just rush into this.”

“Of course.” Big O straightened the lapels on his coat and sat back down.

“If we’re going to do this, there can be no doubts who did it or why,” Anteros said. “To end the uprising once and for all.”

“All these years denying we had anything to do with that councilman’s death,” Crazy A spoke up finally. “It’s kind of poetic.” Anteros looked to Crazy A, eyes shrewd. He was nearly shrouded entirely by shadows, light only illumining the hands folded on his lap. Naked women moved through the filmy cloth behind him like specters, coming and going, their flesh tinged ruby red.

He was referring to the rumor that brought them together when Anteros had purposely sent a councilman to death and they had backed him up. It had always remained a rumor, a dark thing no one could prove yet still made them the sinister thing that went bump in the night. As they grew in the ranks, the rumor grew with them.

Even then, they had only sent the man to death, they hadn’t curled their fingers around his throat. A smile crept to Anteros's face, knowing they would finally breathe life into the rumor.

“Emilio is nearly in place,” Anteros said. “In two days when he’s appointed, The Council will be distracted. We can strike that week.”

“They’re all heavily guarded,” Pretty Boy said. “Not just with high-tech security systems, but actual guards.”

“It’s a feat that should take months of planning,” Little O added.

“It will be handled,” Crazy A said with icy determination.

Big O laughed. “No offense, but even you can’t pull that off.”

“It will be handled,” Crazy A repeated, sitting forward. “One week from now, a day before the New Year, we will take them down.” All the Wolves shifted slightly, raised eyebrows, but didn’t argue. Crazy A hadn’t gotten his name for being mentally ill or for doing odd things.

He’d gotten his name for the uncanny ability to distort reality around him. Aside from Beast, he was the most feared one, as no one knew how Crazy A did the things he did. They just happened, and they were fearsome and terrible and ruining.

Anteros nodded. “A day before the New Year, then.”

“But,” Crazy A added, “The Council is not the only threat. There’s a much bigger one sleeping in your bed.”

* * *

“Dude.” Little O raised a hand. “Don’t go there.”

“She did give the Pavoni Princess rumor life,” Big O responded. “Gave the fanatics something to grab on to.” Big O paused. “Look, we don’t want to take away your toy…”

“My toy?” Anteros growled.

“He means…” Pretty Boy shot a glare at Big O. “There are soldiers and laborers who are starting to follow this fucking rumor, not just De Lucas. This thing is starting to spiral.”

“She is being dealt with,” Anteros growled, cutting through the bullshit. Truthfully he had no idea what the fuck to do with Frankie. Rationally he knew she needed to go; it was the type of calculated decision he would have made without a second thought just a few weeks ago.

But rational and calculated had gone out the window the moment she came into his life.

So he was pounding shots.

Anteros signaled for another round. When it didn’t come quickly enough, his arm slashed through the air with fury. A girl appeared, the tray she carried wobbling with her tremors. Anteros snatched a shot off the silver tray, not even waiting for her to place them down. She quickly cleared his empty glasses off the table and disappeared. Anteros’s throat was so numb from the liquor that he didn’t feel the burn. Glare fierce, he bore his intention into Crazy A.

“If she is not dead before The Council’s death, I will do it myself,” Crazy A said casually. Slowly Anteros set his empty glass down. All the Wolves looked to him, waiting to see what he would say and do. Crazy A challenged him, and there was only one way Anteros could respond. One way if wanted to continue as Boss.

A few more moments passed, Pretty Boy coughed.

“That won’t be necessary,” Anteros replied, clenching his jaw. “Because I will do it.” It was the ending he always knew was coming, so why did the words feel so anathema on his tongue?

“Do I have your permission to do it if she lives?” Crazy A leaned forward in the booth, his face becoming visible in the red light. A small smile crept across his face.

Anteros narrowed his eyes. The delicate curtains swayed with the movement of clothes being discarded on the other side. The beat thrummed in a certain demanding pattern. Crazy A never blinked, meeting his stare eye for eye. He could feel the stares of his other Wolves, their attention rapt and unsure.

“Everyone in this room has permission to kill Francesca Notte if she lives past the thirty-first of December,” Anteros declared with a growl, standing up.

Crazy A leaned back against the velvet booth, his smile disappearing in the shadows.

“I’m good,” Little O said, throwing his hands up.

“Me too,” Big O said. “I trust you to finish it.”

“There are already too many dicks in this sword fight,” Pretty Boy said, folding his arms.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Anteros said, pulling aside the diaphanous curtains, “I’m going to go get my dick sucked.”

* * *

The woman sucked him, pulling his cock into her mouth in a talented fashion. She’d given him a name that he couldn’t remember, it was probably fake, something like Desire or Passion. She wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t doing anything for him—at all. There was something about her, something that just wasn’t right.

Anteros lifted the hair from her neck, sweeping it past her shoulders until it was gathered in his hands. It was soft as silk.

Fuck.

Frankie was like some kind of goddess before him. Looking up at him, his cock in her hand, as if waiting for him, he realized it was he who had been waiting. Waiting for this.

He was going to remember this—the look of utter submission in her eyes. His cock perched on her full, pink lips. The feel of her hair in his hands as she prepared to take him. It was all seared on his brain matter.

Then she was on him, her mouth taking as much of him as she could. Her tongue was flat against his cock as she tried to swallow him, but he was too big. She looked up at him, earnest, sexy. So fucking sexy. He’d never been so turned on by a blow job before.

With a frustrated shove, Anteros pushed whatever-her-name-was off of him and zipped up his trousers.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he said, rubbing a palm to his forehead. Too much to drink. He’d had too much to drink.

“Wait,” she said, wiping her mouth off. “You owe me.”

“For that?” Anteros laughed.

“It’s not my fault your dick doesn’t work,” she said, standing up. Anteros grabbed her neck, thrusting her against the wall. Her mouth popped open, gasping for breath, face purpling. It would be easy to kill her, easy to let her life drain from her body. Desire, Passion, whatever she called herself—technically she belonged to Anteros.

He owned the entire club.

Owned her.

With a growl, Anteros dropped her.

She clutched her bruised throat, looking up at him hatefully. “I’m going to tell Bruno and you’re going to be so fucked.”

Anteros bent down. “Bruno works for me, sweetheart.” She paled and he watched without emotion as she spun quickly away, scrambling out of the dark, gemstone-colored room.

* * *

By the time Anteros got back to the penthouse, he was still good and drunk. After kicking the whore out, he’d gone out and grabbed a bottle of whiskey off the top shelf, deciding to walk back home. It had been years since he’d been drunk. He wasn’t a fan of liquor, usually just drank it because it was custom. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually walked through the city, either. There’d been no need, and it wasn’t as secure.

His car was constructed with the best materials to be bulletproof. It appeared a normal town car, but it could stop damn near anything. That night he ditched Nikolai and walked through the snowy streets of Manhattan with a bottle of whiskey.

“Mi accingo pazza!” Anteros yelled, thrusting the whiskey into the face of a man he passed. The man jumped back, looked at Anteros with unease, then walked away.

“Fucking drunks,” he heard the man mumble under his breath. Anteros watched the man walk away then swallowed the last of the whiskey. He chucked the bottle on the sidewalk, watching it shatter into a thousand pieces.

When he got home, he stumbled down the hallway, skipping his bedroom. Anteros walked the few feet until he was outside the now all too familiar white wood door and pushed it open. Frankie was fast asleep in her bed. Her hair shone like satin, the color of chocolate, melting all over her pillow. He wanted to tug it, to grasp it, to feel the way it would fall through his fingers like water. She gave a little sigh, burrowing deeper into her blanket.

He knew she had to die.

His position in the Family was teetering on the edge of a cliff, and his fingers were growing bloody with the effort of hanging onto the edge. He slipped with the blood, fingers sliding off the precipice, and the solution, his rope back to the top, lay right there in bed.

Asleep.

Comfortable in sheets he’d given her.

He undid his belt slowly, watching the way she breathed in her sleep. Sliding the leather between his hands, he clenched the belt in a fist. She rolled her head, exposing her slender, pale neck. The shades were not drawn, a testament to how tired she’d been. The city lights poured in, illuminating her face in a swath of blurry, dotted glares.

With the belt gripped between his two hands, he studied her. Just as with the whore from the club, he could easily snuff out Frankie's life. He could wrap the belt around her neck until the breath stopped coming. Her face would turn purple. She would die.

She said she’d been sick. What did that mean? Like cancer? Could it come back? Why did it even fucking matter if he was planning to kill her anyway?

Frankie twisted in the sheets, rolling on her back. Her arm came above her head and the blanket fell so he got the briefest glimpse of her breasts beneath the lace of her nighty. She released a small sigh. Letting one hand fall, the belt dangled from his hand, touching the floor.

Anteros didn’t know how long he watched her. Everything dulled to a quiet hum. His eyes were glued to her, only roaming to catch the little movements she made.

A sigh.

A shift in her leg.

The flicker of her lids while she dreamed.

Belt still clenched in his fist, Anteros slid into the bed, wrapping his arms around her body.

Seventeen

“Tonight is Christmas Eve.” I could feel his presence behind the wingback chair, looming, begging for something.

I wouldn’t give it.

Not anymore.

Even if I had to fucking tattoo it on my brain matter. That morning I’d awoken to him cuddling me. It had been warm…comforting, even. In my sleep I’d curled into his large, muscular frame. It had seemed safe and I’d forgotten. AGAIN.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

“I own a calendar, thanks,” I sniped, keeping my attention on my book. He grabbed my elbow, whipping me to attention, the book falling from my grasp. I arched my back, glaring into his eyes. They were dark, like a swamp at night, dangerous.

They flicked to the book on the ground and he said, “It’s time you put away your fantasy and go get dressed for the party.” He let go of me with a violent thrash and I fell back into the chair.

Then he left.

Without saying another fucking word. Without letting me say another fucking word. My fantasy? Who calls Night by Elie Wiesel a fucking fantasy? I clenched my fists, staring at the empty doorway for a few more seconds before walking through it in a huff.

I walked back to my room, trying to keep my eyes down. Sometime while I was sleeping, the penthouse had been decorated to look like Christmas jizzed everywhere. Dozens of little white trees dotted the surfaces. I couldn’t blink without seeing twinkling white lights. Silver and blue nutcrackers taunted me.

We never really celebrated Christmas back home. Some years the day passed and I didn’t even know it was Christmas.

Home.

My sadness and betrayal had twisted in to anger, white-hot anger, at my father. He was just sitting at home, getting drunk, having a jolly good time while I was here. Why? Why didn’t he want me? What had I done? I’d tried so hard to be a good daughter. I’d done everything I could. I cooked. I cleaned. Why didn’t he want me?

I pushed open the door to my room so hard it slammed against the wall and bounced back. Even my hovel hadn’t remained untouched. While I’d been in the library, my room had been revamped. It was the only place color popped, too. Bright lights danced, intermittently changing color. My white bedspread had been replaced with a deep red one. Pillows had been added as well, each showing a different Christmas scene. An antique-looking painted wooden Santa sat in the corner.

I grabbed a pillow with a stitched scene of mice decorating a tree and walked over to my window, opening it. Setting the pillow down on the sill, I stared out at the city as snow tried to suffocate it. Beyond the tall stacks of light, my father sat at home, not caring where I was.

My anger dissipated in to hollow despair.

It’d been doing that lately.

I tried to hold on to the anger, because the despair hurt so much more.

Hanging up behind me was a gorgeous green dress. It was simple when compared to the regal, haute couture masterpieces I normally had to wear. Don’t get me wrong, it was utterly divine. The neck was a deep, deep V that fell just a hair above my belly button. The waist was cinched and then flowed to the floor. It was a dark emerald color but the delicate beading and metallic thread lace caught the light and at certain angles it shone like diamonds. It was almost demure, save for the long slit that started at my cinched waist, exposing my entire left leg.

Below the sill, ant people walked along the sidewalk, snow falling on their heads. I wondered where they were going. To parties? To families that actually wanted them? It was the happiest time of the year—were they happy? Did they have everything figured out? Before Beast, I never imagined there could be a girl like me in the US, much less on the East Coast. I wondered if one of those ant people was a slave.

A prisoner with a smile.

Sighing, I turned from the window to put on my dress. I noticed there was no lingerie hung up. That wasn’t a mistake, and it didn’t mean I could pick my own; it meant he wanted me to go without. Unless otherwise laid out, I always had to go without. As I slid the dress on, I noticed the bust was sheer with sequined strings of green thread barely covering my nipples.

I paled.

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

I took the dress off and hunted for lingerie. There was a backless, champagne-colored Agent Provocateur teddy with a deep enough V. Perfect.

Just as I finished dressing, the door swung open.

Beast looked me up and down, his gaze practically turning the dress to ashes at my feet.

“What?” I snapped. “I put on the fucking dress.” I had half a second to register his raised brow before he pushed me against the wall, shoving his hand up the slit in my dress. I shoved my hands behind my back, flat against the wall, struggling to find purchase as he roamed underneath the dress.

“What else did you put on?” he pressed.

“Nothing,” I gasped. Asshole, I added with my eyes, and he knew it. His own narrowed and his fingers slid underneath the lace garment. His finger probed my slit and my fingers spread against the wall, as if I could find a secret doorknob and fall through.

“Hmm…” he murmured. “I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”

“Fuck. You,” I spat, as his fingers arched higher inside of me. I waited for him to punish me for swearing, but he only raised a brow.

“You might be nicer to me Frankie, if you’d like to get your Christmas present. It would be a shame to have to send him back.”

“Him? What do you mean him?” I demanded, pushing the breathlessness in my voice into that tiny box inside my head that I planned to burn with acid later. Abruptly he dropped me, my skin feeling too cold for my liking, my thighs icy. He called for Nikolai and I folded my arms.

A moment later Nikolai appeared, a box with holes in his hand, red bow on top. He handed it to me and I took it warily, caution tape around my heart.

“What is this?” I asked, examining the box.

With folded arms, Beast said, “Open it.”

I heard meowing and my gut dropped.

“Open it,” he repeated.

I quickly tore through the box and opened it. It was a kitten…a small, black kitten, so cute and innocent. I stared into the box, scared to touch it. Memories of Cleary came rushing back. I was all at once hurt but so, so excited. It struggled to crawl out of the box, tripping and falling over itself. I should have just picked it up, it was such a kind and gentle gesture, but seeing a cat so similar to Cleary had me reeling. I felt the pain all over again.

“I don’t understand…” I glanced up at the Beast. Why had he given me a kitten, and one so like Cleary? He must not have liked my response, because his eyes narrowed and he quickly snatched the animal from me.

“What are you doing?” I asked, reaching for the bundle of black fur.

“You don’t want it.” Beast handed the kitten to Nikolai without even looking at it.

“I don’t understand,” I pleaded. It had nothing to do with wanting, I just needed a minute to readjust. It didn’t mean I didn’t want the kitten. It was a fucking kitten! I just needed a minute to understand what was happening, but Beast wasn’t going to give me that.

My gaze traveled from the kitten in Nikolai’s arms to Beast, my confusion turning to fury.

It was like losing Cleary all over again.

“What is wrong with you?” I pushed him. When that did nothing to sway him, I pushed him again, and again, and again. He gripped me by the wrists then let go. “It’s not enough to take a piece of my heart, you have to obliterate it?” I fell to my knees. I’d tried so hard to stay strong, or at least put up the front. Why was he doing this? Why give me a kitten and then take it away faster than a lightning strike?

First Papa and now this? My heart couldn’t take it.

Nikolai walked away with the mewling kitten as I wiped mascara eyes on my forearm.

“You’re an absolute monster,” I declared. “Is this why you were so nice to me before? Is this why you wanted to know about me? I bet you didn’t even want to give me that kitten. You just wanted to watch me cry.” My eyes were blurry with tears when I looked up at him. “Well congratulations. You succeeded.” My words sounded strangled and weird to my own ears, cracked, high and wobbly; choked by the effort of trying not to completely lose myself to sobs. His eyes narrowed with some kind of emotion. I thought maybe he was going to say something, but then he left. I fell into sobs.

* * *

“Your mascara is smeared, darling,” a woman said to me, her face a megawatt plastic smile. “I have a cloth in my bag that can clear that right up.” She grasped me by the arm and led me away from my dark corner—my haven. My stare strayed from her coiffed blonde hair down to her polished blood-red nails and back up to the pristine white dress she wore.

I wanted to tell her I didn’t care if my mascara was smeared, but I was too numb. Over and over again I thought about that kitten. Would it go to another home? Maybe it would go to wherever Cleary was. I sniffed and wiped my eyes, smearing the mascara more. Wherever the black cat went, it was better than where I was. Cute and cuddly things weren’t meant for hell.

No, I didn’t care that my mascara was smeared.

It was my war paint.

No one would bother me.

From my perch in the corner, I had been able to see everything and no one noticed me. Beast’s stark white penthouse had been decorated to look like a winter wonderland. A huge, real Christmas tree was erect in the middle of it all, jutting up the three stories. Distantly I wondered how they got the thing inside the building, all the way up to the fucking penthouse. It was decorated with white ornaments and the branches appeared frosted. Angels, snowflakes, shimmering bulbs, ornaments that appeared to be dotted with diamonds—oh wait, this was the Beast we were talking about, they probably were dotted with diamonds—and ethereal tinsel draped it. Pale gold was the only other color in the place, and it was just an accent.

There was even a swing band. It was so happy, the trombone and saxophone all cheerful and lively. It felt wrong, like having a bris at a funeral. The singer, a woman with a twenties-style outfit and hairdo, was singing classic Christmas music. Everyone was also wearing white—a memo that Beast had apparently been determined for me to miss.

Mostly I saw how this wasn’t the kind of party I’d become accustomed to. These weren’t the people Beast normally had over. They didn’t have a cloud of shadow following them constantly. They weren’t reanimated gargoyles.

They were…people.

They were…political, even. I recognized the governor as one of the attendants, and that made me very, very uneasy.

The woman pulled me to the wall next to the bar. While she dug into her purse, I swiped a flute of champagne. Taking a swig, I looked from her to the governor and thought back to the other “parties” I’d been present at, unsure which hell I preferred.

“Is this your first fundraiser?” she asked, dabbing away the remnants of the Beast’s “present” from my lids. I nodded. She laughed, putting the cloth back into her purse. “They can be quite tedious. I’m Ellie, Governor Dubois’s wife. Who should we blame for your being here?”

I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth and nodded at the Beast, who was sandwiched between a man with chocolate locks and crystal blue eyes and Governor Dubois. Ellie’s smile flickered but she plastered it back so quickly I almost didn’t notice.

“Ah,” she said. “Well, we better give him a stern talking to.” I knew that wouldn’t happen. Ellie was already pulling away.

“Wait,” I asked. “Is that what this is? A fundraiser?”

“Of course not, it’s a party.” She smiled, winked, and walked away. Feeling that gross, sticky feeling only politicians can leave behind, I turned to leave. Fuck this party. If Beast wanted to punish me, then so be it. I was so through with all of this, with the charade. I was halfway to my room when I was grabbed by the arm.

“Stop, Nikolai.” I brushed him off me, not even surprised. It was sort of like how if you watched enough scary movies, they stopped scaring you. I’d lived in hell long enough that arm grabbing wasn’t shocking. I imagined if I lived a few more months here, I wouldn’t even cry at things like the kitten.

I shivered; somehow that didn’t seem like a good thing. I put my palm to the my door, deciding not to think about it, when Nikolai said to my back, “I’ve found your father.”

I spun around. “What do you mean you’ve found him?"

“He was missing and I’ve secured his location. He is in a safe place.” Nikolai’s celery stare pierced through the shadowy hallway.

My eyes widened. “He was missing? For how long?”

“I told you there was something you needed to be made aware of,” he said, as if it was on me for not knowing.

"What? You mean the Beast has no idea where he is? I can leave and he won’t die?” Nikolai nodded impassively, as if responding to whether I’d just asked him if that was his natural hair color. Fury filled me and I ran to him, shoving so hard he stumbled back.

“This is fucking ridiculous. You knew this whole time?” When Nikolai nodded again, I gave him another hard shove. “I knew you weren’t a friend. You fucking snake.” Nikolai was like stone against my pushes. I hated him even more. Whatever he was planning, whatever he was using Gabby and me for, I knew right then it was not to benefit me. I was simply a pawn.

“I was waiting for the right time,” he said simply.

I scoffed. “Go fuck yourself.” I didn’t wait to hear what excuses he had for me. I finished walking to my room and slammed the door in his face.

I was fucking leaving.

* * *

I didn’t really have much to pack as I hadn’t gotten to pack in the first place, but I figured since I was probably going to be on the run, I should grab a few things. Beast had said he’d let me leave, but he’d said a lot of things—like that Papa was safe and accounted for, for instance.

I hurriedly grabbed things I could use, practical things like warm pants and sweaters. I didn’t have a lot of practical things in my closet—most of the shit was haute couture and high heels—but there were a few. I paused, surveying the room. My heart hammered in my chest. It had only been a few weeks, but I was inexplicably tied. I had to go though. I couldn’t stay. That went beyond insanity, it was suicide.

Nikolai said my papa was safe, so Beast had nothing on me. Staying was just…

I shook my head.

I had to go.

I turned back to the overstuffed bag when I heard the door open behind me. Ice-cold fear ran through my veins, my gut stilled, and I just knew he was behind me.

Oh God.

I knew he’d said I could go, but somehow I also knew he would try to stop me. I knew, because there was a part of me trying to stop me as well. An insane, deadly part of me that didn’t want to go. A part that was yelling to throw the bag back in the closet.

Fear was rushing through my body as I turned to see him. He walked toward me, but he was unsteady and he paused at my dresser. He knocked a few items off and I flinched. I knew my absence wouldn’t go unnoticed. I expected punishment but God, I was so stupid. I’d completely given myself up.

He faltered the last few feet then he dropped to his knees.

“I’m sorry, mio cuore,” he murmured into my dress, grasping the shimmering fabric between his fingers. “I’m sorry.” He kneaded his head into my dress then turned to face me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re all I have, Frankie.” He went silent for a moment and I listened to everything—the muted laughter outside, my stuttered breath, the band outside singing Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” with their muffled trumpet and saxophone.

“I’ll have a blue Christmas without you…” he sang into my thighs. He chuckled, but it wasn’t happy. “My papa used to sing this song to my mama. I don’t want to be Papa, Frankie. I don’t want to sing this song to you.” Then he passed out, leaving me to wonder what the fuck that meant.

I looked at the half-stuffed bag to my left, then to the passed-out Beast in my lap.

What. The. Fuck?

A minute later my door opened again. I jumped, practically hitting my head against the wall.

“Is he out?” Nikolai popped his head in, leaving the door partially closed.

“Oh thank goodness,” Gabby said, coming in after. She gently shut the door behind her then turned around. Coming over to me, she lifted him up by his hair then showed Beast to Nikolai, who nodded. Apparently satisfied, Gabby dropped him and he fell with a heavy thunk back to my thighs. “We don’t have long until Tough Tino comes looking for him.”

“You did this?” I asked in a whisper-yell, gesturing at the body on my lap. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“We put a little something extra in his drink,” Nikolai said nonchalantly.

My eyes widened. “He’s going to kill me. Actually murder my body.”

“He’s not going to know anything,” Gabby said to me, but then she turned to Nikolai and asked, “Right, Nikolai?” What the fuck did she mean by that? I shot daggers at Nikolai, but if he noticed he didn’t care.

“We’re going to get him to bed and he’s going to wake up thinking he had a great time.” Nikolai grabbed both of his legs for emphasis and Gabby quickly followed suit, grabbing his arms. With eyes so wide I felt like they’d peel off my fucking face, I watched them carry the big bad Beast’s passed-out body through my room and toward the door.

“Frankie you play lookout,” Gabby said.

“I play what?” I yelled.

“We need to get him to bed,” Nikolai said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I shook my head as if I could get the words out of my mind the same way you do with water in your ear. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“This guy is really heavy, Frankie, come on,” Gabby pleaded. Her legs were bending, arms straining, obviously over exerting herself.

“I was in the middle of something…” I trailed off.

“Please, Frankie,” she pleaded again. My gaze flashed from my overstuffed bag to Gabby. I wanted to scream at her that she was being used, but there was a passed out Beast in my room and somehow going along with their plan was less dangerous for me. Nikolai knew that. I quickly shoved the bag in the closet and ran over to the door. I pulled it open, ushering in a wave of laughter and music. I stuck my head out.

“Coast’s clear. We’re not really doing this though—” But they both immediately rushed through, ignoring me. They carried him down the hallway decorated with lush, fake snow. Silver twinkling snowflakes hung from clear string above us so they looked like they were suspended in midair.

We got to the room and they threw him on the bed, shutting the door behind them.

“No, no,” I whisper-yelled. “I’m leaving. I’m getting out of here tonight. There’s no reason for me to stay.” As I said the words, there was some niggling inside of me, a dangerous, slippery thought that all at once gave me comfort: there was no harm in staying another day.

Gabby turned to me, heaving heavy breaths. When she’d somewhat gotten control of her diaphragm, she wiped a stray bead of sweat from her forehead and said, “You’re the Pavoni Princess.”

* * *

I laughed, hard. Neither of them joined me.

“You’re serious?” I turned to Gabby. “We’ve talked about this. Twice.” I folded my arms. When Nikolai first put the flyer in my room, she’d been excited. I got that. I’d had to again pop the balloon when she’d told me about Levi and that sucked, but this?

This was risking my life.

I had to get the fuck out of here fast. I didn’t have time to play pretend. “I’m not the Pavoni Princess. Don’t you think I want to be heir to the very crime family of the asshole keeping me prisoner?” Beast groaned and all of our eyes shot to where he lay face first on the bed. He twitched slightly then moaned, his breaths returning to normal.

“Keep your voice down,” Gabby whisper-yelled. “You don’t understand. We have proof. I’ve been trying to see you for days.” Gabby wiped sweat from her forehead. “Do you know they’re already trying to auction me off to the highest bidder? If I have to marry some old crime boss, I will kill myself, or him—or both.”

“That’s…” My anger chilled while I searched for the right words. I came up with none. “Awful, I’m sorry.” As I looked at their eager faces, though, I knew that no matter what awful shit the Pavoni mafia did, it wouldn’t make me a princess.

“It’s whatever.” Gabby waved a hand, but she looked away and I could swear I saw a tear in her eye. “I knew it would happen.”

“But maybe Levi—” I started, trying to find some way to comfort her.

“The Pavoni Princess is real,” Gabby interrupted, turning back to me. “Did you hear me? We have proof.”

“There is no record of you or your mother’s birth,” Nikolai said, and my eyes flashed to his, narrowing. I was still quite pissed off at him for concealing the fact that my papa was out of reach of Beast’s clutches. Now this? He was clearly manipulating Gabby. Why was he trying to make me a princess?

Unperturbed by my cold glare, he continued, “We expanded the search to every hospital in New York, then to every hospital in the USA. There is no record of Francesca Notte or your mother being born.” My forehead contracted, the muscles clenching in disbelief and indignation. I’d always had such trouble applying for things like bank accounts and my driver’s license, and I couldn’t continue college because I could never get a loan. Papa said my birth certificate was lost and when I asked him to help me get a new one, he squirreled. I still didn’t know my social security number, but Papa was the kind of man who sat in a broken chair as long as it didn’t fall completely apart, so I didn’t think too much about it. Anger coursed through me, but not at Papa.

“What are you saying?”

“Your mother wasn’t your mother. She was sent by the Pavonis to watch over you.”

I scowled. “That isn’t proof. How can you say that?”

Nikolai pulled out two old Polaroids. I couldn’t see the second one, but the first one, I saw too clearly.

“This is your mother, yes?” he asked. It was a little grainy, but I could see my mother. She didn’t look much like me. Where I had brown hair, blue eyes, and not even a sun spot, she had red hair, bright green eyes, and freckles all over her face. Of course, the colors were gone in the black and white photo, but she was still beautiful and unmistakable. There was another man in the photo with her that I didn’t know. Reluctantly, I nodded. Gabby grabbed the photo from Nikolai then pointed to the other man in the photo.

“That’s Don Lucio, you know, the Boss of the Pavonis.”

I frowned harder. “That doesn’t mean anything. She could have owed money.” Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. Gabby sighed and turned to Nikolai.

“Let me talk to her.” Then she turned to me. “You need to get naked and in bed anyway.” I grimaced. She’d said it with a cold calculation that belied her sunny demeanor and gave way to the dark world she’d been living in. Nikolai left the room and she motioned for me to sit on the bed. With my hands in my lap, I sat on the edge.

“Why don’t you want this to be real?” she asked. Her tone was curious and kind, as if asking why I didn’t want ice cream for dessert. I wondered if Gabby had any real idea what she was getting herself into. Nikolai was playing with strings and Gabby was so caught up she couldn’t see she was just one of the many.

“It’s a fairytale,” I responded. “Fairytales aren’t real.”

Gabby shrugged. “This one is.” I had no response. Her dangerous naivety was now affecting me. While sitting on the edge of Beast’s bed as Gabby undid my buttons, I seethed. I did have a family. Some of that stuff was weird, I’d admit. It was weird that I didn’t know my social, but if you knew Papa, it wasn’t so odd. Papa was disorganized and messy, he probably even didn’t know his social. It was weird that my mom had met with the head of the Pavonis, and it was weird that she didn’t look like me, but she was still my mother. Plenty of children didn’t look like their parents.

I rounded on Gabby. “Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Why are you trying to rip apart the only good thing I had for some fucking fairytale?” She silently undid my dress and my skin slowly became exposed to the darkness. Next to me a passed out Beast slept.

“My mom died too soon,” I continued. “My dad became a deadbeat, we moved to a shitty house, and I became Harry Potter—but she existed.”

She paused with my dress and said, “Don’t you hate that I’m worth less than a dog pumping out puppies?” Again, she wasn’t yelling, she didn’t even sound mad, just curious. “Don’t you hate being abused, raped, and tortured? You can do something about it. You’re in the position. People think you’re the Pavoni Princess.” She gripped my dress, pulling me closer with her excitement. Her face glowed with the eagerness of a child learning of Santa.

My brows caved. Abused. Raped. Tortured. That had been Gabby’s life but it wasn’t really mine. Things were dark and twisted and fucked up between the Beast and me, but it wasn’t what Gabby thought.

“Gabby…” I opened my mouth to try to clarify, but I realized I wouldn’t even know where to start. She looked at me expectantly and I remembered the night she’d come to see me, the night she’d cried about Levi. “Gabby how are you? How is Levi?” I tried to turn around and see her but she had already returned to steadfastly going at my dress.

“There’s nothing to say. Levi and I are finished.” Her voice sounded cold and foreign, as if even she didn’t recognize the words coming out of her mouth.

“Are you certain that’s what you want?” In the short time I’d known Gabby, the only happiness I’d seen from her was when she’d been with Levi.

“If he keeps seeing me he’ll die. He won’t run away from this life, not ever.” I tried to turn around and see her, to comfort her, but she went back to doing my dress. Growing frustrated, I slapped her hand away.

“I don’t want to be naked in his fucking bed.”

She dropped her hand. “If he thinks you guys had sex he won’t be suspicious about what happened.” There wasn’t any anger in her tone, not even confidence. She spoke the words as if repeating a mantra.

I grasped the dress to my chest as it fell. “No.” Tears came to my eyes. “We haven’t had sex. It’s fine. He won’t be suspicious.” I mean, we’d had sex, but not since the night. He hadn’t entered me with his cock since the very first night. There was a part inside of me, like a butterfly with holes in its wings trying to fly, that thought maybe he was waiting, thought maybe he wished he hadn’t taken me that way.

And maybe he was waiting for me to give him the okay.

But if I did this, all of that would be shattered, because he would think I had given him the okay, and if that happened, I don’t think I could hold myself back.

Gabby scooted so she was next to me. “Look at the photo. Really look at it.” She handed it to me. It was in black and white, an old Polaroid, but it was clearly my mother. I recognized her from the one photo my dad had given me.

“That’s my mother. So what?” Without responding, she handed me the second photo. I saw my mother and the same older-looking man with a hard, square face, but I also saw me. I recognized little me very clearly from old school photos.

“That’s you right?” I nodded wordlessly. “Both photographs were found in Lucio Pavoni’s home, the Boss of the Pavoni family.” My eyes widened. I gave her the photos back. I knew what she wanted me to say. She wanted me to say I was the Pavoni Princess. I couldn’t.

I had to leave.

I had a bag half packed in the other room.

I couldn’t be a princess.

But as I handed her the photos back, I knew I wasn’t going to leave now. I had already felt tethered before, but now Gabby had just revealed something invaluable. I had always felt like there were pieces of me missing. I’d just chalked that up to life, because I thought most people had pieces of them missing.

But Gabby was showing me how to get those pieces back. I couldn’t just leave.

“It could be nothing…” The way she trailed off indicated she didn’t believe it was nothing. “But there’s a growing faction in the Pavonis that really believe in you. They do. Nikolai is one of them.” I narrowed my eyes. Nikolai was a slave like me, had been a slave for almost ten years if my math was correct, and he owed no allegiance to the Pavonis. I doubted he believed I was some long lost savior—but he was making this happen.

I just wasn’t sure why.

“If you’re wrong about me….” I shook my head.

“I’m not.” She stood up and walked to the door, but paused and turned back. I lifted my head, waiting for her. “Look,” she said, hand on the knob. “Girl to girl, prisoner to slave, I understand if you want to run away. I’m not going to be upset, I get it, but I thought you needed to know that you could be a princess.” I held the dress tighter to my body, watching her leave.

I stopped her just before she left, though, and asked her a question—a question that had been bugging me like a sore tooth. The moment she answered, I wished I hadn’t. I couldn’t sleep the entire night. I stared out the window, watching the way the snow glistened, even in the dark.

* * *

The sun rose high over the skyscrapers. I hadn’t seen my birth certificate but my mother (or was it “mother”?) had a memory box where she kept things like baby shoes and paintings, pictures and the like. When she died, so did the memory box. I’d been three at the time.

But what if it was possible what they were saying was true?

What if Mom was some fake and there was another woman out there, some biological one? Would I love her more than the one that made a box for my baby shoes? How could I? She had abandoned me to this life, the life of a semi-motherless mafia princess.

Francesca Notte didn’t exist… I glanced over to my right where Beast was moving more. He was groaning slightly, moving his arms above his head. He opened his eyes and stared right at me. At first he looked surprised, then a slow smile crept over his lips. He grabbed me, pulling me to him, and slid on top of me. His erection was hard at my thigh.

I don’t want to sing this song to you.

As he pushed his cock near my entrance, it was on my lips to tell him no. Instead I asked, “Do you remember last night?” His brow furrowed and I could see him trying to work out the blank spaces. Before his thoughts could go any deeper, before he could question any further, I arched up to him and quickly the creases smoothed. I met him, skin on skin.

As he entered me, I turned my neck to the left, staring out at the cold city. It was a chilly blue color. The sky looked like it was a layer of ice, the sun locked underneath it. I knew that by arching up to him, I’d not just agreed to this time, but to any time he wanted after it. I’d unlocked something and simultaneously broken the lock, broken something that would never be fixed. As he plunged deeper into me, I knew that.

And I didn’t care.

He wound his fingers into my hair, pulling my gaze away from the window. His stare bore into me, asking something I didn’t want to answer, so I closed my eyes. The moment my lids shut, he left me, pulling out of my body. I should have wanted that, I should have been grateful he was going, but I kept thinking, Why does it feel like a vital part of my spirit is going with him?

Opening my eyes, I gripped his shoulders, pulling him back. He raised a brow but didn’t move. I tugged harder, my nails scratching against his skin. He wouldn’t budge, the same stare shredding into me.

Demanding me to ask him to stay.

This was what I’d been afraid of last night, why I’d desperately held on to my dress. I wasn’t afraid of him entering me, but this, of what I was about to say, and the reason behind it.

“Please,” I whispered. He was inside me, deep and penetrating, in seconds. I’d never been filled like that before, so fully that it could get all the parts of me that weren’t whole, all the parts that were broken or needing something extra. Before I met him for the kiss I knew would steal my coherency, I remembered the last thing Gabby had said to me the night before, the question and answer that had kept me up.

“Gabby, wait,” I’d asked. “What does mio cuore mean?”

Without hesitation, she’d responded, “My heart.”

Eighteen

Christmas had always been a shit show for Anteros, never the magical day society professed it to be. It was just another day—or worse—yet he’d rolled over that morning and Frankie had been in his bed, naked, and wanting him. He couldn’t quite recall what had happened Christmas Eve, but whatever it was, it had led to Frankie wanting him—all of him—inside of her.

Anteros had been planning this night with Rhys for months. There’d been a few bumps in the road the past month, but in the end it had all come together. He never smiled when a job was done—it was just a job—but damn it if a smile didn’t spread across his face right then. He rubbed a thumb to his jaw, trying to crease out the muscle.

It could be finishing the job caused a smile to finally break on his lips, but then why was he remembering the way Frankie had clung to him as he’d gotten out of bed? He’d nearly stayed home—everything was on autopilot now, anyway—but he’d left her and joined his Wolves at the docks.

Now Anteros sat in his warehouse office, overlooking the iron gray city, and thought of his future. The Pavonis had bragged for years that they were the biggest criminal organization in the world, but Beast was going to be the one to make that actually mean something.

There’s a difference between power and influence.

And then there’s having both.

“Bro.” Pretty Boy’s indignant voice cut into his thoughts. “You’ve hardly said anything these past couple of hours. You’ve just sat there smiling like a little shit.”

“Probably thinking about the slave’s pussy,” Little O’s voiced drifted from behind.

“The princess’s pussy,” Big O corrected.

“I don’t know,” Anteros said. “Is it worse to be pussywhipped by a slave, or jealous of one?” Anteros turned away from the window, looking back to his Wolves pointedly. They paused, then shouts of “Ooooh” and “Shit” rang out. Everyone laughed, except for Crazy A, who was silent in his chair, hands folded. Though they all joked about Frankie, Crazy A’s silence radiated his doubt. He didn’t think Anteros would be able to kill Frankie when it came down to it. Crazy A knew all too well how hard it would be.

Anteros chose not to think about it. It was Christmas, and for once in his life, he was going to revel. Standing, Anteros grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. Whatever had happened with Frankie that morning wouldn’t affect the future. When it came down to it, it wasn’t as it had been with Crazy A. He didn’t love her.

“Four hours,” Anteros said, shrugging into his coat. “Then it’s show time.”

“I really can’t wait until we’re done with these stupid fucking parties,” Big O muttered as Anteros walked by.

“You don’t love kissing The Council’s ass in a big, prissy house while the nearly dead owner sleeps in the next room?” Pretty Boy asked, feigned confusion marring his features.

Little O got to his knees and slapped his hands together. “Dear our savior Emilio, on this of most holiest of nights, please save us from this fucking horse shit.”

“Just one more party,” Anteros said over them, walking to the door. As he left the room, charged conversation broke out behind him. In four hours, Lucio Pavoni’s annual Christmas party would start. He’d never looked forward to one of the stuffy, over-the-top parties before, but now he was practically counting down the hours.

When Anteros got home, he headed straight for the library. She was curled up in the same wingback she always was, reading a new book. By his count, she read at least one book a day.

“Frankie,” he said, but she didn’t turn around. He walked to her and faced her. He got on his knees so they were eye level and drew her chin to his. “Merry Christmas, Frankie,” he said, taking her lips in his. She was cold, though, unlike she had been that morning. Something had changed.

Eyebrows creased, he continued to work his tongue against her lips, but it was like kissing a dummy. She went through the motions, taking his tongue in her mouth, but that was it. Her body was stiff, her fingers still grasping the book she’d been reading. He pulled back, his hand still in her hair, and looked into her eyes. She looked away.

He smiled, running a finger from her temple to her jaw. She didn’t say anything. “What’s wrong, mio cuore?”

“Just go away.” Frankie shied from him. “Please.” Anteros caressed her, trying to draw her back to him, but she flinched as if she’d been hit. Anteros blinked, feeling as if he’d just been thrown into a thrash of waves.

“Will you just leave me the fuck alone?” she asked, tone beseeching. Frankie gripped the book she held for dear life but didn’t look at the page, eyes never moving from the spot on the floor. It was like she was frozen.

Anteros reeled at her words, standing up. What had happened between this morning and now to make her so cold? He nearly reached out again, but then shook out his shoulders.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t care.

“Be ready in an hour,” Anteros snapped, walking out of the library.

* * *

Anteros watched as Frankie placed her finger against the car window, just as she had the night he’d taken her from her home. This time though, they were traveling together to the home of the man that had taken him, Lucio Pavoni. Lucio’s annual Christmas party was famous in his world—so famous, it had continued on without him. As in the first instance, she let her finger slide down the glass, separating the moisture, creating a clear line between the fog and the picture outside.

Just as in the library, Frankie was distant. She’d hardly said a word. Anteros had intended to ignore her; whatever was bothering her was not his problem. She was just eye candy, yet he couldn’t peel his focus from her, watching as she trailed her finger from the top to the bottom of the window, over and over again.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Anteros demanded.

Frankie sighed. “Christmas was the one time of year I enjoyed at my house. I wonder what he’s doing this year,” Frankie sighed again, finger resting delicately on the windowsill. “You wouldn’t understand.” Anteros leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, studying her. Maybe this was why she was so cold to him.

“You still think because I am an orphan that I don’t remember my parents?” he asked. “Don’t remember holidays?”

“Yes,” Frankie stuttered, removing her finger from the window quickly. “I mean no, I don’t.” She placed her hands in her lap.

“You assume I grew up in an orphanage, misplaced at birth.” She didn’t say a word at that, but her gaze flicked to his. “I knew my parents and I knew them well.” Frankie’s eyebrows creased, taking in what he’d just told her. His own forehead caved in response. To Frankie, he was two-dimensional, a monster born without parents, begot in the fires of hell without any concept of love. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that far off from the truth.

“Why…” she slipped.

“Because they were better to me dead.” Anteros sat back, rubbing a hand through his hair. She was like fucking heroin. He knew he should shut up. Ignore her. Be impassive, stolid, uncaring. In less than a week she would be dead, and he the one to kill her. The fact that she had pulled away earlier shouldn’t bother him in the slightest; the fact that she stared out the window shouldn’t matter, but it did. He watched her as if putting the needle to the vein, waiting for her to turn back to him.

She rested her head against the window and shifted to him, eyes locking. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” The needle broke through the skin.

“You’d rather me be something else?” she asked. Anteros met her fierce glare and she hit him, rushing through his veins, twisting in his blood, commanding his brain. Her eyes softened and she sighed, looking back out the fogged window. The lights outside blurred together, reminding him of a painter’s palette.

Her brown locks fell forward as she moved from the window and leaned toward him. “Do you think I can see him for a few hours? Just for the holidays?” Big blue eyes beseeched him. Eyes up, eyelashes thick, her hands gripped the leather seat, waiting, waiting for him to give her something he could not. Her father was gone, and Anteros had no idea where the fuck he was. Dead, maybe. If Anteros knew anything about deadbeats like him, it was that they were often bleeding for more than one shark.

She pulled her lip between her teeth, eyes growing even wider, hands gripping the leather until it puckered.

He hissed. “Your father is missing.”

She raised her chin slightly then slowly turned away, hands resting lightly in her lap as though he’d just informed her of the weather. Needless to say, it was not the reaction he’d expected. When she faced him again, her features were hard. He narrowed his eyes, preparing for the fight he’d expected.

Instead she calmly said, “He’s probably dead then.” Anteros narrowed his eyes even more.

When she’d traded herself to him, he’d been expecting a young, naive girl, someone to sell to The Institute, as young girls were most often easily moldable. From the minute he’d spoken to her on the plane, he knew that would not be the case. The more he discovered, the more he realized there were deep, hidden depths to Frankie—depths she didn’t even realize were there.

She was dangerous.

Like deceptively deep water, she appeared shallow, but could easily suck you down and under. What was most unsettling to Anteros was the need he felt forming in his gut. He found himself wanting to stop swimming, to see where her depths took him.

The car jolted to a stop.

“We’re here,” Anteros said, coughing slightly.

“Suddenly I am not in the mood for a party,” she mumbled. Nikolai opened the door, ushering in a bitter chill. It had been a snowy winter so far, hardly any minute of reprieve from the white powder. It blanketed the sidewalks and buildings. He could smell the promise of snow in the air even then.

Anteros motioned for Nikolai to leave and give them a minute.

Bending forward, Anteros lifted her chin and captured her gaze. “I will find him, Frankie.”

Her glare was like the snow, harsh and unrelenting. “Why should I believe anything you say?” It was on his mind to beg her to believe him, to believe he had been working tirelessly to find her father. Then the face of his Wolves appeared in his mind, the promise he had made to them.

“Because you have no other options.”

“Don’t I?” she murmured. As though she were made of fire, Anteros dropped her chin.

* * *

It was probably nothing, but it bugged him. What the fuck had she meant? Don’t I? She had no other options. Anteros kept his eyes glued to Frankie while they entered Lucio’s home. He had a feeling—one that was a uniquely Frankie feeling—that he was missing something. He was seconds away from grabbing her and demanding she tell him what was really going on when she gasped.

Red lips parted, eyes grew wide, her face transformed with wonder.

“Wow,” Frankie gasped. “And I thought your place was pretentious.” Anteros watched her a moment longer, eyes narrowed, before relaxing. He was making a big deal out of nothing.

“Lucio had it modeled after the Palace at Versailles,” he explained.

“So, simple, then,” she replied, but her gaze was on the room. Her face softened as she took in everything. Lucio’s front room had been designed after the famous Hall of Mirrors. Over a dozen crystal chandeliers hung. Huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors stood opposite windows that looked out over the dazzling city. Gold Louis XIV-style molding and statues lined the walkway. At night, it really was spectacular—that is, if you hadn’t become completely over saturated by the place after years of meeting the owner there like Anteros had.

Anteros followed the delicate peaks and valleys of her profile along the column of her neck, down to where her palm was open. As if possessed, he grabbed it, enclosing her soft palm within his own. He didn’t stop long to think on it and tugged her along, urging her from her standstill and through the long, open hallway.

“Oh my God.” Frankie stopped and pointed with her other hand. “Is the ceiling hand painted?” Instead of following her hand to a ceiling he’d seen hundreds of times, he watched her. Mouth open, she looked absolutely stunned.

“Aren’t all?” Anteros quipped. She snapped her head back down, making a face at him.

“It looks like the freaking Sistine Chapel,” she said, mouth staying open wide in wonder.

“Frankie,” Anteros chided. “If we stop at every hand-painted mural we’ll never get to the party.”

“This house is like a museum,” she whispered as they turned the corner. “Who owns this place?”

“Lucio Pavoni.” At his response, she whipped her head to the side and looked at him, features contorted in what appeared to be interest. He narrowed his eyes and she looked forward. Anteros kept looking at her.

“Will he be at the party?” she asked lightly.

“No,” Anteros replied, still watching her.

Her brows crinkled in confusion. “Where will he be?” Anteros frowned. That was the second question into Lucio Pavoni. He was just about to probe into her curiosity when they rounded the corner. As they came to the edge of the party, he decided it wasn’t worth the time. They paused at the top of a two-story staircase with columns lining the balcony. Below them a massive ballroom was filled with so many people you couldn’t see the floor.

“Is that the press?” she asked, awed, noting the flash of cameras as they met the lip of the stairs. “Is this how big all of your Christmas parties are?” She looked up at him then. Her chin caught the light, somehow managing to look sharp yet softened by the yellow glow. Absolutely stunning.

It nearly floored him.

No matter what this night meant for him and everything he’d been working for, no matter what he should or shouldn’t do, seeing her right then really brought home that it was futile to deny her. In her red dress, she was exquisite, shining more than the jewels that lined the bodice and ballgown.

“No.” He coughed. “This night is special.” She gripped his elbow and they walked down the stairs together.

“They’re taking pictures…of us,” she commented, voice laced with suspicion and curiosity.

“I also have eyes,” Anteros teased.

“But…” She looked up at him and then quickly looked away. His cheeks quirked at that, guessing what she was thinking.

“Who is going to tell them?” he whispered into her ear as they reached the floor. When his lips came back from her lobe, he realized he was smiling. Quickly he wiped the thing from his lips, but his gaze had already collided with someone in the corner: Crazy A. Eyes hard, Crazy A took a drink, looked from him to Frankie, and then looked away.

* * *

“I see you’ve brought your pet,” Crazy A said coldly, looking to Frankie.

Anteros shrugged. “For show.”

Crazy A narrowed his eyes at Frankie and said, “I’ve seen enough of this dog walking on its hind legs for a lifetime.” He felt Frankie stiffen, though she didn’t respond.

Anteros gripped Frankie’s hand and slowly removed it from his forearm. Tearing his gaze from Crazy A’s menacing, coal depths, he turned to her and said, “Leave us.”

She gripped his arm tighter. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What should I do?” Frankie looked around the ballroom with wide doe eyes. His chest felt tight. For a moment he could taste that divine rush he got from her. If he just gave in a little bit…His eyes collided back with Crazy A’s.

Anteros shrugged her off. “Go stand in the corner and wait.”

“And I was worried tonight wasn’t going to be fun,” she said as she walked away.

“Where are the others?” Anteros asked Crazy A, scanning the ballroom. He could see Frankie had positioned herself on the farthest wall, next to the kitchen, arms folded. His eyes narrowed when a man approached her, but Frankie waved him off quickly.

Crazy A took a slow sip of amber liquid. “You’re in deep.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Anteros said harshly.

“I know better than anyone.” Crazy A didn’t talk with gentle, wizened sympathy. It was bitter and broke off, implying a past they never acknowledged. “And you know that.” Anteros faced Crazy A, whose glare was like the burning sun. Theirs was a past never spoken; not even the other Wolves knew what had happened between them. The tension between them felt as though it was about to reach boiling point when someone slapped him on the back.

Anteros turned, affecting a terse smile when noticing who owned the arm that had so carelessly slammed into his back: Governor Dubois. If it were any other person, the arm would have been chopped off. He nodded at Emilio De Luca standing next to the governor.

“Tonight’s the night,” Governor Dubois said, hand still grasping Anteros firmly on the shoulder. Anteros rubbed a finger to his nose as the potent smell of alcohol hit his nostrils. Governor Dubois leaned in, stumbling slightly.

“This is Vic!” Dubois threw a haphazard hand over the shoulder of the man called Vic. “H’swith the Times. Doing an exposé on our boy.” Anteros followed the hand to Vic. He wasn’t like any journalist Anteros had ever known. He was nearly as tall as Anteros and held himself with the poise of a warrior, eyes cold from death. Vic met his stare head on, unflinching.

Anteros reached a hand out. “Nice to meet you.” Vic grabbed his hand with just as much force, maintaining eye contact the entire time. As he leaned over, his long, straight black hair fell over his shoulder.

“You as well,” Vic replied. They broke the handshake at the same moment. Leaning back, Vic kept his eyes locked on Anteros’s until breaking to look to Governor Dubois.

“Thank you for introducing us, Governor,” Vic said. “I’ll find you in a bit.”

“Aren’t you here to do an exposé on Emilio?” Anteros asked, skepticism cool on his tongue.

“I am,” Vic replied evenly. “I’ve already spoken with Emilio at length. Now I’m going to get a feel for the room.”

Anteros narrowed his eyes just as Emilio whined, “He asked me so many questions.” Anteros shifted glares. “I mean,” Emilio said, adjusting his suit. “I look forward to the honor.” He smiled, the grin cracking slightly.

“It was nice to meet you…” Vic trailed off, signaling for Anteros to give him his name.

“Mr. Drago, but friends call me Beast.”

Vic raised a brow. “Interesting nickname.”

Anteros shrugged. “Uninteresting story, I’m afraid.” Vic gave a wry smile and disappeared into the crowd. Anteros watched him leave, suit a little too tight on his muscular frame. There was something off about him, something he couldn’t place. He knew journalists, had bribed many. None of them had looked like that.

“It’s planned for thirty minutes from now,” Dubois said, breaking into Anteros’s thoughts. “That bald guy of yours—what’s his name? Reese?” Anteros nodded, redirecting his attention to Dubois. “He’s been finagling the press’n…” Dubois paused, bending over. “Should not have had that seventh Grand Marnier.”

Anteros breathed deeply. If there was anything he despised most, it was someone who couldn’t hold their liquor.

Dubois stood up and swallowed. “He’s been finagling the press’n got everything set backstage. Got all the women ready and—shit.” Dubois stopped, looking struck. “Emily.”

“Do you mean Ellie?” Emilio offered, trying to be helpful.

“No, no, Emily,” Dubois said. Anteros looked through the crowd, growing tired of Dubois. Emily was Dubois’s mistress, one of many. Anteros looked over the heads of the crowd, most of whom were smaller than him. Frankie had disappeared from her spot against the wall. Frowning, he looked along the wall, but he locked eyes with Pretty Boy instead.

Pretty Boy was talking to Councilman Hangman and when he saw that Anteros was watching him, he made a noose gesture. Anteros smiled at the motion. When Hangman looked back, Pretty Boy quickly snapped his head back to attention, taking on a stern countenance and pretending to be deep in conversation.

“I can’t remember which girl I pointed to when he asked who to put backstage,” Dubois said. “You think that bald guy a’yours knows who I’m married to?”

Anteros looked at him straight in the eye. “Probably not.” Rhys knew who Dubois was married to. He knew everything about Dubois—they both did—but Dubois had moved past stepping on his nerves; he was practically tap dancing on them.

Dubois eyes grew wide. A waiter walked by with drinks, and Dubois grabbed one then dashed off, presumably to go deal with the fire he’d started.

“You should follow him,” Anteros said. “You both need to be in as many pictures as possible. Don’t make Rhys pay for unnecessary photoshopping and bribing.”

Emilio nodded. As he was leaving, he stopped and asked, “You’ll be there, right?”

“I will meet with you before the announcement.”

“But you’ll be on stage, though, right?” Emilio asked, eyes beseeching. Anteros nearly said no, but then paused. He had planned to stay in the shadows, but now he could come out. That was the point.

“Yes.”

Emilio exhaled. “Okay. Good.” After Emilio left, Anteros cut through the crowd, going to the spot where he had last seen Frankie. There was no sign of her. He looked out over the crowd of majestically dressed people. A sea of black, gold, white, red, and green met him, but none of them was Frankie.

He clenched his fist, jaw tightening.

Where the hell was she?

Nineteen

Pressed against a wall and shoved into a kitchen pantry—a goddamn pantry. I’d been minding my own goddamn business, being a nice little slave and watching a sea of elegantly dressed people have fun—or at least appear to have fun—when a man grabbed me and shoved me into a pantry faster than I could think.

Long, silky black hair framed a jaw sharper than cut glass. Slim, probing eyes were blacker than the night outside. He was definitely frightening, but also beautiful. He reminded me of the Beast in a way; there was something dark about him. Maybe if it were a month ago, I would have been scared. Instead, I regarded him with curiosity.

What brand of pain would he bring me?

“We don’t have much time,” he whispered. “Your grandmother sent me.”

“I don’t have a grandmother,” I replied instantly, dumbly, before the cogs in my brain began to work on their own. Did this man think I was a princess? Was this one of the fanatics Gabby and Nikolai had spoken of? To them I had an entire royal family. Suddenly it felt like I was walking on loose stone, unsure of which step I wanted to take.

He laughed harshly. “Well she disagrees on that point. I don’t give a fuck either way, but I owe her a debt.” He stepped back, edging off from the wall and giving me space to breathe. I took said space greedily, sliding out from under him and stepping into the middle of the room. It was obvious how he watched me, like a spider does a fly, but he didn’t move to grab me.

After a few moments, when it was clear I wasn’t going to be pinned again, I asked, “What debt?”

“Unimportant,” he said quickly. Looking at his watch he said, “We have two minutes before that guy—Beast—notices you’re gone.” This man offered no tells. He didn’t run hands through his hair, didn’t pace, just stood there.

The Terracotta Army was one of the many pictures I’d taped to my walls. They fascinated me. There were so many stone soldiers for one burial. I never thought I’d get to see them though, not beyond that picture.

Now I stared at this man, wondering if he was my very own Terracotta soldier. Did he represent my freedom, or was he going to stand watch for my burial?

“Why are you here?”

He smiled, a bright dazzling smile accentuated with dimples. “I’m here to rescue a princess.” Then just like that he was gone. Poof. Back to where he’d come from.

Just kidding.

He left the pantry and, on his command, I waited a few moments to stagger our exits. When I got back outside, I searched for him, wondering what the fuck to do. He appeared to be press. He walked straight up to the man I’d seen at the party, the one with brown hair and crystal blue eyes, and they started to chat; he even had the man smiling. He appeared to write what the man said down on a pad of paper.

Feeling even more confused, I walked toward the drinks, figuring if I couldn’t decide my future, I could at least get a little drunk. The bartender looked at me, waiting for me to give him an order. I wasn’t sure what to order because I wasn’t even sure what kind of drink I liked. I’d only read about drinks, never experienced them. How could I say What kills the most brain cells and leaves my mind in a heap of incomprehensible rubble? without sounding like…well, you know.

“Champagne.” I smiled, the stretch of my lips feeling wrong against my skin. The bartender handed me the flute and I turned so I didn’t have to smile again. Walking toward the middle of the crowd, I wondered if Beast had noticed my absence. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I was supposed to just sit against the wall, so I was sure he was going to punish me.

A little shiver ran up my spine. Earlier I’d tried out my own form of punishment against him. First being cold to him in the library, then probing about Papa. I wanted to see if he would still lie to me, needed to know. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything about Papa. I didn’t even like Christmas. I was just so viciously torn and angry at him for lying to me. Of course I shouldn’t have expected honesty from him, but I thought we’d come to an agreement on the roof. I thought there was an understanding.

I took a drink of champagne.

I was still so, so naive. That wasn’t us. You can’t come to understandings when one person holds all the cards.

The worst part was I knew I couldn’t keep up the coldness. Anteros was fire to my soul. Even this morning, when I should have been dead weight on the bed, he’d somehow managed necromancy. His bruises seared like a lover’s caress and my soul was so often tricked. I had to remind myself as if it were a mantra: Beast wasn’t my lover. He was my enemy. This was not a love story, this was a hate story.

He was probably watching the cameras.

Which had me wondering if he saw me in the pantry. Shaking my head, I lifted the champagne. That was not a thought I wanted to spar with. It wasn’t like it was my fault. I hadn’t sought the man out. I put the drink to my lips again, only to have it get immediately knocked away when someone ran into me. Champagne sloshed out of the top and to the floor and Gabby’s hurried whisper filled my ear.

“What did Vic say?”

“Who?” I stared at the liquid gold that would not be going in my stomach, watching as people stepped over it, getting it on their shoes and the hems of their dresses. It was quickly mopped away. Even Gabby’s dress was getting in it, a deep reddish-purple color that shined like satin.

“That man.” Gabby’s satin-clad arm dragged me closer to the middle of the floor. “Donna Lucia sent him.”

“Who?” It was packed, shoulder to shoulder—how did people dance this way?

“Lucia Pavoni,” Gabby said, exasperation leaking from her pores. “Lucio Pavoni’s sister.” My brain strained, remembering the names in the stories I’d read in the journal. There were two Lucio Pavonis, a junior and senior. Lucio Pavoni was the man who owned this museum-townhouse, according to Beast. He also had to be the one in the photo since Sofia had said the senior died. I remembered that Sofia said since the eldest Lucio had died, the younger was planning something, something that made her worry for the fate of them all. That was pretty much it, though. Sofia wasn’t exactly an historian. Maybe what younger Lucio was planning was buying out the Louvre.

So Lucia was his sister. But why?

“Why?” I probed. “Why would she send him?”

“Because you’re the princess,” Gabby said. “Also someone may have sent her a letter about you…” She looked away.

I gripped her arm until my flesh turned hers white. “Are you insane? Don’t you see what’s happening? Nikolai is using you.” Her forehead creased and she stepped back.

“No he’s not.”

“Who brought us together before you murdered your husband? Who told you I was the princess? Who told you to send the letter? He’s using you for something, Gabby. Using us!”

She paused a moment then said, "Does it fucking matter?” My eyes widened. Gabby never swore. “What does it matter if we get out?” I didn’t have an answer for her. For Gabby getting out was everything, for me it used to be and now it was…it was an ache in my chest.

“Lucia is on our side,” Gabby said simply. “She wants to help. She must know something about the photos. Nikolai says she has to know who your mother is.” I paused at her words. My mother? Was it possible the woman was out there alive?

Then I stilled.

I already had a mother.

“This is all happening way too fast.” I spun to her. “Even if I entertain the idea that I’m some princess, you can’t just…just…” Someone bumped into us, pushing us closer. A few golden tendrils from Gabby’s expertly coiffed hair fell from her face. “Just contact the leader of the mafia without telling me!”

Her smile fell. “Without you this entire thing falls apart.”

“I—” With a yelp, my words fell. Someone reached from behind, snaking their hands around my waist and pulling me from Gabby.

* * *

“There you are.” His breath was hot against my hair. Though his low, cruelly smooth and seductive voice was unmistakable, I recognized the feel of him most. I recognized the way his fingers splayed against my stomach and how his muscles were like packs of stone against my back. My body hummed for the Beast.

“I’ve been enjoying the party, like you asked.” Did I respond a little too quickly?

“I only have a few moments to spare.” Taking one arm, he spun me around, a ghost of a smile on his face. With his hand now on my lower back, he looked into my eyes. The once crowded dance floor separated for us. It was just him and me, twirling and dancing.

And fuck.

He was an amazing dancer. I knew that a little bit already, though, had seen a glimpse of it the night…the night Arlo tried to rape me. The way he’d dipped me then was exquisite. The way he led me in a dance was how he led his life, with force and surety. I was breathless when he spun me out, my hair whipping fast and furiously.

We were a picture of grace and poise. That night he wore an elegant tuxedo, the epitome of class and sex appeal. In this ballroom filled with strangers, I got to see his electric virility in the wild. Women watched him unabashedly, even now as we danced.

He spun me out and then spun me back, and it was beautiful.

But there was a dark, dirty part of me that was disappointed. I thought he was going to do something completely different to me than dance, something because I left the wall.

“Where were you, Frankie?” he whispered against my ear when he brought me back from a spin. My eyes popped at his erection against my back. “You’ll have to be reminded what it means to disobey me, but later. I don’t have time to properly punish you now.” I swallowed, and he spun me out again before I could think about the warm tingling that spread out in my thighs.

The spin was so quick, really I was only away from him for seconds, but it was as if everything slowed down. Strands of my hair pushed away from my face, dancing against the air currents. My hand peeled away from me, stretching out wide into the air. I saw everything. For a moment, I felt like Alice falling down to Wonderland.

Then I froze. We froze—him with his fingers just on mine, me leaning far out to complete the spin. My finger twitched and I knew we were going to unfreeze soon. I was going to have to come back to reality, and I wondered how I’d gotten myself into this mess.

I might be a princess.

The Beast controlled parts of me I dared not acknowledge.

If I kept tumbling down the hole, soon it would be too late. I would be irrevocable.

But what if I just didn’t spin back to him?

Then everything snapped back. I spun back into his arms, into his chest, and he held me, breathless. Our eyes locked, his bluegreen gaze boring into me. In them I saw the wildness, the carnality that belied his elegant exterior. In them I saw the darkness I knew he harbored.

A darkness I was discovering matched parts of me, too.

My lips parted, some plea on my breath that even I didn’t know. He held me tight and for a moment the world disappeared.

“I wish I meant more to you,” I whispered the truth that had been breaking me in two for almost a month. I wish I meant what you mean to me, is what I couldn’t say aloud, what I don’t think I could ever say aloud.

Our dancing stilled. His eyes softened yet intensified under his shrouded brow, and I felt him all the way to my core. With my lips parted, I stared into his eyes, saw the fever in them that I thought matched the fever in me, and I thought maybe he was going to give me some kind of truth to hold on to.

But he dropped me.

AGAIN.

This time I was prepared and didn’t fall on my fucking ass. The Beast walked away from me without another word. With a hand to my nose, I pinched the bridge. I used to do that when I’d come home to find Papa had gone through my “room” and spent what little money I had on…well, the Beast.

Now I pinched my nose, watching as Beast climbed the small stage in the ballroom. There was no one up on the stage besides Beast, and no one besides me was paying attention. The music was still playing, the drinks were still flowing. I went through the various sinister reasons why Beast would be on stage, and then I just stopped.

I stopped caring.

I walked toward the bar, eager to add some liquor to my newfound look on life, when I was interrupted.

“Valeria?” a woman gasped.

* * *

“Valeria!” The woman said again, this time her word an exclamation, not a question. She stopped me, looking very excited. Her gray hair was pulled up, not a hair out of place. Her wrinkles had been augmented, rejuvenated, and pulled back. She was beautiful, if not a little too plastic for my taste.

“Excuse me.” I laughed nervously. “I think you have the wrong person.”

“Oh of course dear. I meant you look just like Valeria. But it can’t be.” She paused, peering at me like she could see something behind my eyes. I shifted nervously. “There have been rumors but there are always rumors.” She gripped my arm tightly. “What is your name dear?”

“I…” I laughed nervously again. “I need to go.” I tried to move, but she wouldn’t let me go. Alarm bells were sounding in my head. This was not the type of conversation to be having with Beast in the vicinity.

Then she said, “Are you the slave?” I fucking panicked. My eyes widened. I looked to my left and right. Nikolai and Gabby had spoken of fanatics within the mafia, and I was certain I was looking into the hazel eyes of one.

“You are the slave.” Her own eyes widened and she lessened her grip, stepping back as if to examine me. “Oh my God, the rumors are true.”

“Look.” I lowered my voice, trying to sound menacing. “You need to let me go. Right. Now.” Her hand immediately left my arm and I pushed past her, putting as much distance between us as I could. When I was far away, I bent over. My chest felt tight, my arms tingly. It was like I couldn’t breathe.

Oh God, she knew me.

She’d called me Valeria—like that chick in the journal.

Oh God.

I put my arm against the wall, looking for support. The woman was nowhere to be seen. The people had closed the gaps I had made with fabrics of black, white, gold, red. They smiled, clinked drinks, and threw heads back and laughed. So many sounds commingled into one loud roar in my ear.

I looked around, feeling suddenly like I wasn’t just in a sea of people, but drowning among them. I put my hand to my chest.

I’d never had a panic attack before.

Was this one?

Or was I dying?

“Vic is in the pantry,” Gabby whispered into my ear.

I jumped, pulled my arm off the wall, and snapped, “Well I hope he finds something tasty in there.” I walked away, furiously pushing through people like I was at a concert. The crowd was thick and unyielding, everyone wanting to stick to their groups and cliques. I used my elbows and I heard yelps of indignation as I trudged through.

“Frankie!” Gabby whisper-yelled at my back as I elbowed through another group. “Something is going down tonight. I don’t know what, but Emilio is here and he is never at events, and the press is talking to him and—”

“I don’t care!” I spun around. “I don’t know who Emilio is and I don’t fucking care because I don’t care about any of this anymore.”

Gabby frowned. “Emilio is my brother and you should care because he—” she pointed to the man I’d seen at the Christmas Eve party, the same one Vic had been talking to earlier “—is deadweight. The only reason Beast would want him is as some kind of puppet.” For a moment I got sucked back in. I had no idea Gabby had a brother. She and Emilio looked nothing alike. Where Gabby had blonde hair, brown eyes, and freckles, Emilio had brown hair and crystal blue eyes.

Did she have more siblings? What would Beast want Emilio for? I shook my head. No. I’m getting out of this world.

I lowered my voice, leaning closer to her. “I don’t want this okay? I don’t want any of it. I’m getting out of here.”

“Wha—” Gabby shook her head as if changing tactics. “You are the only hope we have,” Gabby implored. I paused, looking back. She’d stretched out the word “only” and was now looking up to the ceiling. I followed her gaze, wondering if I’d see what she saw. All I saw was the ceiling.

Gabby opened her mouth as if to say something else but instead folded her arms, wrinkling the satin of her dress. She stared at me silently, and I had the impression she was reevaluating me. Gabby was beautiful. There was something about her. She wasn’t a “traditional” beauty. Her hips were a little too wide, her breasts small, her waist maybe a bit too tiny, but when you looked at her, she was striking. She made you do a double-take.

The dress she wore screamed elegance with its long sleeves, a plunging V, slit up the side, and understated belt. As we stared at each other, I tried to summon any concrete facts I had about Gabby, not just feelings. What did I know about her? Her favorite things?

I knew she’d been abused. I knew she was Sofia’s daughter. I now knew she had a brother. I knew she was in love with a man named Levi, and that love was tearing her up inside. I knew she murdered her husband.

I knew she was dangerously naive and fiercely loyal—a loyalty that was currently directed at me.

So what did she see in me? What did any of them see in me—besides a fucking rumor?

The pain in my chest got tighter.

“I can’t breathe,” I said—well, more like wheezed. “People are calling me Valeria and handsome Asian men are pledging their fealty to me. This isn’t my life! I’m just some chick from Jersey!”

“Who called you Valeria?” Gabby looked around, excited.

“Stop being so excited,” I snapped, throwing my hands out. “This isn’t exciting, this is terrifying!”

“Come.” Gabby gently took my arm, pulling me from the center of the ballroom to the side. She waited until I’d regained some control of my breathing and said, “You were never just some girl from Jersey. You were always a princess.” She spoke as if it was so silly of me to try and question it.

“You be princess,” I said. “You’d be good at it.”

She leaned back against the wall with a wry smile on her face. “You don’t get to choose what you’re born into.”

I scoffed. “This is America, Gabby, that’s exactly what you get to do.”

She laughed. “You are a princess, Frankie. You’ll still be a princess if you run away, you’ll just be a princess without a kingdom.” Her words ran through my body, breaking me out in shivers.

“I just… I can’t…” I peeled off the wall, sprinting through people until I was sure she couldn’t see me.

* * *

I wasn’t a princess.

I couldn’t be.

I stumbled against the wall, putting my head in my hands.

You were never just some girl from Jersey. You were always a princess.

I held the wall, trying to get Gabby’s voice out of my head. This wasn’t my life. I didn’t want this. The music stopped and everyone looked up at the stage as forks tapped against fine crystal glass, echoing in the room like thousands of wind chimes. It was beautiful sounding, ethereal.

I hated it.

I didn’t want this. I wanted to go back to being Frankie Notte, staring at pictures on the wall and not really seeing them. The sound of clinking rose higher, loud and urgent, like cicadas had invaded the ballroom. Then it was quiet, deathly so.

Governor Dubois stepped up to the mic and started talking. He said some things about the party, lightened the mood, but I saw beyond that. There was something deeper, something darker. I ground my jaw at the gnawing voice in my head that sounded too much like Gabby.

Everyone was too busy staring at the stage to notice me falling to the ground. My legs were too heavy, my chest too tight. My red ball gown pooled around my feet like melted ruby. I stared at the satin, the way it caught the light reminded me of blood. It would be blood if I continued to play princess. When I’d traded my life, I hadn’t thought about what it would mean. I just did it, because that’s what you do for the people you love. If you see they’re about to die, you dive in front of that fucking train. But the past month? It’d been like diving in front of the train over and over and over again.

I couldn’t stand Beast. Knowing he saw me as nothing was the worst torture. He commanded parts of me, completely controlled them, yet wanted nothing to do with them. He’d taken things from me without my consent. If I continued, he’d take my heart. I knew it. I had to get out before that happened, but playing princess would prolong the torture. I would have preferred traditional torture—you know, bamboo shoots in the nails, waterboarding.

I hate him for what he’s done to me.

Hate him.

“Frankie?” I snapped my eyes to the voice, immediately recognizing it. It was a carnal reaction, as if he held a string that he could pull and I would jerk to it. “What’s wrong?” I looked from Beast to the stage, remembering how he’d dropped me on my ass to walk up there, right after I’d given another piece of myself to him. I sighed jaggedly. He pulled my chin to his, looking into my eyes, trying to see beyond, trying to pull more of me to him.

No. No more.

I jerked my chin away but he pulled me up and wrapped his arms around me.

Why did this feel so right? Why couldn’t it feel wrong?

“I thought you were supposed to be on stage,” I murmured against his chest. “Don’t you have duties to attend to?”

“No,” he said simply. His fingers ran through my hair, caressing me in even strokes. I closed my eyes, leaning into his chest getting lost in the smell of him. For a moment I let myself sink into the feeling, into the lie.

But then I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was his friend, the evil one who’d called me a dog, Crazy A. His glare was harsh and he looked at me like I was doing something wrong. He looked at me the way I knew I should feel, telling me everything I kept refusing to acknowledge, that Beast would never love me.

I swallowed and tried to pull away, breaking the spell between us. Sounds came rushing back in. Sounds of low music, hushed conversation, and the voice of Governor Dubois on stage. I noticed everyone around us. Beast only looked at me.

“I’m overjoyed to announce,” Governor Dubois said into the mic, “the temporary appointment of Emilio De Luca to senate—”

“You fucking motherfucker!” Everyone snapped their heads to the new voice, even Beast. A man, disheveled in appearance, with a wrinkled red tie that hung off his neck and a stained suit, ran into the room. At the top of the stairs, he pointed down.

It was Senator Hatch, but he looked nothing like the man I’d grown up watching. Senator Hatch had been in office as long as I’d been alive. With salt and pepper hair, a perfectly tanned face, and few wrinkles—likely due to a good relationship with a plastic surgeon—he wasn’t just a New York icon, he was prominent in the world. Hatch was one of the longest sitting senators and buddy-buddy with the Hollywood elite.

Which was why it had been such a shock, so horrible when Gabby told me the news.

He wasn’t pointing at Governor Dubois, though. He was pointing at Beast.

“You motherfucker!” he continued. “My life is ruined. You promised. You said if I stepped down you wouldn’t do it!” Security was coming in but the senator continued to run down the stairs, looking crazed. “Those men are liars!” Senator Hatch screamed. “They made a deal with me and they fucking lied!” I tried to follow where he was pointing now, but his movements were too crazed. “Governor Dubois is in league with the mafia and this new senator is just a puppet. This whole place is corrupt!”

Camera flashes were going off so quickly the whole place was illumined. Excited chatter broke out around us, and when Hatch’s hand finally settled, it landed on Beast.

On us, because Beast still hadn’t let me go.

Security ran into the room, gripping Hatch by the arms. The senator kept screaming as he was pulled out of the room, but it was too late. Everything Hatch had said had been recorded by the press and imprinted in the minds of the partygoers. My gaze moved over to where Crazy A stood, feeling like he was looking at me. Big O, Little O, and Pretty Boy had joined him. All of their stares were on me, and they looked at me like I’d caused this.

It seemed there had been some kind of deal between Hatch and Beast, and apparently that deal had gone south. It made sense at least…in the ugly way that I was starting to understand was the true way of the world—not the world I’d grown up believing was Senator Hatch and his pretty face and pretty words, but Beast’s world. All four of them were looking at me like I had ruined everything. I looked away, but Gabby’s words took root inside of me.

You’ll still be a princess if you run away, you’ll just be a princess without a kingdom.

I knew something had just happened. Something I could never run away from.

Something irrevocable.

Twenty

“Governor Dubois is in league with the mafia and this new senator is just a puppet. This whole place is corrupt!” Anteros gripped Frankie, fingers curling around her forearm as flashes went off. Senator Hatch was finally fucking dragged away, but the damage was already done. The stares of his Wolves were hot on his neck, like fire branding him, a searing reminder of his incompetence.

All the work he’d done with Rhys the past few months was for nothing. He could bribe some of the reporters, but not all of them; there was always the noble one. As Hatch got dragged around the corner, Anteros’s grip on Frankie tightened momentarily then loosened before he shoved her off and went to find Rhys. Time for damage control.

“Wait,” she called, and he paused as if the cadence of her voice commanded him. “The reporters are coming toward me. What do I do? What do I say?” With a frustrated growl, he spun back around. This was just another reminder of his fuckup. No one should know about her. She was his goddamn slave. What business did he have dressing her up, bringing her to events like this?

Grabbing her arm, he dragged her from the dance floor. Frankie stumbled after him, struggling to keep up with his pace. Lucio Pavoni’s home was massive and anterooms lined the entire ballroom. No one ever went inside the rooms—most had been empty since the day Lucio bought the place—which was exactly why he was heading in their direction. When he’d arrived at one, he curled his fingers around the doorknob and pushed it open, shoving Frankie into the empty room. As he was shutting the door, her indignant voice stopped him once again.

“You’re just going to leave me in here?” she yelled after him. “For how long?” He paused, hovering over the porcelain doorknob. He looked back and their eyes locked. Her sea glass gaze was frightened, unsure, and he wanted nothing more than to rush in and take her in his arms. Instead he shut the door without an answer. The dance floor was still a mess of press and excited chatter. The band wasn’t playing any music.

How the fuck had this happened? How had he not seen this coming? This should have been a great night. Anteros should have been reveling. After years of planning, months of stringent timelines, he’d finally placed a man in the government—but that was all fucked now. His eyes scanned the room, looking for Rhys, but instead they caught the gaze of Crazy A.

Crazy A didn’t look surprised by the events; he looked knowing. Taking a sip of his drink, Crazy A’s harsh, clinical glare never wavered from Anteros. Ripping his stare away, Anteros scanned for the man he’d intended to find, finally doing so a few seconds later. Rhys was standing next to the steps, sweating and rubbing a handkerchief across his bald head. Anteros pushed through the tittering crowd, elbowing them out of the way, ignoring shouts.

“How the fuck did this happen?” he demanded, grabbing Rhys by the collar.

“I, uh, tried,” Rhys sputtered. “I tried to tell you. I told you he was upset and I was concerned about damage control.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Anteros said, letting Rhys go. He stumbled back and rubbed the handkerchief even faster across his bald head. Anteros stared at him, wondering what had happened to the man who had turned his gun on him in the alley. It was like he had used up all of his grit in that moment years ago.

“He’s still senator,” Rhys pointed out weakly.

“There’s no point if he doesn’t get re-elected.” Anteros was talking mostly to himself. He knew this wasn’t Rhys’s fault—it was his, and that’s what made it so fucking awful. He’d never made a mistake this catastrophic before—never really made a mistake ever. His eyes wandered to the door he’d just shut. He’d been planning on staying up on the stage with Emilio, but his focus had strayed, eyes wandering to the woman with perfect brown curls and striking blue eyes.

Frankie.

She’d been on the floor, looking sad and forlorn, and he’d had to know why. That ended up being yet another mistake in what was an endless stream of them. It was like a pressure inside him, the desire, and it was only sated when he was near her. He knew Crazy A and his Wolves were right. None of this would have happened if Frankie wasn’t in his life. Even after everything, though, he wanted to go to her. He wanted to open that door.

With a frustrated grunt, he ran his fingers through his dark locks and shirked his gaze from the door. Across the ballroom, his Wolves watched him. Unlike Crazy A, their expressions were a mixture of everything he was feeling inside. Anteros gripped the banister and turned from them, from Rhys, from the entire fucking thing, and then walked up the stairs.

He’d fucked up.

For the first time in years, he’d fucked up.

* * *

The frenzy was dulled, the sounds muted. In this room of death, Anteros could forget what had just happened for a moment. The man in the bed took rickety breaths like he was trying to pass rocks through his lungs. Slowly, Anteros walked over to the bed and sat next to Lucio. He was getting worse and worse, his coloring sallow. It had only been a few weeks since Anteros’s last visit, and his condition had worsened astronomically.

When Lucio first started showing symptoms, it was slow at first. A stumble here, a trip there. The occasional slurring of words. Then one meeting, he fainted. After that, the boulder rolled down the hill. Not even a year had passed since his illness had taken hold, an illness doctors had yet to diagnose beyond dementia, but it was obviously going to kill him.

Anteros gripped his hand and stared into his face. He wouldn’t be surprised if Lucio was dead by the end of the week. This was the man who’d taken him from Venice, who’d given him a new life. Lucio wasn’t kind and had often reminded him of the fact that he wasn’t a Pavoni, but there were much worse things to be than an outsider.

“I bet you feel great about yourself.” Anteros snapped his head up to see Dario laugh behind him. Pulling his hand free from Lucio’s, Anteros turned to the councilman, keeping his face blank. Standing like a shadow in the doorway, The Cuck regarded Anteros with a look of pure satisfaction and a drink in his hand.

“Is something on your mind, Cuck?” Anteros asked. Dario scowled at the less than friendly nickname and walked farther into the room.

“I wondered what you were up to with Emilio all these months. Now I know,” Dario said. “Absolutely nothing.” Dario laughed again, his body rolling with the movement. Anteros narrowed his eyes for a moment then responded by laughing as well. His laugh was mirthless and cold, menacing in its rumble.

Dario could laugh all he wanted; in less than a week, he would be dead.

Anteros stood up and walked over, patting the councilman on his shoulder. He kept his palm on Dario’s shoulder a little longer than necessary so Dario would have to slide out from under him. With distaste, Dario wiggled his way out from Anteros’s massive grip. Dario then walked to the bed, setting his drink down and taking his seat next to Lucio, pulling the clammy hand between his own, brassy ones.

“I’ll never know what this man was thinking bringing you into the Family,” Dario said, staring into Lucio’s face. I have the same question about you, Anteros thought, but he shrugged and walked out of the room. He got nothing out of sparring with Dario. The Cuck was an old, bitter man with nothing to offer the world.

When he entered the ballroom, the press had been removed and the band had gone back to playing. Everyone was dancing, drinking, and mingling as if there hadn’t just been a scorned senator in the room. Only the scandalized looks on the guests’ faces gave anything away.

Anteros spied his Wolves near a pile of fake display presents at one of the many cocktail tables propped up near the walls. Crazy A had joined the group and he watched Anteros approach with narrow, curious eyes. When Anteros sidled up to the table, they all waited for him to say something…anything.

A few moments passed, a cocktail waitress appeared, and Anteros ordered a drink. Still nothing had been said. When his drink came, Anteros took a draw, the burn coating his throat. He finished his drink and set the empty glass down on the table. While his Wolves watched him with eager, albeit worried looks, Crazy A’s stare was something else entirely. It was smug. Bitter.

After what felt like another ten minutes, Big O asked, “Where’s the slave?”

Anteros shrugged. “I threw her in one of the anterooms. Can’t remember which.” That was a lie. Anteros remembered the exact room and wished he knew exactly what Frankie was doing. Was she sitting on a couch? Staring at the door? Had she’d taken off the small black heels that made her stumble?

At the lie, his Wolves released a collective sigh—all except Crazy A. While the others started laughing and talking, Crazy A’s stare never wavered.

“Tonight was a clusterfuck,” Little O said. “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“Ever,” Big O amended.

“Not true. Remember July of 2000?” Pretty Boy asked. Big O laughed at the memory, which caused Little O to start laughing as he remembered. All three of them drew from their memory, talking about the epic failure that was July, the job that had lead to Beast being put in charge of all deliveries to The Institute.

Anteros bent his head, the ghost of a smile coming to his face. Big O had nearly lost them their account with The Institute, but here they were. He thought to Frankie in the room. Maybe things weren’t so bad… Then Crazy A’s callous voice drew his head back up.

“That was nothing compared to this,” Crazy A said. “But then we’ve never had a job go south with Anteros in charge.” Their stares met and Anteros clenched his fists at his side. He’d used his name again, this time in front of the Wolves.

“Uh, yeah…” Pretty Boy took a draw of his drink. “First time for everything.”

“And last,” Crazy A said.

“Yeah,” Anteros replied. He leaned forward. He shouldn’t let Crazy A get to him, but dammit he was unhinged. “There could be a last time for a lot of things.”

“I suddenly need a refill,” Little O said.

“But we have drinks right here,” Big O said, not getting the hint. Pretty Boy grasped his arm, tugging him from the table. Anteros didn’t watch them leave, stare still on Crazy A.

“I noticed the slave was talking to one of the older De Luca women,” Crazy A said innocently when they were gone.

“And?” Anteros asked. Crazy A shrugged, but it was contemptuous and insolent. His silence said everything. “Just let it go. Let it fucking go man. This isn’t like it was with you,” Anteros continued, frustration spilling over like a pot left on the stove too long. Crazy A leaned forward, meeting Anteros in the middle. Anteros clenched his fist tighter, staring into Crazy A’s cold, unrelenting eyes.

“I’ll let it go when the blood is drained from her body,” Crazy A replied, his impassive tone now icy. Anteros stared into Crazy A’s eyes. He thought they’d gotten over the past—or at least put it behind them—but his bitter tone betrayed him. This was about much more than getting rid of a threat. He wanted to get even. A second more passed and then Anteros slammed his drink on the bar and spun around.

As he walked away from the table, Crazy A’s laughter drifted over his shoulder.

* * *

When Anteros came back for Frankie, the party was dwindling and only drunks and wait staff were left. Emilio had left when Dubois left, hours ago, but that whole thing was fucked. Crazy A had disappeared after the confrontation at the table and Anteros stayed to watch his Wolves pick their prey for the night. He’d even done a few shots with them, so by the time he came to Frankie he was a little buzzed.

Frankie was lying down on a couch. The room was dark, but the light pushing in through the drawn curtains made the darkness navy blue. Every color was muted, her red dress subdued and dampened. The gold molding appeared bronzed as if the absence of light had weathered and decayed it. Dots of New York City light snuck in just underneath the hem of the curtain, like rogue merriment.

“Frankie?” Anteros asked, wondering if she was asleep.

“I’m tired,” she replied, unmoving. Anteros advanced toward her. It was nearing three in the morning and the party outside the room had just barely ended. Frankie looked so small and fragile on the couch that his mind drifted back to when he’d fed her dinner. More specifically, he thought of what she’d shared with him. In that instant his mind flipped through all the times she’d looked tired, fragile, and pale. A brief, horrible thought invaded him.

Instantly he snuffed it out.

“It is late…” he murmured, trailing a hand along her back. She sat up at that, her face catching the moonlight. She looked beautiful, ethereal. He sat next to her on the sateen, Victorian couch, fingering a lock of her curled hair. She turned away from him, the lock falling from his grasp.

“Please…” she whispered. “Please not tonight.” Her shoulders hunched, her breathing unsteady as she kept her chin down, interested in a spot on the floor. His palm fell on her shoulder, grasping the red satin of her dress then sliding until it fell on the exposed skin of her collarbone.

She shuddered.

His hand spread, splaying over her neck.

Still she didn’t turn. His hand gripped her neck, forcing her to turn and then her eyes locked with his. Her crystal gaze burned him like frostbite—hot, cold, uneven, angry yet lustful.

“You left me.”

“Do you remember what I told you while we were dancing?” Her gaze transformed, anticipation and something else, something primal filling the blue orbs. She nodded slowly. “What did I tell you, Frankie?” Anteros lowered his hand into her dress, capturing the peak of her nipple in a sharp pinch.

She gasped, leaning toward him. “That you didn’t have time to properly punish me.” Anteros twisted her and her mouth fell open wide. He twisted harder and she asked on a gasp, “Do you have time now?” The car was going to be there soon. He didn’t really have time, but he would make it.

She needed to be punished. For everything. For tonight, for this past month, for everything she did to him.

“Take off your dress.” He could see the war raging on inside of her brain when he commanded her. Part wanted to stand up and slap him, to leave, but there was a piece of her that called to him, he knew, because there was a piece of him that called back. She slowly got up and undid the zipper at her side, her dress falling in a heap of satin fabric at her feet.

“You’ve been very good so far, Frankie, so I’ll give you a choice.” He stood up, running his thumb down her jaw. “You can either end your punishment right now and walk to the car, or beg me to go easier on you.”

“Like this?” Her eyes popped. “I’m naked. There are people out there.”

He shrugged. “Not many.”

She jutted her chin out. “I’ll never beg you.” At her words, Anteros gestured to the door. Frankie looked to the door, to him, and then back to the door. With a bold breath, she took a step and opened it. Her face transformed when she realized just how many people were still out there. The sound of lingering music and partygoers drifted inside and Frankie quickly shut the door.

She turned back.

“Fine,” she snapped. “Oh Beast, I want you so bad. I’m begging.” His cheek quirked, but he said nothing. Leaning back into the couch, he draped his arms over the sides and studied her. In the dark she was no less radiant, but he could tell the silence was making her uncomfortable. She rubbed one smooth arm, looking around.

Everything was amplified in the dark, quiet room. The swish of his suit fabric against the couch. Her shallow, nervous breaths. When “Have Your Self A Merry Little Christmas” started to play, even the muffled song was like screams.

“Come here.” He drew one arm out, gesturing with his hand for her to come to him. She slowly tiptoed over, as if reconsidering with each step. When she was within reach, he grabbed her arm, forcing her to tumble off balance and into his lap. She gasped, arms tugging on his lapels. That thing between them sizzled and popped. It was what he’d been waiting for. That connection. That pulse.

“Do you like this?” he growled against her ear. “Do you like being made to do things, Frankie?” She said something, but it was so quiet he didn’t catch it. His fingers roamed her body, traveling all along her skin. Where he met her flesh, her skin rose and goose-pimpled, but he was sure to avoid the most sensitive parts of her.

She arched up to him, as though trying to force his hand, but he carefully bypassed the parts she wanted him to touch. She made an aggravated moan. Anteros wrapped his fingers around her neck and tightened his hold, forcing her to look up at him. Her face reddened, her mouth parted, and her eyes widened, but then she slackened as if waiting.

“I can’t hear you,” he snarled. Still she didn’t say anything. Anteros tightened his hold on her neck and drew her close so his lips were against her ear. “Beg me or you’ll go home with an ache between your thighs.” He loosened his hold on her and she swallowed in air greedily. As he spoke, he lightly dusted his fingers between her thighs, over her sensitive flesh. She bucked against him, her hands gripping his shoulders.

But Anteros let her go, because she still hadn’t begged.

“Wait.” She grasped the fabric of his suit, keeping him from leaving. He raised a brow, watching as she pulled her lip between her teeth, eyes darting from his to the floor. He could see the words stuck in her throat, bobbing up and down, but he wasn’t going to help.

“The car is here,” he offered. “Maybe you’ve reconsidered that option.”

“Please,” she said, sounding pained. Her nails scythed his shoulders.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and he pushed her back into the couch.

Twenty-One

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked, face planting into the leather seat of the limo—a limo this time, not a town car. He was stretched out on the opposite side, but that few feet of distance wasn’t nearly enough. Did I enjoy myself, he asked with a wry smile on his face, a smile that let me know he’d partaken in every form of debauchery possible tonight and there would be no remorse, only revelry.

He’d ripped me open, and I was simultaneously numb and screaming. Lying in that room, I’d been depressed, abject, totally broken because once again he reminded me I was nothing to him. He left me there for hours, which gave me hours to think about how I didn’t want this life. This wasn’t what I’d dreamed of. I didn’t want to don a mantle of shadows and murder and blood. Not even a month with the Beast and I could feel myself changing irrevocably. What would happen if I became the Princess? Who would I be?

And then he’d come into the room, hot, wanting, like fire, and stepped on the broken pieces of me, reminded me in the worst way possible that it wasn’t about my wants. He reminded me that my willpower was just smokescreen. He owned me. He could make me move, make me moan despite myself.

He could make me beg.

Because my wants were his wants.

Somehow I’d started to crave him; he’d become my drug.

If I didn’t get him, I started to shake and shiver.

How could I be a fucking princess if the dude I was supposed to usurp owned my world, owned me—the very essence of me.

One of his arms hung limply over the seat. His suit was askew, the hundred-dollar tie he wore undone and akimbo. His shirt was unbuttoned, showing the planes of his muscular chest just lightly dusted with hair. Narrowing my eyes, I regarded him further, realizing he was drunk. This was only the second time I’d seen him drunk.

“It was great,” I replied, trying to keep my tone warm. He nodded, his head falling deeper into the leather. “But,” I added, gently turning my gaze out the window. “I didn’t like how they kept playing ‘Blue Christmas’ over and over again. It felt kind of lazy by the band.” I desperately wanted to turn and see what his reaction was, but I kept my gaze fixated outside on the rolling, tinted black picture.

I wasn’t sure what the meaning behind “Blue Christmas” was for him, just that it would hurt. I wanted him to hurt badly, wanted him to feel a little bit of what I was feeling at that moment.

I heard the leather creak and knew he’d sat up. “I didn’t hear that song.” His liqueur-warm tone had gone cold, and that made me warm.

I shrugged and kept watching the window. Women in jackets lined with fur with boots up to their knees walked hand in hand with men in suits and nice wool pea coats along seasonally decorated windows. The windows were bright, dazzling, lighting up fake, fluffy snow. Wonderfully dressed men kissed other wonderfully dressed men beneath the dazzling lights. The people and their shoes smashed into the real snow. The ugly snow. The snow turned gray by reality.

“Maybe you were busy,” I said.

* * *

A few hours after Nikolai dropped me off at my room and walked a stumbling Beast back to his, I pulled out the journal, too emotionally exhausted to sleep. You know when you’re overtired and can’t sleep? You’re exhausted, fatigued, and your body needs to sleep, but you’ve reached the point of no return. That was me, but instead of sleep, it was my feelings.

Why do I keep letting this happen to me?

Why did I keep giving up parts of myself to this man? It was like people who anthropomorphize animals. They only have themselves to blame when the dog bites a leg. It’s in the dog’s nature. We’re the psychos who brought wolves into our homes in the first place. The dog doesn’t feel guilty; we just want to see guilt in those big round eyes. We want a reason for all the madness.

A reason for why our legs hurt all the time.

Taking the weathered leather journal, I walked to the blind spot. I pulled two plush blankets over my legs and wrapped another around my body. Before opening the journal, my gaze drifted over to the window. The sun was starting to rise, the white world waking up. Cold. Gray. Snow had settled on the sill, light, like dust, declaring how untouched it was.

I stared outside as snow fell and wondered. The sun burned such a bright white, I wondered if the sky had caught on fire and the snow was actually cinder. My fingers drifted south, beneath the thin satin of my underwear. The pads of my fingers felt along the newly growing hair, soft yet prickly, like pushing against the ends of a feather—another reminder that even though it felt like it, time did not stop here. My hair was growing past the Brazilian wax.

I wondered what the Beast would think of my hair.

Before getting taken, it was the one thing I afforded myself, the one luxury in my cheap life. I waxed religiously. Legs, arms, vagina—everything got waxed. I waxed so much and so often that the hair grew back less and less. I’d been waxing since high school, since the day Alex Wesley pointed at my unshaved legs and said, “Gross.”

Amidst Papa’s peeling plaster, it was a luxury I made myself afford.

Beast would probably pay for laser hair removal. Sighing, I turned back to the journal. I remembered that Sofia had wanted to run away with Alessio, before Emilio started fucking things up.

Anyway, even though I knew it never happened (how could it, with Gabby alive and kicking?), I couldn’t help but wish Sofia would tell me a different story, as if I could open the journal and her inked pen would somehow circumvent history. I slid my finger into the journal, flipping to continue where’d I left off last.

There was just one line on the page.

One single line.

When I do not give Emilio what he wants, he takes it.

There were wet splotches on the page. I ran my fingers over the puckering of the paper, imagining Sofia’s tears. The anger coursing through me surprised me. I remembered what Gabby had told me: if Emilio was Gabby’s brother, that meant he was also Sofia’s son. Why would she name her son after Emilio?

Finger still on the rippled paper, I heard the nearly nonexistent creak of the floorboard, letting me know I had a visitor approaching.

My head snapped to the door.

There wasn’t enough time to put the journal completely away. Quickly I shoved it under the pile of blankets and ran over to the bed, darting under the covers. Just as I pulled the covers up to my chin, the door creaked open, slowly revealing the body of the person in the doorway.

Naked.

Familiar.

Wanting.

“You’re awake.” He wasn’t drunk anymore.

* * *

I scrambled back against the headboard. I couldn’t do it a second time that night, couldn’t put myself through it again. I was already teetering on the edge of sanity. “Please, go away,” I whispered. “I’m done for the night. I’m so tired.”

Unperturbed, Beast stalked over and threw off the covers. He grabbed me by the ankles, pulling me down to the edge of the bed. His fingers speared into my hair, making a painful, tight knot of it, then he pulled me close to his face.

“You’re not done until I say you’re done,” he whispered against my cheek. Before I could respond, he’d thrown me back to the mattress. His fingers bruised my thighs, spreading me open, and then his palm was on me. Over the satin panties that went with the stupid nightie I had to wear, he pressed me.

Palmed me.

Rubbed me.

He worked into me with a delirious, tauntingly slow method, his other hand keeping me spread and pinned. I pressed my face into the mattress. I would not like this. Sanity demanded I did not like it. He continued to work me, not bothering to remove the panties. I bit the sheets.

“Feel that?” he asked, rubbing me. “Because I can see it. I can see you fucking ruining these panties.” At that he let go and I sighed, hoping it was over. Then he tore the satin off of me and flipped me over so I was on my back. My breath hitched; I was so open this way. On the edge of the bed with him between my thighs, I tried to keep my legs as closed as possible but he leaned down, bruising me with his hands again.

“Are you done?” he asked. His gaze ripped into me. Distantly I wondered if I could ever get used to it.

“I…” I trailed off. Bluegreen eyes washed inside of me, the air licking at my lips, making me feel even more exposed. “Yes. I’m done.” I knew it was a trick question, but I didn’t care. Without removing his eyes from mine, he thrust a finger up into me. I cried out. My neck arched off the bed and then teeth—his teeth—were on me. Hard, too, not soft or sweet nibbles, but deep scoring against my flesh as if he were claiming something, marking it with his bite.

He pressed against me. Two fingers now, maybe three, entered me. I lost myself in sensations, in the feel of his heat against me, in the sweat building along my arms and legs and neck in a delicious tingle. His cock was iron against my thigh, hard, heavy. I suddenly wished I didn’t have the babydoll on so I could feel him directly, feel his flesh pressing into mine. Feel his muscles, the hard rivets of him press into my soft skin.

He slipped his fingers out of me and I whimpered, but that whimper transformed into a groan as he plunged inside me. All of him. Thick, pumping. I reached out, needing to touch him, to anchor myself, but he pushed my arms down. With one hand, he trapped my arms above my head. With his other arm he stretched out the babydoll, exposing my breasts. While he pounded into me, he kept one hand locked on the shirt he’d stretched, his other keeping me pinned. His gaze raked over me, watching me with single-minded intensity. It was feral, like an animal that had just caught its prey.

“Are you done?” he asked, sliding out then plunging inside with ferociousness. “Are you?”

“I’m not done until you say I’m done,” I replied. My voice sounded drugged in my ears. His cock moved in and out, pounding with wild, ferocious abandon. This was what I’d imagined sex with a Beast would be like, what I’d feared since the night he took me. Right then I wasn’t afraid, though. Right then there was something deep within me, something curling and twisting and yearning for more.

I don’t know up from down anymore.

There’s a hurt inside of me. A hurt he created. A big, gaping hurt. He took a shovel to my soul, and dug with abandon, not caring about the cracks and irreparable holes that would be created. It’s a throbbing hurt. A soul-deep hurt that aches and cries and is viscerally alive with its pain. It has strings, it moves for him; he makes my pain dance like a marionette.

And I cry for him to cut the strings.

But when he cuts the strings, I bleed, and I think I might die.

My head lolled to the side as he released the babydoll. The nighty was totally, utterly stretched. I sighed, feeling deliciously spent, uncaring that I was naked and on display. With his free hand, Beast grabbed my chin.

“Are you done?” he asked. I nodded. I was done, but not for the reason I had said before—not for the reason that had driven him to this. My body and legs were jelly. I was positively satiated. I could sleep for days. I could practically feel the Cheshire smile on my face.

A harsh sting vibrated against my cheek and my eyes popped wide open. He had slapped me! The sting ricocheted in my body then settled into a dull, delicious ache as if reinvigorating all the parts of me that had fallen into their satiated comfort.

“You’re not done until I say you’re done,” he growled. I nodded and he pumped into me again. I could feel my body working back up. His bluegreen stare was heated, on fire, like a forest ablaze. I looked away from him.

There was a hurt inside of me, a hurt he created.

But he was the only one that could make it go away. He was the only one that could fix me now.

His touch seared my skin and soothed the wound.

His kisses flayed my lips and stitched the flesh.

His length tore apart my insides and wove sinful satisfaction.

He was the god of my pain, but his touch was my religion.

He pulled out, still hard, and asked, “Are you done?”

“Am I done?” I asked, looking up to him.

“Yes, mio cuore.” He smoothed the hair from my face, looking intensely into my eyes. “You are done.” He lifted me up from the bed, pulling me into his chest, and then lay down again, holding me.

I did not exist without him.

He was my universe.

I was Galileo staring at the sun, realizing I was nothing, and then the bastard blinded me. He was the sun, and I couldn’t even close my eyes.

* * *

One heavy arm bracketed my body. I didn’t have to wonder what it meant, the Beast sleeping with me. In nature, when an animal falls asleep next to another animal, it means they feel safe. Beast’s steady breathing against my back, the deep pulls, the warmth he exuded, all of it—it was the single worst thing he’d ever done to me.

Beyond the mental torture.

Beyond any of it.

Because in that moment, as he curled me against him like a wounded sparrow, he stole my will to leave. I tried to think back to the last time I’d slept. My eyes felt sticky with fatigue, staring unblinkingly at the white wall made gray and fuzzy with darkness.

I couldn’t sleep.

Everything was alight with fiery pain. My soul was burning. It was supposed to be black and white. Beast was the bad guy. Beast was threatening to kill my father, he took me, he was no good, but every minute I lay with him I got sucked deeper into the gray. Tick. I wondered what it would be like to love him. Tock. I wondered what it would be like to be loved by him. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I needed to move.

I couldn’t move.

His arm flexed, pulling me deeper into his embrace. He smelled so good, like winter pine and musk and cigar smoke, and something else, too, something spicy. Something that tingled my nostrils.

Or maybe that was the smell of my soul burning to ash.

The fuzzy gray wall started to blur. My eyelids drooped.

Shit.

I needed to get up. I needed to get out of the embrace. If I didn’t, I was going to sink into the delicious warm feeling of being held. Of being comforted. Of being warm and…

Not loved.

I gripped the sheets, slowly pulling myself toward the edge and out from under his arm. Beast groaned, and I paused. My heartbeat roared in my ears. As the roar subsided and Beast’s breathing returned to normal, I continued my escape, slowly tugging and pulling toward the edge, trying to slide out from under him like I was the golden idol in Indiana Jones and he was the potential boulder.

I made it to the edge, his fingertips still grazing my back. Less than gracefully I slid off, knees and hands meeting the floor with a thud. I paused on all fours, waiting for him to wake and bring me back to bed. One heartbeat, I stared at the floor, the way my palms splayed against the plush white rug. Two heartbeats, the way my hair made a curtain against everything I didn’t want to acknowledge. Three heartbeats…

I stood up.

Asleep still, the chiseled musculature of his chest was all too visible now that I wasn’t there to block it. Even asleep, his features were beautiful. Intense. Unfair.

Going with the Indiana Jones theme, I put a pillow where my body used to be. Beast did not take to it, instead turning away and facing the other direction.

Whatever.

As long as he didn’t wake up.

I tiptoed to the bathroom and leaned forward, my fingers gripping the cold porcelain. I stared hard at my reflection, forced myself to take in the person staring back.

She wasn’t who I remembered.

She was hardly someone I recognized.

She’d been changed by the man in that bed, changed irrevocably. There was no coming back from this. Like it or not, the man in that bed owned a part of me now.

Whether or not that was right, or fair, or even made sense, it was what it was.

The Beast owned a part of me.

A part of me sang for him, a part of me called to him.

I remembered how those facts had made me smash my fist into the glass before. I hadn’t been ready to accept it then, to even begin to recognize it. I could even see a faint line of glue where the mirror had been replaced. This time, though, I wasn’t going to break the mirror.

If I hadn’t been sure before, I was now. I had been teetering around my fate, had been cursing it before, but now I was certain. Beast had too much power over me. I needed to take some of his.

And there was only one way I knew how to do that.

So this time I made myself a promise.

* * *

I stepped out of the room. I didn’t bother dressing for fear that the action would wake him. Also, for the first time since being taken, my nakedness didn’t bother me. As my toe collided with the cold hardwood, I felt nothing. Warm air from the vents above hushed like a whisper against my naked skin, but I felt no need to fold my arms and cover myself. That part of myself—the modest part, the one that said bare flesh was wrong—was dead, or taken, at least. It didn’t belong to me anymore.

I hurried along the hallway, distantly noting how creepy the Christmas decorations looked in the dark. My plan was to find Nikolai. He’d been working strings since I arrived, and I was finally going to give into the puppet master. When I reached the middle part of the penthouse—was it a foyer?—I froze. I realized I had no idea where Nikolai slept, or if he even slept in the house. I’d just assumed he did. What if he went home at night?

I paused. I was in the heart of the house. It was where the elevator was and was also the place that connected all the rooms. I could see the hallway down to the bedrooms and the staircase up to the study. I couldn’t see whatever else was up there—probably dead bodies. I could see the kitchen, the library, the dining area where Gabby had had the worst dinner ever. I could basically see everything. This spot was also where I had had the worst dinner party ever, when Arlo had tried to rape me.

I shivered. Enough stalling. Where the fuck did Nikolai sleep? I glanced upstairs, then looked down the hallway to the kitchen. I’d never fully explored down there. The place was a labyrinth. I glanced back down the hallway I’d come from. It somehow appeared darker, as if the shadows swallowed it whole. I couldn’t go back yet.

Nikolai was my only hope.

“Nikolai,” I hissed, tiptoeing down the hallway with the kitchen. “Nikolai.” If I didn’t find Nikolai, Beast was going to see this anyway. Nikolai was the only one who erased the tapes; I had no idea how to do it.

Oh God.

Oh God.

That tightness in my chest was returning.

“Nikolai.” I hissed, a little louder. It was like exploring a new continent. The farther down the hallway I progressed, the wider my eyes got. I’d never seen anything in this part of the house. All the art on the walls was new to me. There were a few doors, but I wasn’t sure which to open. I yelled Nikolai’s name again.

A door opened and I was dragged inside, the door quickly closing behind me. Nikolai stood, curly blond hair mussed. His eyes were twisted in rage.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Nikolai whisper-yelled. “He could wake up at any moment. Erasing his tapes isn’t easy, you know. Are you fucking insane?” The room we were in was very small, reminding me of my old “room.” It couldn’t have been much bigger than a closet and the ceiling was slanted like mine had been. Still, it did fit a bed and a dresser.

My closet hadn’t fit a dresser.

That night, while the Beast had made me bow to him with everything that I was, everything Gabby had been trying to get me to see had finally rung home. I could stay in this world a slave.

A slave to a man who saw me as nothing.

A slave to my emotions for that man.

Or I could be a princess.

And I wanted to be a fucking princess.

Nikolai opened his mouth to admonish me further but I cut him off with my hand. “I’m ready.”

Twenty-Two

Anteros looked out the window at the cold blue city. It was so early in the morning that everything was literally frozen. The sun hadn’t risen high enough to melt any ice or snow, but was high enough to illumine the frozen droplets and frosty air. It had been so early when he’d gotten out of bed, only five in the morning, and after the previous night, he’d expected Frankie to be exhausted.

But she’d been awake. And humming.

“Their guards have been paid off,” Big O said behind him.

“We have access to security feeds,” Pretty Boy continued.

“Some of us wish we didn’t have access,” Big O added dryly. “When you’ve seen one wrinkly old ass fucking, you’ve seen enough.”

“No one asked you to watch that,” Pretty Boy replied.

“You were oddly insistent,” Little O noted.

“It’s called recon motherfuckers!”

“Is it still recon when your dick is out?” Little O asked curiously. They argued jokingly and their voices faded out to Anteros. The Wolves were discussing the final details in the coup against The Council, the final pieces in a puzzle he had spent his life crafting so he could put it together.

But he wasn’t interested. His mind was on Frankie, on the song she was humming.

“All that’s left is to lop off their heads.” Little O laughed behind Anteros.

“And the slave?” Big O asked, somewhat uneasily. Anteros rubbed his chin, watching the city thaw, feeling the sharp prickles of his five o’clock shadow. He’d left Frankie to go to the docks, but not before holding her in his arms.

“If we’re being perfectly honest here,” Little O said, “I kinda hope Beast doesn’t do it. I’d love to try to snake a kill from Crazy A. My month has been fucking boring.” Crazy A hadn’t shown that morning, again. Anteros knew the Wolves had noticed the tension between them at the party and his absence was starting to be felt, like a pressure slowly rising. Even if they wouldn’t say it aloud, there were only so many meetings a Wolf could miss without reason, without it being addressed.

He and his Wolves had spent a decade in harmony, avoiding the common pitfalls that many in the mafia face: backstabbing, rivalry, eventually death. Now discord was seeping in and Anteros wondered distantly if they would be like all the rest.

“So boring that you want to die?” Pretty Boy asked.

“I’d watch that,” Big O said.

“Eh,” Pretty Boy gave in. “Me too.” Little O launched into a diatribe of indignation, saying he could take Crazy A easily. Big O and Pretty Boy compared the stats of Crazy A and Little O as if they were Pokémon cards. Who had the most stamina. Who had the most agility. Who could handle guns or knives best.

Anteros zoned out again, focusing on how the city came to life. The sun was rising bright, like a diamond sparkling between the skyscrapers. The frozen gray skyscrapers became bars of silver as the dull, icy river shone with golden light from the sun.

That morning Frankie had been naked, staring out the window at the still dark and frozen city. Anteros slid out of bed and went to her, wrapping his naked body around her, pulling her close to him, flesh to flesh. He tucked her against him, and that was when he noticed she had been humming to herself.

Her hums reverberated against his body, the melody obvious and glaring, a tune he would never forget.

“Did I ever tell you about my parents?” Anteros mused, cutting into the jokes like a bullet through a birthday party. The room went silent. Still facing the window, he continued. “My father used to sing ‘Blue Christmas’ to my mother. It was the only song he knew in English—pretty much the only words he knew in English. He liked the melody, maybe…I can’t imagine he knew what the words meant. After beating her to near death, he’d sing it while mopping up the blood on the floor. When she had regained consciousness, she’d come for me. But she was gentler in her abuse.”

Silence continued, the Wolves unsure of what to say in the wake of Anteros’s confession. As more minutes passed, Anteros hummed the melody, watching as the world melted.

* * *

Citing business with Rhys at the penthouse, Anteros cut the meeting with his Wolves short and went home. What he’d told them wasn’t a complete lie, anyway, he’d just left out the fact that his meeting with Rhys was hours later. He’d needed to get out of there. He couldn’t even wait for Nikolai, so he took a cab; the sooner he got home the better. He’d spent over a decade with his Wolves without telling them anything about his past. It was better that way. Less weak.

After being dropped off, Anteros entered his building through the public entrance and headed straight for the elevators. Frustration at himself spilled over and Anteros pressed the button to go up, then pressed it again, then again, and again. He still wasn’t sure what had compelled him to tell them now.

No, that wasn’t true.

He knew what was up, just didn’t want to admit it.

“Rough day?” someone to his left asked. Anteros curled his fist, ready to punch his frustration out just as the elevator dinged. Uncurling his fists, Anteros stepped inside. The man made a move to join him and Anteros calmly pushed the man back out into the building’s foyer. He pressed close on the elevator, muffling the man’s protests, then placed his palm against the wall. He leaned forward, thinking.

As the elevator rose higher, he thought to the girl waiting for him in his penthouse. The girl who’d been ignoring his rules since day one, the girl who’d been fucking up his life for almost a month. Mostly, he thought about how he was letting her. Frankie was causing a massive fracture in his life, and somehow he couldn’t find it in him to do anything. When the doors opened, Anteros kept his hand to the wall, head down, until her voice made him raise it.

“Were you going to tell me?” she beseeched. Anteros lifted his head and blinked, taking in the girl before him. When he’d left Frankie that morning, she’d been serene, a little off, but calm. Now her eyes were like fire, both in color and ferocity. Her lids were red-rimmed as if she’d been crying, yet her glare practically spit sparks. Her curls were wild and untamed, her arms folded, and her jaw clenched.

Nikolai appeared next to her, a look on his face as if he didn’t know what to do with her. Fear etched his youthful features, his jade eyes shooting from her to the Beast. He wouldn’t punish Nikolai for her disobedience. If he himself could barely manage Frankie, it wasn’t fair to expect Nikolai to do so. The elevator buzzed angrily with being kept open for so long and Anteros stepped out.

“Were you?” she asked again. He raised a brow, shedding his coat for Nikolai to take and motioning for him to leave. “Were you going to tell me that you were selling Gabriella to some random guy in Africa?” she asked. Ah. There it was. He’d been so busy he’d entirely forgot about Gabriella. Rhys was finalizing the plans and she was set to go to Africa just after the New Year. At least that hadn’t gotten fucked.

Then again…Frankie was set to die sometime before the New Year, so it didn’t really matter. There was no point in talking to her, no point in anything. She was going to die. Rubbing his hands over his brow, he sighed and pushed past her. He didn’t want to deal with her, with what was happening to him, with any of it.

“Fucking Africa?” she said to his back. Anteros paused then turned back. Hate flowed like a river rapid, washing over him, jerking him, tearing him down under to where her hurt lay. His eyebrows narrowed and he stepped closer, her heated breaths whipping his jaw.

She raised a hand, cutting through the air as if to slap him. He caught it quickly, gripping her by the wrist, holding it there, and it trembled with force, or maybe emotion. He raked his eyes over her, really taking her in. She was wearing a thin white t-shirt and jeans, and her feet were completely bare.

Where had she gotten jeans?

It was as if she’d barely bothered to dress. For the first time since she’d traded herself, she looked like the girl he’d taken. Instead of angering him, it made him want to pull her to the floor.

A thought occurred to him, though. “How did you hear about Gabriella?”

“Some bald asshole was in here talking on his phone about shipping her off,” she snapped. Rhys. Anteros flicked his gaze upstairs. Why was Rhys there so early? “Must you take everything from me?” Her voice had grown hoarse with hatred, and when she asked the question, he paused. The loathing in her voice was so devastating, it was like smoke curing his soul. Their eyes locked, her bright ones watery but fierce, like the blue glow in glacial ice. There was always so much going on beneath the surface with her. He cocked his head, thinking about her statement.

“No,” he responded, dropping her arm. “I take only what you give.”

She glared and looked away, eyes locking on the thin, animal skin rug beneath their feet. “You’re…you’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He stepped to her, closing the little distance between them. “You offered yourself to me, I didn’t take you.” Before she could respond, Anteros undid the button of her jeans, ripping them down to below her ass.

Bare.

At least that was the same. Skin against skin, he gripped her ass, tight, leaving white handprints on her skin, and spread her. Then he released, slapping hard, leaving red handprints. He slid his fingers inside her, deep in her slit. With his other hand, he rubbed just along swollen folds, teasing her, the way that made her lungs seize and—

Gasp.

Like that. Wet against his palm, her body moved against him. Her mouth parted. She reached for him and Anteros let her go, standing back up.

It took a moment for Frankie to come back, to realize what had happened. It was only a few seconds, but for those few seconds she stared up at him, completely open, waiting. Eyes hazy and drunk for him, not caring that her pants were down around her thighs and that her cunt was on display for him.

She was beautiful.

Then she blinked, looking at Anteros and down at her herself. She hastily tugged her jeans up. Inhaling through her nostrils, she snapped, “You twist everything.”

“I’ve been patient with you,” Anteros replied, “but I grow tired of this.”

“If this is your patience, I don’t think I want to see you impetuous,” she said.

He reached out and gripped her jaw, pulling her glare to him. “No, I don’t think you do.” Their eyes locked and her glare softened into sadness.

“May I at least see Gabriella one last time before you sell her?” she whispered, lip trembling. “She was my only friend.” She looked up at him, eyes somehow appearing bigger, shrouded under impossibly thick and long lashes. Anteros spread his hand over her face, thumb to cheek.

It was utterly pointless; her life was over.

“I’ll consider it,” he said at last.

“Oh thank you,” Frankie threw her arms around his neck but immediately backed off, looking censured. With his other hand, Anteros grabbed her arm, holding her to his neck before she could completely remove herself from him. Though her eyes watered, she did not cry. The water undulated against her lids, ready to fall. With his thumb, he touched the spot beneath her lid, ready to catch it.

* * *

“What’s wrong?” Anteros asked. “Our meeting isn’t for another four hours.” Anteros took his seat behind the desk. Rhys gave him a blank look. “Out with it.” Anteros waved his hand impatiently. Whatever the bad news was that had caused Rhys to show up early—he assumed it had something to do with that clusterfuck of a Christmas party—he could handle it. Anteros didn’t, however, have patience for those who squirreled around with bad news. He wasn’t one to kill the messenger and if something was going wrong, hemming and hawing didn’t make it any less terrible.

“Nikolai informed me you were ready for me, Mr. Drago,” Rhys said slowly, furrowing his brow. Anteros frowned. Nikolai was not one to make mistakes. When Anteros first brought Nikolai on as a ward, he’d seen to that. The scar on his face was a reminder of the last mistake he’d ever made.

Nikolai wasn’t the angel-faced boy he appeared to be; in fact he was all that was left of the Russian mafia after Anteros crippled them into extinction some years ago. Some had called him foolish for not ending the boy’s life along with his family. Maybe he was. Nikolai had been the age Anteros was when Lucio had taken him to America.

He’d kept that information to himself.

A year after Anteros had taken Nikolai under his wing, he’d found him looking into his private files. The proper response would have been death, but instead Anteros had given him a warning: the scar. Since then Nikolai had been the perfect slave. Though Anteros would never admit it, he’d grown fond of the boy, even going as far as to give him a day off each year and allowing him personal items. Such freedoms were unheard of in his world.

“I’ll have to have a word with the boy.” Anteros turned to Rhys. “That is the last time you will call me that.” Anteros had given Rhys leeway with formalities, given the fact he wasn’t from the life and that he wasn’t technically Boss, but now things were changing. If Rhys wanted to continue advising Anteros, he would call him Boss.

Or he would die.

“Excuse me, Boss,” he corrected.

“You’re here now, anyway,” Anteros said, leaning forward just as a flicker of movement in the monitor caught his eye. Gabby had entered his room. Frankie turned on his bed, surprised to see Gabby. She looked afraid, even, like Gabby shouldn’t be there. That made sense. After Anteros had sent Gabby there, he hadn’t informed Frankie of his decision. Anteros hadn’t been sure himself. Frankie had no idea that just before entering his office, he’d sent for Gabby.

“Emilio?” Anteros questioned.

“There is little chance for reelection,” Rhys replied and Anteros’s gaze drifted back to the monitor. Gabby sat on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed, one hanging off, and Frankie sat forward, grasping the blankets.

They talked animatedly, laughing sometimes.

“That’s as expected,” Anteros said absently.

“But with Africa,” Rhys continued. “Soon you’ll be earning enough that this entire problem will seem like nothing. There have been some problems, however…” While Rhys continued, Anteros focused on the monitor. For a second, Frankie looked straight at the camera, straight at it, her stare level and knowing. It was as if she was locking eyes with Anteros. Then she turned back to Gabby and laughed.

Gabby got up minutes later, on schedule. Anteros had only planned for a fifteen-minute visit. When Gabby left through the door, Frankie's joy dimmed like a slowly dying light bulb.

Anteros stood up from his desk, declaring the meeting over.

Rhys’s eyes widened and he sputtered in disbelief. “Forgive me, Mr. Drago—uh, Boss—but there is still plenty to discuss. I’m not sure you fully heard me before. There is the matter with Lucia and—”

Ignoring him, Anteros walked out of the office, pushing Rhys along with him. “Lucia is dying in Italy and I don’t believe in ghosts.” Lucia often stirred the pot from Sicily, but she was not a real threat to him or to anyone. She was older than Lucio, an unmarried woman with no children, and stuck in Sicily. The most she could do was complain.

“But…” Rhys started.

“I’m sure whatever you have to say can wait.” Anteros looked to Rhys, eyes hard, indicating it wasn’t up for debate.

“Yes, Boss.” Rhys lowered his head. “It can wait.”

“Nikolai can show you out.” Anteros gestured to Nikolai, who was waiting by the stairs, then walked beyond him. He could punish Nikolai later, deal with whatever Rhys was worried about another time. He stalked down the hallway room with single minded-intent and pushed open his door. Frankie jumped up, still holding the sheets against her chest. He prowled over to her.

“I think you owe me,” he growled into her ear.

“Please…” she whispered. “I’m on my period.”

* * *

Frankie slunk in a corner against the opposite side of the shower, back practically melding with the wall of rocks and stone. His shower was more than big enough for two, it could comfortably fit five and had, on occasion. Her apparent need for space was obvious, but she wasn’t hiding from him. Where her small hands used to immediately reach to cover her petite breasts and slit, now they just hung down by her sides.

Progress.

A ghost of a smile came to his lips, but just as quickly, Anteros clenched his jaw. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. In a few days he would have to kill her.

This was just about scratching an itch.

“I’ve never seen your bathroom,” she commented, cutting off his train of thought. She looked around the shower, pulling her lip between her teeth. “This is nice. Swankier than mine. Didn’t think that was possible.” Looking away, she brought one arm in front of her chest and tugged at her other arm.

She was nervous.

Anteros motioned with his hand. “Come.” Frankie chewed on her lip, but did not fight back—at least, not entirely. She took a step forward but didn’t come all the way. She paused, looking up where she stood directly beneath two rain showerheads.

She looked back to him. “Are you going turn on the shower or…”

“It will turn on when I tell it to,” he said tersely.

“Oh.” She shifted, tugging on her arm again. “How sci-fi.” Anteros fisted then unclenched his palm. Her standing there was maddening. It was like a drop of heroin in his blood—enough to grip, tether, and tease him, but not enough to bring him to salvation. It cemented with bitter certainty what her death would feel like, reminding him what he would need to do before then.

There was only so much time he had left with her; he would have to use up every bit of her until she was nothing save a husk, until his blood was so saturated with her that it wouldn’t matter that she was gone.

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” he stated, voice hoarse. Her eyes flashed, but she only bit her lip harder, those full, ruby lips.

“Frankie,” Anteros said, deciding to close the distance himself. “Shower on,” Anteros said with authority, eyes still on her. A mist of warm water fell. The mist turned into a sprinkle, which then became a steady stream. She blinked up at him, droplets sticking to her eyelashes like dew on grass.

God, she was beautiful under the water, her honey skin glistening. The water made her hair stick to her face and he pushed it behind her ear.

“You’re goddamn gorgeous,” Anteros growled, crushing his lips against hers. He pushed Frankie against the wall, hands splayed at her sides, feeling the ridges of the tile. Next, he ran his fingers over her wet ass as water slipped off it like a waterfall. Round, shiny, he gripped it, hard.

He turned her jaw so he could see her face, kiss her neck, kiss her jaw. His fingers dipped lower and spread her wide. Her hands splayed up and down his arms, going around his neck and then to his back, as if frenzied in their passion.

Frankie let out a groan that transformed into a mewling, whimpering sound as Anteros slid his rigid length up and down against her, moving with the intimate folds of her. Gripping his shoulders tight, her nails dug deep, as if she could force some part of him inside her. And fuck, he really wanted to be inside of her. Wanted every part of her marked by him so that there was no doubt who she belonged to.

Using his hands, Anteros spread her ass wide, and her leg wrapped around his. He slid his cock harder against her, pressing against her nub. She groaned and gripped him tighter. Anteros could tell Frankie was ready by the way she moaned and held him. He could take her and have her writhing in ecstasy, but there was something that was pressing on him, something that had been pressing on him since the day he’d cooked and fed her dinner.

He’d tried to push it away, but it was in the back of his mind. He wondered on the days she looked paler, wondered if she was tired not because of staying up late, wondered always.

With a frustrated groan, Anteros let her go. “Can it come back?”

“W-what?” Frankie sounded lost, her breathy stutter heated as if caught in the steam. It drifted over the sound of water splashing against the tile at their feet. She looked up at him, not fully comprehending what he was saying.

He hissed. She must be an angel, or else a succubus, wet and swollen and fucking irresistible. Her chest was rising and falling in heavy breaths, her nipples pointed. She watched him as if under a spell, blue eyes somehow brighter in the mist.

“Your sickness,” he clarified. “Can it come back?” Anteros had been pushing thoughts of her sickness away because it was so fucking pointless. Either way, she was dead, so why even bother. If he kept digging, kept experimenting with the need to know, it would lead to nothing good. Still, it was like an arrow in his side.

She blinked, realizing his meaning. “No. I mean, maybe. Doctors say I’m normal now but I don’t feel normal. I don’t really trust them—the doctors.”

That didn’t really assuage his worries. “Can you die?”

She shook her head. “That was never the problem. Most days, I wished I could die.” She finished on a whisper, as if embarrassed or ashamed. What she’d just revealed did the exact opposite, however—it was a revelation. Finally he understood why when he looked into her crystal depths, a warrior stared back. Anteros stared into her eyes as the water rushed over them, hot and slick.

Something was happening to him. The thing he’d managed to ignore, shove back, and deny since the day she’d told him to take her was becoming undeniable.

She was going to fucking ruin him.

If he wanted to survive, he should turn off the water and get the fuck out.

“I knew it…” She stepped back. “You think I’m fucking broken—”

Anteros wasn’t sure what he grabbed first—her hair, her waist, hips, face, jaw—just that he touched all of her within seconds. In the same moment he captured her lips with her sigh, he entered her.

Anteros broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers. “Sei divina il mio cuore.” He pulled out, getting ready to plunge back in, when he noticed something. His brow furrowed against her, the lines in his forehead growing deeper and deeper with the realization.

“You lied,” he said against her lips, forehead pressed still. She regarded him with a lusty haze over her eyes, not fully understanding. “I assume your hope was that if you told me you were bleeding, I wouldn’t touch you.”

Recognition dawned across her features. “I…” Frankie stuttered, slipping against the stone as Anteros pushed away. They faced each other, water pouring down, her hair falling flat against her face. She closed her mouth, offering no further explanation, and then her features went stone.

Whatever had passed between them was buried.

Anteros walked out of the shower, not bothering to turn it off.

Twenty-Three

I gripped the icy cold steel of the bench, watching Gabby’s blonde mane get farther and farther away until it completely disappeared out of the park. I knew what I was doing had to be done. I knew that.

It didn’t make it any easier.

December was nearing its end and I should have been grateful. The month was almost over and I would be free, but my throat constricted at the thought. Never seeing Beast again, never sleeping in his bed, it was almost unfathomable. Somewhere during the month I’d become tethered, but that’s exactly why it had to happen. Being tethered to a man who saw that rope as nothing more than a thing to jerk was worse than tying it around my neck, it was worse than cutting it completely.

When I’d spoken to Nikolai that night in his room, I’d knocked down the last domino. Whatever they needed from me—anything—I’d do. I just needed to get away from him. Call me the fucking queen, I didn’t care. The longer I stayed with him, the closer to oblivion I got. I could feel it.

The previous night had simply reaffirmed it. When I was alone with the Beast, I changed. I became someone I wasn’t, someone who begged and craved him. I desperately wanted him inside me. Even now, sitting on the bench, I was hollow without him. He’d never come back to the shower, and I’d been left to think how once again he’d taken all of my cards, left me feeling powerless and alone.

And that wasn’t okay.

To my surprise, Nikolai had said no at first. He didn’t think I was “in it” one hundred percent. I remembered stumbling a little bit when he’d said that. Did he know? Could he see the war going on inside of me? The fight against the tiny faction in my brain that told me You don’t just want him, you need him.

But no, he couldn’t.

Nikolai assumed I feared the pain the Beast could inflict, was worried that fear would cripple or paralyze me. Really it was the opposite. I was crippled by a constant state of chaos and lust and pleasure and…and…

Swallowing, I stood up, grabbing my burnt orange Hermès purse off the bench. There was no one else in the park now that Gabby had gone. It was private, the same one where we’d met when she was planning to kill her husband. I waited for her to disappear into the crowd and then looked away, at the park, at the bare trees covered only with snow.

Nikolai told me that Gabby was being sold to some douche in Africa to, I was sure, further manipulate me. On the outside it looked like he was trying to show me that it wasn’t just about my shit, other people had cards in the game too. I saw through that. Now no matter what, I had to go through with it because if I fucked up, Gabby was going to fucking Africa to be married to someone worse than Giovani. Talk about pressure.

Nikolai hadn’t expected me to bring it up with Beast and, by the looks he was giving me, had been angry I’d done so. I’d been so taken aback, though. A part of me thought maybe Beast was going to say it wasn’t true and confirm my suspicions that Nikolai was nothing more than a manipulative liar. All Beast confirmed was that I had to go through with the plan.

The whole thing was so fucking crazy. The plan, Gabby, Vic, Nikolai, it was nuts—but a crazy plan was better than actually going crazy. If I continued as I was, tumbling down the rabbit hole with Beast, I knew I wouldn’t just go crazy. I would disappear.

I looked through the iron slats of the park fence. Nikolai wasn’t back with the car yet, apparently still finagling his side of the job with Vic. I sighed, grabbing my purse.

This…

This was going to change everything.

But that was a good thing.

It was a good thing.

I told myself the things I did in the night were all to further the plan, but even I knew that was a lie.

Shaking my head, I decided to leave the park or at least wait outside. I couldn’t keep standing alone in an empty park—I was starting to feel like a statue. As I exited through the gate, someone stepped in front of me. Fingers curled around both of my arms and tugged me to the side. My first thought was I’ve been caught.

And I was relieved.

How fucking sick is that? To crave to be captured and kept by the person you’re trying to escape? It was so cold out in the real world compared to the Beast’s lair, though. The snow melted through my coat and seeped into my skin. I didn’t realize how numb I was before the Beast. I thought I’d felt before, thought I’d lived before, but I could feel my soul already numbing. It was a familiar numbness, an anesthesia that had once been my sole method of survival, when the only way I’d survived was through someone else’s pictures.

The Beast’s lair was pure fire. It was burning and it ignited things inside of me. Some of those things I wished I didn’t have to feel, like self-loathing and hate and despair, but I knew I couldn’t feel anything without them, like yin and yang. It was so bright. So real. So raw.

And I was utterly addicted.

But to be addicted is to be crippled and powerless.

I’d spent half my life crippled and powerless, at the mercy of doctors and the will of my body.

I wouldn’t ever again.

I glanced down at the hand that gripped me. The hand did not belong to the Beast; his was burned in my memory. The Beast’s hands were like refined virility, big with strong veins that promised a grip that could hold my soul as easily as my body. I did recognize this hand, though, just as I recognized the man it belonged to: Levi, the cop from the funeral and Gabby’s love. He looked at me fervently.

“I can get you out,” he said, dropping his grip from my arm but looking and talking no less fervently. “I can get you safe haven. There are good cops in this city, people who will help.” I looked at him. His long hair was pulled into a messy bun—not the stylish man bun seen all over New York’s hipsters and wannabes, but a desperate look on a desperate man.

“Does Gabby know you’re here?” I asked, deflecting his offer. I already knew the answer. When Gabby discovered Levi’s secret, she cut him off, not out of spite, but love.

Levi’s eyes flashed down a moment. “She isn’t returning my calls.” Good. Noting the black town car pulling up toward the curb, I walked away from Levi toward Nikolai.

“I know you’re planning something,” he yelled at my back. “You and Gabby. There’s a reason she’s icing me out and it isn’t because she’s unhappy with us. We’re good together.” I spun around and walked back, the heels of my shoes making a lonely echo on the pavement. I got up in his face.

“You don’t belong in this world, Levi,” I said—as if I did.

“And you and Gabby do?” Levi asked. I nearly balked, feeling like my mind had been invaded. He grabbed my arm again, and I looked down at his fingers. They only lightly held on to me. They were gentle. His words demanded of me, but his fingers did not. Beneath his hand was an invisible one. It was big, covered with thick veins, and had subverted my very own consciousness and being. It had snaked into my muscular system, had slithered into my blood. It had changed me.

I yanked free of Levi without responding and left, ignoring his shouts as I stepped through the door Nikolai held open for me.

* * *

Nikolai drove back to the penthouse and I stared out the window, thinking on what Gabby and I had just cemented into action. Outside, the picture hardly changed. I was sure there were things I couldn’t see, things beyond twinkling lights and falling snow.

“Nikolai?” I called out, turning from the window. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Would you tell me something about yourself? Something the Beast doesn’t know.” Something that lets me know your true motives.

His eyes went back to the road. “I don’t think that is wise.” Pulling my lips together thinly, my gaze flicked back out the window. I just wanted something—no matter how small—beyond the Beast. Something to remind me that there would be a life beyond this tinted one. Something besides him that I could grasp on to.

“We all have our parts to play, mistress,” Nikolai said, drawing my gaze back to his mirrored one. “If you break form before the play ends, then you risk letting the audience in.” My brow furrowed, eyes still locked with Nikolai’s in the mirror. Slowly his gaze shifted as we came up to traffic and I redirected mine to my lap.

I still didn’t even know his last name. I was basically going to war with this guy but I didn’t know anything substantial.

Ruby colors from brake and streetlights cast a glow over my hands as I fiddled with my pants. I wondered if I was in over my head, and it wasn’t the first time I’d done so. Since trading myself to the Beast, I’d been treading water in a storm. I never imagined this, though, me playing a part as princess to take down a mafia Boss.

A part that would erase the girl I once was.

I looked out the window as the car resumed speed. I could hardly remember who she was anyway, what she used to do. Frankie Notte…she had dreams. She wanted to travel the world. She taped up pictures on her wall of places to see, a bucket list of things to do, from seeing Tokyo to Times Square at New Year’s. She wanted to find true love, as most people do, that one person who matches you unequivocally. That one person who is so much your half that once you find them it becomes starkly, painfully real how incomplete you were without them. Without them, it would be like trying to ride a bike without wheels.

Suddenly life just doesn’t work.

I wanted that.

With a jagged sigh, I dug a nail into my palm, trying to stymy the thoughts of Beast that flowed through my heart at the thought of love. Darkness settled into the car as Nikolai pulled into the garage. We all have our parts to play, he said. I knew my part. It was the lead role, and the most important one. Junior high me would have been flipping out, because she really wanted the lead in the musical before she got too sick to audition.

Now I not only wished I could be recast, I really wished I could just drop out of the play, go home, and play soccer or something instead. I knew deep in my marrow that once I started playing this part, I wouldn’t ever go back to being Frankie Notte. Once I stepped into the play, the only way the curtain fell was with death.

Nikolai got out of the car and I saw him walk toward my door through the tinted glass. My face got hot and I bunched the soft fabric of my coat. I always thought when I died it would be obvious, like the casket funeral type of death, not this ambiguous thing, this Alzheimer’s of the soul where I was not only forced to watch myself die but be an active participant, where I took the dagger and plunged it into the soul of Frankie Notte so I could play the role of princess.

Nikolai opened the door. I exhaled deeply, smiling to keep from crying, and stepped out. Just as I got out of the car, Nikolai grabbed me. With a surprisingly firm grip, he kept me in place. I stared at him, waiting.

What now?

“You must not let him break you,” he whispered against my ear. “Become whatever or whoever is needed, even if it is the antithesis of what you are now. Shed your skin and don another, so long as you survive, and remember this last thing: no matter what you do, no matter what happens, he is the one who set the fire that forced you to rebirth yourself.”

* * *

Hours later, I stared at the fire in the library, thinking about what Nikolai had told me.

Talk about a mind fuck.

It was comforting in a way, but I felt Nikolai was saying it more about himself than me. What if I already had been reborn? Sighing, I turned back to my book. A copy of Nautical Knots by some obscure British writer was on my lap with a decoy next to me. I had to master a very complicated knot in less than two days and since I had no access to the internet, this was the way to do it.

“Nautical Knots.” I heard his low, sultry voice before anything else. It snuck inside my blood, vibrating through my veins and body. I didn’t even hear his footfalls or the sound of creaking floorboards. The next second he was by my side, a nearly black lock of hair falling over an intense bluegreen eye. Raising a brow, Beast leaned over and picked up the book I had beside me.

“Don’t even get me started on what I thought that was.” I raised up the decoy book, deflecting. “You really need a system here.” Beast thankfully took the bait, dropping the book on knots I’d been reading and going instead for Shakespeare.

“Romeo and Juliet,” he commented. “My only love sprung from my only hate.” He smiled wryly and my breath hitched, my heartbeat stuttered, before I realized he was quoting the play. I looked at his quirked lips, remembering the verse in my head.

My only love sprung from my only hate

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me,

That I must love a loathèd enemy.

I sighed. It was just more mind tricks. Raising a brow, I took the book back slowly. “I thought none of these belonged to you.” Eyes shrewd, I waited. The copy of Romeo and Juliet I held was worn, beaten, obviously read, and often too. I assumed that was because it had been given to him, though.

As I studied Beast, waiting for him to reply, I’d already come to my own conclusion. Despite whatever he had told me in the beginning, every single book in this library was his. I should have realized it sooner. After all, it was Shakespeare who wrote that the wise man played the fool, and Beast knew the Bard so well he was quoting him to me by memory.

Yet another trick I’d fallen for.

But I wouldn’t fall for another one ever again.

He shook his head. “You’ve forgotten, Frankie. I said a few do.”

I laughed coldly. “Ah, right.” He clasped his hand over mine, gently tugging me up from the chair and into his arms. I waited, breath pulled. He’d hardly talked to me since the night before, since I’d lied to him. His deep gaze was utterly unreadable. I wondered if he would punish me.

Then he pushed my hair behind my ear.

“You’re beautiful.”

“I…” I stuttered, gaze flickering from him to the fire. What was going on? I’d been waiting for punishment, for some kind of anger from him after lying about my period, but this was not that. Beast pressed his face into my neck, lips against the skin. I felt the connection deep inside me, shivers ran all through my body, and my teeth tingled like I’d eaten too much sugar.

“Did men tell you that all the time?” he asked, voice hot on my neck. “Did they ever compliment your mind? It’s like a labyrinth, twisted and uncertain, filled with traps that would fell a lesser man. But there are rewards too, and I imagine once you reach the center, the treasure is unparalleled.” At his words it was like a gong hit my gut. One single thought resounded in my body. How unfair that the man who obliterated me entirely is the only one to ever know me so completely.

He licked a trail from my neck to my earlobe. I gripped his shoulders. He bit and tugged at it, pulling the skin between his teeth. “What are your plans for New Year’s?” he whispered the question just below my earlobe.

“Oh I don’t know,” I said, hating how breathless I was. “Probably go out with some friends.” He laughed, a harsh sound in his chest like it didn’t get used often. Like lighting a fire in a fireplace after years of no use. His hand snaked into my hair and he tugged me back slightly so that I could see into his eyes.

Then he kissed me.

Devoured me.

Claimed my mouth in seconds. It was hot and fast and over too soon.

He let me go and I stared up at him, waiting. “When I get home you will be asleep in my bed,” he said, then let go of me completely. Beast walked out of the library and I waited until he’d turned the corner. When I was sure he was gone, I fell into the chair. My limbs were like jelly, I was hot and breathless, and so, so confused.

* * *

He’d said to fall asleep in his bed, but when he’d left, it was only the evening. With help from Nikolai, I learned that Beast wouldn’t be back until very late. I finished studying Nautical Knots and headed out of the library.

I took a detour in the kitchen to check for cameras and blind spots. There was something I needed from the kitchen, something that was essential to my plan. I noticed a few black, shiny bugs, but there was at least one way I could get the thing I needed.

Feeling empowered, I headed to my room to read a little bit from Sofia’s journal. Now that I was taking on this role, I felt even more compelled to read her life, as if she could teach me things, prepare me for the role I was about to step into. There were a few pages missing after the last I’d read, the one about Emilio, and I hoped it wouldn’t be too confusing. With my finger on the thin, starchy paper, I read.

When I met Alessio he confirmed what the hushed tones of Mama and Papa had me guessing: a war has started.

My eyes widened at the first line. A war? With a breath, I continued.

The death of Lucio Senior has the Pavoni sons scrambling for the patriarchy, and we are all going to pay the price. I already know this will be different than the Night of the Bleeding Crowns. I can feel it. Even tonight, Alessio has said nothing about us leaving. I brought it up with him but he just changes the subject, says it is not the right time.

I hold my belly, fearful for my unborn child, uncertain how to tell him now.

How do I tell him I am pregnant? How? With everything that is happening?

When Lucio Pavoni Senior and my grandpa, Massimo De Luca, married into the Marchesi family, it was different. It was only one night. The story goes that the Marchesi family was the richest family in their small Italian town. It was no secret then that the Marchesis were a mafia. In return for his two daughters, Lucio Senior and Massimo would come to work for him.

Instead they killed him. In what is known as the Night of the Bleeding Crowns, both Massimo and Lucio Senior walked into their new father’s home and took his head. They hardly even needed to sneak, as he had welcomed them inside. They took his head and hung it outside the palatial estate, declaring the new regime. It’s after that that the stories change.

There’s the official story, and there’s the story I overheard. The story we all grew up hearing is that my grandpa believed so deeply in the Pavonis he didn’t dare try to take the reign for himself.

But I heard another one. I overheard Grandpa Massimo talking one day. He said he saw the blood pour onto Marchesi’s bed and knew if he attempted to take the reign from Lucio Senior, he would see his own blood one day. He went on to say that he knew that no one could wear a crown without it pricking blood from the head that wore it. Since Grandma was already pregnant, he didn’t want to risk it.

Lucio Pavoni became the Boss, and my grandpa his right hand.

That was only one night. I know this will be different, because this is war. We all will bleed, even those without crowns. If only Alessio would run with me while we still can.

I set the journal down, unable to continue. My fingers rested on the paper and I stared forward, not really looking at anything while Sofia’s words echoed in my skull. We all will bleed, even those without crowns.

Twenty-Four

The bloody, severed heads of The Council hung from the balcony, as if piked in some medieval castle. They were all there except Dario, who Anteros saved for last. Each of their faces was twisted in a dying breath, the face of their final mortal moment. It was garish and undignified, nothing like the men they had professed to be their entire lives. They were faces of surprise and indignation, of cowardice when confronted with a loss of steely privilege.

The blood dripped slowly now, unlike the moment of their death when it had gushed quickly and with purpose, painting the banister red and violent. Now it was lethargic and calculated, building into a bulbous tear that fell with a drip into an already big pool on the floor.

Anteros adjusted his rolled sleeves completely drenched in blood. Maybe it was ostentatious, but no one would question him. The blood from the bodies pooled around his shoes; where people usually got high, drunk, and danced, now blackish red liquid pressed against his soles. It shined even in the darkness.

Only a few dim bulbs lit the room and the dingy yellow light blurred the lines. Even the bodies appeared faded in the darkness.

“I haven’t seen you get this bloody in years,” Little O commented. Anteros turned from the severed heads, grinning at Little O. Next to Little O’s feet four headless suits slowly soaked up blood, their necks finished with expelling themselves.

“It’s for a good cause. Finish up here.” Anteros raised the knife in his hand to gesture at the headless bodies on the floor. The knife gleamed like it was satisfied with a job well done. When Little O started readying the bodies for the cleanup crew, Anteros headed for the stairs, his shoes squeaky with blood.

It had been awhile since Anteros had felt happy, if that was what this was. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually felt the emotion, even. Climbing the stairs, he thought this must be it. His limbs felt lighter, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face. Earlier in the library with Frankie, it had hit him, like the buzz of really good liquor. News of the councilmembers’ abductions had already reached him and everything was going according to plan. The coup was going to work.

There was no one left to oppose him.

It must be happiness. Beauty, the drug they sold in the warehouse, promised the feeling for forty bucks a pop. No wonder people went broke. His hand was slippery against the banister, blood sliding against the polished wood. It didn’t matter; the entire warehouse would be cleaned in the morning, and when the cleaners came, they would spread the word. They would see the heads and then everyone would know.

The Council was through. The crumbling columns they had been propping up with Anteros’s back had finally been knocked down. Even if you hated the Beast, you’d have to follow him.

Anteros entered the office. Pretty Boy and Big O held Dario on his knees, hands on each of his shoulders. Against the wall, Crazy A leaned. Even if he hadn’t been present for the planning, he’d at least shown up for the finale. Dario struggled against the hold, but it was clear that he wasn’t going to get out.

“If you think you can get away with an unsanctioned kill of a councilmember—” Dario paused to laugh, looking up at Pretty Boy and Big O then back to Anteros “—you’re stupider than I thought.” Anteros slowly advanced to Dario, bending down until he was eye level.

“There is no council.” Anteros gripped Dario by the lapels, pulling him up. Still holding him by the lapels, Anteros shoved Dario out of the room, making him stumble down the stairs of the warehouse until he was in the middle of the room. Holding him up so that he could see very clearly, Anteros directed Dario’s attention up to the banister where the severed heads of the former council were piked.

Dario’s eyes widened. Anteros thought it was the only time he’d ever seen Dario truly stunned. A flicker of fear passed over the man’s face, even. Dario was always a stolid, impassive man, never showing his cards, the perfect poker player. Seeing the piked heads of the councilmen had caused him to stumble, to momentarily flash his hand.

“You’re next,” Big O said from behind Anteros.

“Obviously,” Little O said a moment later.

“It was implied,” Pretty Boy added with exasperation. Ignoring them, Anteros shoved Dario to his knees. Falling to the bloody floor, the man’s bespoke suit soaked red at the knees. Whatever fear or surprise had been on his face before vanished. As he looked up at Anteros, he was once again the picture of impassivity.

Anteros could respect Dario in his death, at least. Faced with the grim reaper, he did not balk. Unlike the other council members who had pleaded and begged for their lives, Dario faced him with a steely glare, goatee pinched around a thin emotionless line.

“Last words?” Anteros asked.

“You can kill the entire family,” Dario said. “You still won’t be a Pavoni.” Anteros narrowed his eyes as the man continued. Dario’s impassivity broke with a bitter grin as he said, “Your blood is trash. You will never be recognized as a true Boss of this Family.”

Clenching his jaw, Anteros raised the knife and sliced through the councilmember’s neck with one quick motion. It rolled clean off his body, landing on the floor with a thud. Seconds later, Dario’s headless body lost the ability to stay upright, landing on the floor as well.

Hand gripping the knife tightly, Anteros stared at the final councilmember’s head. Dario’s severed head was unlike the others—cruel and impassive, mocking even in death. With a deep, craggy exhale, Anteros turned and faced his Wolves.

One by one they got to their knees on the blood soaked floor.

Little O lowered his head. “Boss.”

Big O followed, bending his own head. “Boss.”

Pretty Boy continued, tilting his head in succession. “Boss.” They kept their heads bowed for a moment while an unfamiliar feeling filled Anteros’s chest—was it validation? Pride? The moment continued until Little O lifted his head and looked to Crazy A, who was leaning against the wall, arms folded. Big O and Pretty Boy lifted their heads next, looking to Crazy A.

He shrugged and said, “Boss.”

All at once, everyone got to their feet.

“Well, that was climactic,” Big O said, shaking out his shoulders.

“Do we have to stick that one up there too?” Little O asked, gesturing to Dario’s severed head. “I think four is pretty, you know, intimidating.” Anteros shot Little O a look that indicated, yes, the head did need to go up on the balcony. “Make Crazy A do it, he hasn’t done shit,” Little O whined.

Crazy A stepped forward. “No.”

“But—” Little O started.

“I only came,” Crazy A interrupted, “to tell Beast how I’m gonna kill the girl.”

* * *

“You still haven’t killed her?” Pretty Boy furrowed his brow. “Cutting it close to the wire.” Technically the deadline had passed. He should have killed Frankie before The Council’s death, but one more fucking day wouldn’t matter.

“I’m doing it tomorrow night,” Anteros growled, pushing past Pretty Boy to get to the stairs. The blood was starting to dry, making his clothes stiff and starchy. He kept a spare set of clothes in the office—all of them did. He climbed the stairs, the footfalls of the rest of the Wolves hot behind him.

When he reached the office, he was already unbuttoning his shirt.

“Then you won’t mind if I tell you how I’m going to do it.” Crazy A’s impassive, slightly amused voice drifted to him from behind. Anteros paused, fingers on the blood-crusted buttons of his shirt.

“Tell me how you’re going to do it,” Anteros said, continuing to shed his clothes. “I don’t give a fuck, but you’re wasting your goddamn time because I’m going to kill her.” Anteros ripped off his bloody shirt, not bothering to finish unbuttoning it. Throwing it on top of a plastic tarp on the floor, he faced the room. The other Wolves had come into the room and began doing the same, unbuttoning their shirts and pants, throwing them into a pile on the floor.

“I was thinking I’d make you shoot her,” Crazy A said, voice light and airy, nonchalant. There was an edge to it though, sharp, like the tip of a needle…so fine you couldn’t see it, but lethal and malignant. Anteros paused. He knew what Crazy A was implying, the history he was alluding to. Ignoring him, Anteros continued undressing.

Big O and Little O paused, exchanging looks. Pretty Boy stopped with one arm in one sleeve, then slowly continued putting the shirt on.

“Okay…” Big O said.

“Good luck with that,” Pretty Boy said, shrugging the rest of the new shirt onto his body. Anteros opened his desk and pulled out a vacuumed-sealed shirt, tossing the plastic square on his desk.

“Like I said, I’m doing it tomorrow night.” Anteros locked glares with Crazy A, new shirt untouched. The energy was feral and raw. With his chest bare and Crazy A covered in blood, it was like two animals at night.

“What a way to start off the New Year,” Pretty Boy said, sinking into the couch. Arms up on the top, he looked completely relaxed.

“I wish I had a girl to kill for the New Year,” Little O replied wistfully, joining Pretty Boy on the couch.

“We should start that tradition,” Big O proclaimed, sounding excited.

“I’m down,” Little O replied. “We could do it right when the ball drops.”

“I’ll call The Institute,” Pretty Boy said.

“Fuck. That,” Big O said with emphasis, squeezing into the couch. “Don’t waste money on high class, I’ll just find someone off the street.”

“And here I was worried I wouldn’t have anything to do this New Year’s,” Pretty Boy said. While they worked out the finer details, Crazy A continued to stare relentlessly at Anteros. He leaned back against the wall, eyes pinned on Anteros, as if ready to settle in for the night. With a snarl, Anteros grabbed the vacuum-packed shirt off the desk and headed for the door.

“Tick, tock,” Crazy A said to his back. Anteros paused, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles turned white.

“Tomorrow night,” Anteros growled, not bothering to turn around.

“Happy New Year!” Little O, Big O, and Pretty Boy cheerfully called back from the couch.

* * *

When Anteros got home, Frankie was in his bed—just as he’d told her to be. Her brunette hair fanned out wide over the pillow and her arm was stretched across his bed as if reaching for something. Though he’d had the other room made with her in mind, something about having her here, in his bed, was right.

A need to crawl into the sheets and pull her to him overcame him. A need for her skin. To smell her feminine, fresh scent. To consume her. He tightened his fist, feeling the plastic of the vacuum-packed shirt. Blood crusted his skin and flaked in his hair. It drenched the hem of his pants, splattered on his knees and thighs. With one last look at her sleeping face, he went to the shower.

“Shower on,” Anteros said, stepping into the bathroom. Steam filled the large space, hot and muggy. He removed the last of his garments, kicking them into a corner. The tile was warm beneath his feet when he stepped inside the shower.

Hot water pelted his back and he groaned. Anteros watched as the water ran red, disappearing in a spiral down the drain. The color was fruity looking, like punch. He couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d been in the shower, with Frankie.

It should have been red then.

But she’d lied.

He leaned forward, forehead to the tile, watching the red water slowly turn clear. His black hair was wet against his forehead, draping over his eyes. Water ran down his face, over his nostrils and down his lips. He rested his hand flat on the tile, fingers splayed. The water went from pink, to pinkish, to tinged, to completely clear.

For a few moments, he continued to watch the clear water run down the drain. The tile rippled uncertainly underneath the current as water splashed on his feet in a continuous pattern.

She’d feared his touch then, feared him.

As she should.

Anteros turned off the shower and walked back out to the bedroom. Frankie was still fast asleep, oblivious to the predator toweling off just feet away. Wearing only a small tank top and thong, it was nothing like what she’d been wearing the past month, hardly the negligees and lingerie Anteros had commanded her to wear. It was reminiscent of the jeans and shirt combo, somehow utterly Frankie.

Anteros tossed the damp towel to the floor. His hair was wet, the waves falling across his eyes and blocking his view of Frankie. He shook his head, tossing the damp hair back. He should do it now, while she slept.

That would be a mercy.

But he fucking couldn’t, and for the first time in weeks, he acknowledged the lie to himself: he never would. He thought of the faces of The Council, each one an amalgam of surprise and indignation, of the years that they had expected to have but had realized they’d lost in that single second, of the fury at realizing it was Anteros who took it from them.

That would be Frankie's face.

He glanced back to the shower, thinking of what Frankie had revealed to him that day. In the beginning, when he’d first taken her, he could fight the emotion, like trying to fight off an invader. Whenever it appeared inside him he tossed it aside, claimed it as something else. Even in the shower, when the emotion had really taken root, it was odd and foreign.

Now it was like Frankie was completely inside of him.

Whether it was love or his destruction, he didn’t want to fight it anymore.

With a low exhale, Anteros slid in next to her, pulling her into his arms. She moved closer to him, her skin meeting his, warm and soft. He burrowed his nose into her neck, tightening his grip on her.

* * *

Anteros groaned. He was having a dream, a fucking great one. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dreamed. He usually slept light, to be able to wake the minute he sensed alarm. In this dream, his cock was hard and someone was rubbing it.

He groaned again, arching toward the illusion, and in that moment, the dream snapped in half and he came to his senses. The foggy haze of sleep was sucked away and reality came tearing through. He sat up in bed, expecting a threat.

Frankie was on top of him, still wearing only the small tank top and thong. He glanced to the side to see the time: three in the morning. Twenty-one hours left before the Wolves realized what he hadn’t done, before Crazy A came after her, and before he really had to choose.

Her little hands were running the length of him, making him achingly hard, making it impossible to focus.

“What’s this?” he asked, gripping her hand and stopping her ministrations.

“I can’t sleep.” She looked away. “I want you inside me.” Anteros didn’t believe in fairytales or happily ever after; after all this time, now? Now she was starting to want him? It didn’t add up. He grabbed her chin, pulling her gaze to his. She bit her lip, looking him deep in the eyes. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Look, never mind.” She tried to get off him but Anteros flipped her, pinning her to the bed. His bare chest created friction against her tank, causing it to rise and expose the skin of her stomach. In one motion he jutted his hand into her thin panties, finding her soaking.

“Oh…” she exhaled, her eyes going wide then fluttering when he plunged a digit inside of her.

“How bad do you want it?” he asked, curving the finger within her.

“Bad…” she whispered, voice hoarse. Anteros smiled. He leaned down to kiss her but she moved her head away. He raised a brow, sliding his finger out. He could take her, but then after she would do as she always did when the passion left her—she would look frightened at herself, at what she’d done, and go cold.

He’d had her moaning before, had her gripping him before. He could make her moan until she lost her voice. That wasn’t the problem. He wanted her completely.

All of her.

With a frustrated groan, Anteros let her go. At that, she moved up against his hand, as if trying to trap him inside her.

“I want you inside me,” she gasped.

“But you don’t want to kiss me?” Doubt and skepticism were hot on his tongue. Slowly she turned her head back, eyes locking with his. Her hand was feather light along the length of his arm, whispering against the skin up across his broad shoulders until it grazed his chin, along the scratch of his perfectly cultivated stubble.

She leaned up, going in for a kiss, but he didn’t meet her. Anteros made her go the entire distance. He made her pull his lips in, and though the minute Frankie’s soft lips made contact he wanted to push her into the mattress, Anteros waited for her to suck his lips, to trace her tongue against his, waited until he felt her heated pants against his mouth.

Then he devoured her. He tore her panties aside, stretching the material until it was useless. Thrusting two fingers up inside of her, his thumb rubbed against her folds, lightly against her clit. And, fuck, she was so hot and wet. Just perfect. He sucked her bottom lip until the sensation was so much that she had to pull away and catch her breath.

He moved his mouth down and over the thin tank, pulling an erect nipple into his mouth. The cotton was a barrier, blunting his assault on the sensitive peak. His attack was savage, he couldn’t hold back in that moment. His need had overcome him. Anteros sucked so hard the cotton became wet. He opened his mouth wide, devouring most of her breast in his hungry mouth.

She panted, gripping his hair, urging him to suck harder. With a frustrated growl, he sat up slightly, pulling her with him, and ripped her shirt up over her head. Then it was back to the mattress. Frankie immediately reached her arms up for him and Anteros was going down to her when he paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her naked, not nearly, but she’d never been like this—reaching for him. Brown locks all around the pillow in disarray, strands of hair tangled and mussed with passion. Her cheeks red, lips swollen from kisses.

Her eyes…

They were stuck on him, begging, pleading, so ferocious in their desire. The crystal depths drowned his insides. Anteros realized then he was the slave, and always had been.

A slave in his desire.

A slave in his need.

A slave in his love.

He closed the distance, flesh meeting flesh. He slid his hand beneath her neck, twining it into her locks. Tugging at her, he arched her neck up so he could see her face when he entered her. Anteros plunged his cock deep inside her with one, forceful, meaningful thrust. Frankie’s breath hitched, her eyes grew wide then went to half-mast, and her pink tongue darted out to lick her lips. She gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle as he pulled out and thrust deep again. He loosened his grip on her skull and her head fell back in a gasp.

“Look at my cock inside you,” Anteros demanded. “See how deep I am.” She opened her eyes dreamily, following his gaze to see where they were like one person, his cock so deep inside her.

“Do you like that, Frankie?” he asked. She nodded furiously. He went back to the action, pulling out and entering with slow, careful, forceful movement. His hands traveled the length of her, feeling the way she flowed with him, the way her body took him inside of her and the way she craved him. She kissed his shoulder, holding on tight, her sigh turning into a groan.

But it wasn’t enough. He wanted her screaming his name.

“Say my name, mio cuore, say it.” Anteros pushed her sweaty hair from her forehead, looking into her piercing cornflower eyes.

“Beast,” she whispered.

“No,” he corrected. “Anteros.” If only she would just say his name, give him a reason for the hell he was about to rain down upon himself.

“What?” Her brow furrowed. “What is that?”

“It’s my name,” Anteros pressed. “Say it.”

Frankie looked surprised, but she smiled a second later. “Anteros.”

Twenty-Five

Anteros.

I splashed cold water on my face. Stick to the fucking plan.

Anteros.

I touched my lips, could still feel his name on them, feel him on them. He trusted me. It was one thing to have me sleep in his bed—I’d been doing that on and off since I arrived—but he’d told me his freaking name. The Beast had a name. I didn’t know why it shocked me so much; of course he had a name. He wasn’t born Baby Beast with weird monogrammed onesies. It must have been so shocking because I’d been looking for any chink in his armor since I’d arrived, and his name was such a vulnerability.

Anteros.

The night before, I’d tried to kill him. It was stupid and reckless but sleeping next to him I just couldn’t fucking do it anymore. The plan was stupid and fucking crazy—a moonshot. I knew what I had to do and when, but it was still all such a balancing act. Everything depended on certain things coming together at the right time. The longer I stayed with him, the more of myself I lost.

The one I love doesn’t love me.

Romeo and Juliet blasted through me and I remembered the day in the library. I remembered his annoyingly beautiful, arrogant, and wry smile. It was as if he knew that I had no control of my emotions. His smile confessed all my fears: just a few more days and I would be completely his, whether he wanted me or not. I gripped the sink, breathing heavily, trying not to cry.

But Beast—Anteros—slept right next to me, and I had controlled the pillow in my fucking hand. I could have ended it all. While he was asleep, I grabbed a pillow, put it over his head, and prepared to snuff the life out of him. Then he stirred. I threw it to the floor and started rubbing his dick because that was the first thing that came to my mind.

Fuck.

I gripped the edge of the sink, staring deep into my light blue eyes. There had been a moment last night, a moment when I didn’t feel like a victim, when I forgot to hate him. During that moment the thing I’d been fighting finally happened and love swallowed me whole.

I would gladly take a lobotomy over remembering that moment.

The one I love doesn’t love me.

“I can’t keep doing this,” I whispered, falling to the floor, hands gripping the sink. I was being pulled apart. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough, I needed to get out.

“Frankie?”

Fuck. He’s awake. I stood up quickly and splashed more water on my face to hide the tears then called back to him. “I’m in here.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, coming into the bathroom. I watched him in the mirror. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. I smiled at him, masking the confusion and self-loathing his presence caused. Did he have to be so goddamn perfect looking?

Long and lean, he had a swimmer’s body—but a huge swimmer. They called him Beast for a reason, he even had to duck in the doorway. Looking at his cocked head, I realized I knew so little about him. He could have been a swimmer for all I knew. Broad shoulders, slim waist, muscular thighs, his eight-pack intricately cut as if someone had used a chisel on marble beneath his smooth, glowing skin. He leaned so casually against the frame, too, a wry ghost of a smile on his face—and that bugged me all the more.

I didn’t know why it bothered me. I should have known nothing humbled him, not even his beauty. He even had a beautiful penis. I’d never given much thought to penises until Anteros showed up with a great one. Gloriously thick and veiny, resting like a steel rod against his thigh, it was all I could do not to rush him right then.

And I hated myself for that.

I remembered reading that the greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. I wondered if he did it by creating beauty.

Anteros put his hand out, gesturing to me. “Come.” I spun around, bracing my hands on the sink behind me. I swallowed down my emotions with a smile until they settled in my gut with the familiar feeling of heartburn that had wracked me for the previous month, and I walked into his embrace.

* * *

Seconds into the embrace, Anteros spun and pushed me against the wall just outside his bathroom. He pressed his nose against my neck, lips grazing the skin. “You need to go get ready,” he said, his voice a low hum against the skin. “We only have a few more hours.”

“Are you having another party?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as Anteros pressed me against the bedroom wall. “Like Christmas?”

“Something like that.” He leaned farther against me, bracketing me on either side. I froze, not sure what he was going to do, then he kissed me on the cheek. “Wear whatever the hell you want, but be ready in a few hours.” I touched my cheek, staying frozen until long after he’d exited his room.

Slowly I peeled myself off the wall, staring at where he’d gone. He’d left, still naked, and had gone into the hallway. He was acting so weird. It wasn’t the naked part, Anteros wasn’t exactly shy, it was everything else. The gentleness in how he touched me, the kiss on the cheek, telling me to “wear whatever the hell I wanted.”

Chewing my lip, I followed the ghost of his footsteps into the hallway and down to my room.

It was New Year’s Eve, definitely a gown night, meaning regular designer shit wasn’t gonna cut it. A year ago I would have killed to have the closet I had now. Designer, haute couture, and vintage labels, it really was a fashionista’s wet dream. Everything came with a price though, and mine was the Beast.

I’d officially survived one month. It was New Year’s Eve and the night Nikolai, Gabby, Vic, and whoever else Nikolai had roped into it—he hadn’t been very forthcoming—was going to make their move.

It couldn’t have come at a better time because one more day in this place and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go through with the plan.

I wasn’t sure I would want to leave.

I reached my door, my hand feeling the fine painted wood. Goose bumps prickled my skin the moment I pushed it open, and I headed straight to the closet. Every dress was gorgeous so I couldn’t go wrong with any of them. There was one dress, though, that stopped me in my tracks, a Paolo Sebastian. I remembered the first time I’d worn a Paolo Sebastian, how it had been torn from my body, how it had torn what little fantasy I’d had left.

I pulled it out and examined it. It was gorgeous, maybe even more so than the first dress.

I wouldn’t be able to wear any underwear with it. The dress went beyond sheer, it was absolutely see-through. The only way imagination was halted was by delicate beading. I slipped it on and it looked like the crystals and thread were one with my skin, like I wasn’t even wearing a dress. The dress fell to the floor, pooling like liquid around my feet. Like water, it was clear, and you could see every inch and detail of my legs—the only hint of fabric the ripple and stitching of flowers, like they were floating on a river.

I pressed my hand to the surprisingly soft material, feeling down the fishnet on my abdomen, and turning around to look at myself in the mirror. Everything on the dress was a work of art, from the ice blue leaves on the bust to the arch of flowers on my pelvis. I was trying to figure out how to button up the thin line of pearls on the back when a sound caught me. It sounded like a knock. Assuming it was Nikolai, I shouted for him to come in. Had something gone wrong with the plan?

When I looked up, Anteros was in the doorway to the closet. I was stunned. He’d knocked? Beast—Anteros—never knocked. Yet before I could really think on it, he pushed his way farther inside.

Well, not pushed, but it felt like it.

It felt like with each step he took, the air moved with him. Each time he stepped, I moved back, until I was smack against the shoes, arms splayed behind me. I didn’t think I would ever get used to him. Each moment with Anteros was life or death. What was he going to do now? What horrors had he planned for me this time?

He had one hand behind his back and I swallowed. That couldn’t be good. What did he have behind there? What instrument of torture had he brought for me this time? My hands gripped the small shelf behind me as I waited for him to show me. Slowly he revealed his hand.

“You look like an angel.” His voice was hoarse. I blinked, trying to gain control of my faculties as he held out a small diamond necklace shaped like a rose. I gasped. I remembered that rose, remembered how he had torn it from my neck. It was the very same diamond rose necklace I’d worn a month ago, on my first night here. Gingerly, I reached out for it, but then he shook his head. He turned me around, hands moving my hair from my back to my shoulder with slow, gentle care. I shivered at the touch, goose bumps forming.

He clasped it.

I waited for him to come back around, but then he began to button the dress. His fingers slid under the fabric, uniting with my skin. My breath hitched, my diaphragm sucking in with each button. I bit my lip, focusing on steadying my breath. When he was finished, his flattened palm pressed against the buttons. From the base of my neck to the dip in my back, he ran his palm down, smoothing it slowly, carefully. Then his hands rested on my hips. I waited for him to grip me, to grab me, to demand of me.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice low.

I swallowed. “What?” I asked, but I wasn’t really sure what I said. My brain was playing catch-up. With a slight increase in pressure he spun me around so I could see into his eyes.

“To leave. It’s time to go.” I nodded. The corner of his mouth twitched and he let go of my hips. He held out his hand, palm first. My eyes flicked to it, then to his face, uncertain. He raised a brow and I clasped my hand in his, making sure to grab my purse, and together we walked out of my room. I took a glance back at the door, a door he’d knocked on. I shook my head, turning forward.

Probably a fluke.

A sleek black car was waiting for us at the curb but, as planned, Nikolai was not the driver. Distantly I wondered what excuse Nikolai had used to get out of it. Anteros stepped down and once again put his hand out for me. Warily, I took it.

Traffic was ridiculous. Anteros hadn’t told me where we were going—not that I expected him to. I had a little bit of an idea, though. The plan had accounted for a few scenarios. I stared out the window at the standstill traffic. Everyone but me probably wanted to be somewhere. This plan was going to change everything, and I wasn’t sure I wanted things to change.

I knew just thinking like that meant I needed to get the fuck out of Dodge, but the way he’d held me the previous night had my mind reeling.

I could feel his stare on me, like the sun at noon. I rubbed my neck, feeling sweaty. My mind flashed to his hands on my back, clasping my buttons.

“Where is Nikolai?” I asked, keeping my gaze on the growing crowd outside.

“He always gets one day off a year,” Anteros responded. “This year he requested today.” We came to a stop outside a nice-looking hotel. After the new driver opened the door for Anteros, I waited for the same. When my door finally opened, it wasn’t the driver. Anteros held his hand out for me. I swallowed, taking his hand, and feeling like the tightrope I was walking on was about to snap.

Hand in his, we walked inside, bypassed check-in, and went to the elevator. He scanned his key and we ascended. I examined the edges of his profile, the perfect arch of his nose, the cut of his jaw. He looked at me and I sucked in my breath. The weight of his stare bore into me, but then doors opened and I was saved by the distraction. I walked in first, needing air, hoping to escape into the furor of the party. It was…empty.

“Where’s the party?” I asked, spinning around.

“This is the party, Frankie,” he said, humor in his voice.

I spun around the empty hotel room. “Did the cool kids not call you back?”

Anteros lifted his eyebrow in a cool smirk at my quip. “I am the cool kid.” I rolled my eyes at that, looking around the suite. It was nice, but of course it was. That wasn’t surprising. Everything about it was weird, though. It was decidedly intimate. Rose petals were on the floor and bed, champagne was cooling on the table.

Weird wasn’t good. Intimate wasn’t good. Something was off, and when something was off, I generally paid the price.

He came up to me and caressed the side of my face. “I’d like to know what you’re thinking.” That you’ve been bodysnatched?

“No.” I pulled away slightly from his embrace. “You wouldn’t.” He frowned but didn’t press. With his free hand, he reached for mine.

“Come with me, Frankie.” I took his hand, feet crushing the black rose petals beneath my Manolo Blahniks as we went out to the patio. Outside there was more champagne, a spread of food like chocolate-covered cherries and strawberries, and some kind of hot beverage, but that wasn’t the amazing part.

“Wow.” The word left my lips on a gasp. We had a perfect view of Times Square. The Ball was right in front of us, and below us the street was so packed you couldn’t see anything save round heads and foam hats. Music was playing loudly, and there promised to be a live performance soon.

I gripped the balcony, leaning over the edge, trying to soak it all in.

“This is on your list, yes?” he asked.

I tore my gaze away from the revelry, looking at Anteros. “My list?”

“You have a bucket list of places and things to do. One of them is being in Times Square for New Year’s.” Anteros looked down at the people, shaking his head. “You don’t want to be down there. This is better.”

“How do you know about that?” I folded my arms, but not because of the snow starting to fall. An instant later I tore them to my sides, realizing how he could know that. “Did you see my bedroom?” I asked. I waited, gaze hot on Anteros, waiting for him to give me anything, tell me any of his true intentions—a tick, a shrug, something. He simply stared at me, steely bluegreen gaze hard as always.

“I Put A Spell On You” by Annie Lennox played in the suite from some speakers I couldn’t see. It was low, soulful music with a beat I could feel inside my body. I shifted uncomfortably, looking away from him and back to the people below.

I felt him more than heard him. His arms wrapped around my body, pulling me close and moving us to the beat. I tried so hard to focus on the people below, on the twinkling lights, on the way the snow falling distorted the neon lights. I strained to focus on the famous musicians playing below and not the song playing in our own little bubble.

“I can take you anywhere, Frankie,” he whispered in my ear then spun me around. “I can take you to Iceland or Egypt.” I blinked, his knuckles trailing down my cheek. “I’ll take you to every city on every goddamn continent. Just be mine.” He pulled my arms around his neck.

Eyebrows pulled in, lips pursed, concern dripped from my pores. How had he gotten inside of me? How had he found that special part of me I kept hidden? How?

He pressed his lips to the hollow of my throat. With his mouth at my neck, I could see over the top of his head, see my reflection in the glass doors, but it was too dark to really make anything out. It was just a big shadow, a combination of him and me.

Anteros scooped me up, leading me away from the food we hadn’t eaten, the champagne we hadn’t drunk, and all the people below.

“We’ll miss the ball dropping.” I leaned my head against his chest, watching the world get smaller.

“You can catch it again next year,” he growled, slamming the glass shut. I expected him to throw me on the bed as he’d done so many times before, but instead he gently set me down. I leaned against the glass, watching cautiously as he slowly undid his tie. This was brand new territory for us.

“Do you know what I want from you, Frankie?” He threw his tie to the floor. I followed it, noting how it snaked and curved, the gray satin catching the lights from outside. “Frankie.” I snapped my head back to his.

He said he wanted me. “Yes. I do.”

Anteros stepped to me and spun me around. “I don’t think you do, mio cuore.” What test was this? What did he want? As I mentally went through everything that had happened that day, his fingers grasped the fabric of my dress.

“Love.” He ripped my dress open, the beautiful pearl buttons flying in every direction.

* * *

There was nothing beautiful or sweet about the way he kissed me. It was painful and broken and totally mind-bending. Through his lips I felt him, really felt him—Anteros—finally. It was demanding, torturous, cruelly awful, and I craved every minute of it. He controlled me with his lips.

Anteros growled and I could feel the reverberations all the way down to my toes. He took my bottom lip, sucking at first before biting, biting hard enough to draw blood. I cried out at the pain but went back for more, hungry.

He turned me back around, pushing me against the glass. His lips sucked and bit along my neck. One hand snaked through the back of my torn dress, grasping my breast in a brutal and agonizing way. His other hand pulled up the material, seeking flesh. He was hard as steel against my ass and I knew he would enter me soon.

“Fuuuuck,” he cursed and my mouth fell open, slack-jawed. Together we paused for a brief, tiny second as we felt each other. Then he moved inside me, deep, so punishingly slow and meticulous. He moved in a rhythm that was so attuned to my body.

Against the glass my mind bifurcated between past and present, between the very beginning and this moment, a moment of such exquisite, awful, terrifying passion it had nearly split me in two and now, pleasure.

Pleasure so divine I was sure it finally had.

Outside, colors blurred together as in a melting watercolor. I thought maybe the neon lights were trying to tell me something—the demanding bright clock denoting the impending New Year, the bright eager faces of the revelers counting down the time—but pleasure dazzled my brain, obscured my mind.

He slammed me harder against the glass. One of his hands was on my hip, gripping me, the other up against the glass, and I clung to that arm as he fucked me. I clung to him as I came. The world was giving way beneath me and he was the only anchor I had.

“Look at me.” Anteros grasped my jaw, twisting my neck so I could see into his eyes. “Look at me when you come, mio cuore.” Our eyes locked just as it hit me and I lost myself in his fervent, demanding depths.

It came over me slowly, like a rapidly mutating virus or parasite of pleasure. It started in my throbbing core, slowly spreading outward, tendrils of pleasure in my limbs and arms. Slowly my thighs tingled and numbed. My arms jellied. My jaw buzzed with pleasure.

It was like melted caramel in my body, or hot, liquidy butter.

But even that wasn’t just right, wasn’t delicious or addictive enough, because the farther it spread inside me, the more it changed me. There was a moment I realized I would do anything, be anything, so long as I could just feel this way. Beneath the melted sweetness was heroin, seeping into my veins, drugging me. Then it froze, the heroin turning to ice within me.

With a sharp crack, the ice shattered. I arched off the glass, into his chest as billions of heroin fragments shot through my veins. When it was over, I was panting and my core throbbed for him, pulsating.

What was left was a raw, aching need, like a junkie without a fix.

He pushed hair out of my face and murmured something I couldn’t quite understand, it sounded Italian. I blinked, looking away from him and out the foggy and sweaty glass. When I pressed my head against it I could see the ball had just dropped. The confetti was falling.

This was what I’d been afraid of, what I’d been holding off. He’d made me orgasm before, I’d felt the spasms in my core—there was nothing I could do about that—but nothing was like this.

I’d never come for him.

I’d never completely let my mind go.

Since the very beginning, he’d had me looking over the edge. Every time he touched me my feet were pushed closer toward the cliff. I’d nearly fallen, even dangled off the precipice, but now I wasn’t just falling, I was catapulting straight toward the jagged rocks.

My body was weeping pleasure. My mind was fracturing.

I would never be the same again. I knew that when I was put back together again, parts of me would include him.

* * *

I checked the clock. The blue glare read four in the morning. I had an hour left, an hour before I had to meet Gabby. Swinging my naked legs over the bed, tiptoes grazing the soft carpet, I stared out at the city. People had left and in their wake was trash, colorful, confetti-covered trash.

Leaning back in bed, I studied my beast. Anteros.

I could feel him inside of me; beyond the physical, he was inside of my soul. I knew it would be like that forever.

I walked over to where his pants were and wriggled into his pocket to find the square, metallic device. The bright, blue glow of the phone lit up my face. It had been a month since I’d held a phone, had access to the outside world.

I breathed and then dialed. “Yeah. You were right, it was the second one. We’re at some hotel in Times Square on the top floor.” I hung up, deleted the call log, and put the phone back. I opened the nightstand and picked up the Bible. I looked inside, swallowed, and then turned back to Anteros, still sleeping soundly.

The Bible held an item, an integral part of the plan—the official princess plan. I was to use it, get out, and run. They would be waiting for me now that I’d called them and confirmed, and so far everything had gone according to plan. Everything, that is, except one thing. I shouldn’t have let Anteros into my soul.

That didn’t change a thing, though.

At least, it didn’t change my plan.

The unofficial Frankie plan.

There was a part of me that wasn’t done yet, a part that had been waiting for this since day one. I closed the Bible, gingerly placed it back in the nightstand, and then shut the drawer slowly so it didn’t make a sound.

I climbed back on the bed and crawled across the bed slowly, like a cat, until I was on top of him. He woke instantly. Anteros was like that; it didn’t take much to wake him. I was sure he was always half awake. He studied me a moment, suspicion in his eyes, then his face settled into content.

“Can we play a game?” I purred.

“What kind of game?” Anteros grinned, brow raised. I smiled, doing my best attempt at demure. I was still the innocent girl he’d taken.

“The fun kind…” I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth.

He gently touched my chin. “Frankie…” I looked into his eyes as he pulled my chin up. They were soft, like the ocean at sunrise. In that moment, I wanted to frown, wanted to scream, wanted to push him away and run out the door.

I still wasn’t prepared for this.

I wasn’t prepared for when the Beast sheathed his claws and invited me into his lair. I wished so badly I could replace the part of me he’d stolen, the part he now owned. He’d taken it without consent, and I could feel it inside him as my own flesh. There was a part of me now that clung to him and begged for him. It howled inside me, needing to be near him always, aching when he was gone, furious when I chose to leave him.

But I couldn’t mend or patch myself. He had taken the irreplaceable. That part of me was lost forever, stuck beating inside of him so I had to feel the painful thrums inside my chest.

So I was going to take something from him.

I leaned in and kissed him. “On your back,” I whispered against his lips. His eyes narrowed momentarily and for a second I feared he saw right through me, but then he lay down. I took a stuttering breath and climbed on top of him. Reaching down for my purse, I pulled out the first item. He immediately gripped the wrist that held it. I went still, waiting for his response. If Anteros looked any closer into my purse, he would see what I had planned.

He relaxed and asked, “Rope?” with a raised brow.

It wasn’t really rope. I didn’t have access to rope, and if I’d asked Nikolai to get me rope, then he would have been suspicious, would have wondered if I was deviating from the official plan. It was just a long, tough piece of cloth from one of my wrap outfits.

It was the best I could do, and I prayed it would hold.

I explained to him what it was and said, “Let me be on top for a while, please Boss.” I leaned in until I was just beneath his chin, close enough to practically feel the stubble. I purred the name all his peons called him. At it, his grip relaxed even more, though his cock got harder.

I tied each knot, making sure they were tight. I’d spent hours the past few days studying knots in the library, making sure there was no way to slip out of them, trying not to get caught. These weren’t the kind of things you tie a present with, folks.

“Can you move?” I asked after squeezing the last knot.

“I think I’m well fastened,” he murmured, rattling the headboard.

I smirked. “Well, what to do with you now?” I wanted him to feel safe. I wanted him happy, because I wanted to be the one to rip that away from him. I sucked and kissed and made him moan, and got him closer and higher. He pulled on his restraints, moving toward my lips and hands. I raked my nails along his skin, acting like that would be the only punishment he would receive.

Moving to his lips, I pulled his tongue into my mouth then slipped my hand around his cock and rubbed. I leaned in, feeling him hot against me. I tasted him, his unique, spicy scent. Even though I was on top, deciding our movements and actions, his tongue was demanding, lips dominant and ruthless. I nearly melted into him, allowing him to claim and conquer me.

I rubbed against him, losing myself…losing my mind. I was getting lost in a hot, hazy feeling spreading from my core to my limbs.

“Frankie…” Anteros groaned my name, voice hoarse. I blinked, snapping out of it, and pulled back. I stared at him, trying to come back, taking deep breaths. It was like trying to breathe clearly in pollution, in some kind of sensual smog. It had nearly happened again, I’d nearly gotten lost in whatever carnal miasma the man exuded. My entire body throbbed and ached, calling for him. The part of me that existed inside of him now tugged and pulled to be made whole, furious and indignant that I’d broken the connection.

Shaking my head, I reached back into my purse and pulled out part two of the plan. I continued to rub his cock until he was close, keeping him on edge, distracted. Then I released my hand and sat up, still on his chest.

“Only my friends call me Frankie,” I said, repeating what I’d told him the first day. I watched him come out of his lusty delirium, slowly focusing on the item in my hands. I assumed he would fight it, thought he’d try to break out of the restraints, but he never did. That was more terrifying, because he just sat there.

Waiting.

For me.

As if he was telling me he expected this.

I shifted, nerves setting in. I’d expected yelling, screaming, cursing, not this, this calm, cramped silence. I swallowed and adjusted the grip on the item in my hand. This wasn’t part of the official princess plan.

Not the plan that had me finding Nikolai in the middle of the night.

Not the plan that had Gabby meeting me in the park and giving me the rundown about being princess.

Not the plan that had me calling Nikolai before Anteros woke so they could find me in the getaway car.

Not the plan that had Nikolai or Vic or whoever leaving vials of some kind of sedative in Bibles all around New York in hotels where we might spend our night.

Not the plan that was to have been me drugging Anteros and getting out, quietly, before he woke up.

Not that plan.

No, this was my plan. This was the Frankie plan. It was cold metal in my palm. It was revenge.

I gripped the knife I’d stolen from the kitchen and swallowed. I didn’t know what Anteros thought he was playing at by being silent, but I wasn’t going to give in. I’d come this far. Butterflies the size of bats flapped in my stomach, menacing and furious. My hand shook, my palms grew sweaty.

But in my entire life, I’d never wanted anything more.

I needed this.

* * *

I pushed back his head and put the knife to his throat. He made no sound as the metal touched his skin, even though it must have been cold, or at least uncomfortable. When choosing the knife, I’d made sure to find the sharpest one. It was a smaller than I’d wanted, only a bit longer than my finger, but it was sharp as sin. I paused just before the steel broke skin and stared deep into his eyes.

He wasn’t even concerned.

In fact, he seemed amused.

Whatever.

I’d never had him at my mercy like this before, and I wanted to get my point across.

“You don’t get to take any more of me,” I hissed. “I get to take you.” He said nothing, just looked at me with that same amused expression. “Do you think this is funny?” I asked. “I have a knife to your throat. I’m going to kill you.” His cheek quirked up even more and his chest moved beneath me, like he was silently laughing. My jaw clenched but I paused, feeling my strength waver. The knife shook in my grasp.

“This isn’t fucking fair!” I sat back, looking at the knife in my hand. My grip loosened further and I focused on that, on the way the metal had looked so powerful and daunting against his skin but it just looked lame in my palm. My gaze flicked to Anteros, where he lay patiently. He was silent, hadn’t even tried to break free, and his scrutinizing, amused stare burned into me.

I thought back to the moment in the library and whispered to myself, “It’s not fair that the man who ruined me is the only one to ever know me.” He laughed, bellowing, sounding so entertained by me and my hurt.

“What?” I practically screamed the words as I snapped back to him, filled with rage, and put the knife to his throat.

“Mio cuore…” he said evenly, soothingly. “That is the only way it can be. It’s not true love unless the person can destroy you completely.” My brow furrowed. Reluctantly I eased back, the knife just at his collarbone now. True love? What the fuck was he talking about? He didn’t love me.

I looked down at him, at the beautiful scars curling along the chest that breathed so even and easy. There was a tug in my chest that screamed of irrevocability. It was as if every time I looked at him, my soul sung in harmony, and every time we were apart, it wept. When I looked back up, the same intense bluegreen gaze studied me. His words affected me, settled in my chest like a hard stone as my eyes got hot and wet. I shook my head.

This was not true love.

This was hate. Pure. Visceral. HATE.

I shoved the knife back against his throat. With a shaky hand, I avoided his dark stare. Do you love me? I flashed my eyes back up to his. The words were on the tip of my tongue. As if he could sense what was happening, his own eyes narrowed, reminding me that it only took a look to probe and completely disarm me. I had a fucking knife and he was tied down, but I was somehow still completely at his mercy. With an unsteady breath, I attempted to take back the power.

“Well, I’m going to start destroying you,” I said, focusing on keeping my voice steady. “Just like you destroyed me. Right now.” It looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. His stare was harsher than words, like fire on my skin. It wasn’t anger; it was knowing. It was him digging into my purpose, and that was so much worse. It was as if he could see something in me that I couldn’t, and his lips were quirked as if he was fucking enjoying this. Blinking, I tried turning back to my task, but I couldn’t focus. My vision blurred and all I wanted to know was the answer to my question.

“You don’t love me,” I said, my voice hardly above a whisper. I could hear the door pushing open behind me and I knew our time was coming to an end. I pushed the knife until I saw blood trickle. Whoever was coming wouldn’t appreciate why I had to do this. I had to finish this now…but then I looked up, caught his stare. Suddenly I was less interested in ending this and more interested in knowing. My grip wavered.

“Do you?” I asked, and I heard the door bang against the wall. There was a brief pause that followed, a half second where I stared into him—his eyes, his lips—trying to find a tick. I was looking for anything that might betray an answer.

“Mio cuore…” he began.

“Oh my God!” Gabby yelled behind me. Her voice broke the spell, interrupting Anteros and catalyzing me back to my cause. Mind games, I reminded myself. This was all just a mind game. Even so, I couldn’t continue. My hand was out of control with its shaking and I could feel the drive disappearing from me. I knew they were mind games, but they were working. My adrenaline was draining.

“We have to go!” Gabby yelled.

“Just a second,” I said over my shoulder. I was going to go deaf from the sound of my heartbeat. My blood rushed so fast I could feel it everywhere, tingling, threatening to pull me down. Spots were filling my view. Anteros’s stare was iron, probing into my soul like he was daring me to do something with the knife.

I exhaled, sitting back.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill him.

But I also couldn’t just leave without taking something. After everything that had happened, I had to leave him with something. Gabby’s voice was hurried and anxious in my ear, but I moved the knife from his throat and put it to his chest. Pointing it to the skin, I started carving into his flesh. Adrenaline was like electricity in my veins. Pumping and hot. Dangerous and exciting. My fingers blanched with the effort, my skin got sweaty on the handle. My hand shook.

The entire time, I watched him.

He hardly seemed bothered by what I was doing—except for his eyes. The bluegreen irises were shadowed by a heavy brow, searing and scorching their intent into my brain. I swallowed. I would remember that look: pure lust.

When I finished, I sat back. My gut flipped and I gaped at the F I’d just carved into his chest. His face held that same infuriatingly amused expression. I was expecting anger and fury, not this…this carnal hunger. I was expecting this to drive us apart, but beneath his lust was satisfaction. It was as if he was happy I’d done it, as if me carving into him didn’t push us apart, but secured our link even further.

We were in our own world now, Gabby’s voice having been completely drowned out by the rush of my heartbeat. I leaned closer, touching the bloody F on his chest. The pieces of him within me called out, rejoiced. I realized that I was happy, too. I was happy to know that once I left, there was a piece of me stuck on him forever. Anteros had cemented his place inside me, would forever be in my body, my mind, my soul. At least now we were a little closer to even. My fingers continued to caress the F and he made a sound low in his throat, but it wasn’t of anger. It sounded…satisfied. I looked up just in time to hear him speak.

“Yes,” he said. My eyes widened, my chest tightened. Did that mean what I thought it meant?

“Now!” Gabby grabbed my shoulder, tugging me from the bed, and I dropped my hand as if I’d been burned. Without giving Anteros another look, I stumbled out of the doorway.

Epilogue

We ran down the emergency exit stairs, taking them two at a time. It didn’t feel real. After a month, it felt like a dream to be running to freedom. I nearly couldn’t process it. My heart thumped hard in my chest with fear and adrenaline and I kept telling myself to keep running, keep going after Gabby.

That was all I could do to keep from running back.

“Where’s Vic?” I panted, using the railing to jump over more steps. “Or Nikolai?”

“Where’s Vic or Nikolai?” Gabby yelled, throwing a glare at me over her shoulder. “They’re where they’re supposed to be—with a car down in the service parking lot.” We paused to catch our breath and she pushed me. Then she pushed me again. I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the stairs and falling down.

“What the fuck?” I yelled, my voice catching in the stairwell and echoing back the surprise.

“Exactly.” Gabby pushed me again. “You almost blew everything! Do you know what I risked checking on you?” She swallowed. “You were to just inject him and he’d be dead now.”

“He’d be what?” I asked. Dead? He’d be dead? No one had told me that their plan ended with death. At the mention of his death, my stomach flipped and it felt as though everything came to a standstill. Fear. Fear at his death. It shouldn’t have mattered. I’d nearly killed him the night before with a pillow. I’d just had a knife to his throat. Death was the endgame with us.

As princess, I was taking the crown from the Beast, also known as Anteros.

Anteros was to die.

There’s no other ending for our story.

“Now he’s alive and so angry.” Gabby ran her hands over her face then through her hair. “What were you thinking? What were you doing?” I fisted my knuckles, palm slimy with his blood. I was thinking I carved out a piece of him. Forever. I was thinking he’d at least have an inkling of what it felt like to lose parts of yourself to someone else. I was thinking that I was one step closer to evening the sides.

I thought back to the look in his eyes. He wasn’t pissed, but I wasn’t about to tell Gabby that it would have been better if he was.

It’s not true love unless the person can destroy you completely.

I shook my head, ridding myself of the thought. There was no way I could explain that to her.

She threw her hands up. “You were to meet me in the stairs. I waited! I waited and I waited! Do you know what I risked going in that room?”

“So why did you do it?” I snapped.

Her eyebrows shot up, as if surprised at the question. All the frustration and anger dissipated from her features and she asked, “Why do you think?”

I stared into her earnest, honey-colored face, flushed from exertion, dark freckles a contrast against the red. Her gold hair was piled high on her head and she wore some kind of exercise clothes. I’d thought I would have to get out of hell alone, but then Gabby had come along. She was a woman who’d been in hell longer than me, who would have had every right to take the first ticket out without any questions. Now there she was, saying she’d come back, risked her life for me.

Somewhere in hell, I’d found a sister.

A bang sounded above our heads and Gabby and I snapped our heads up, looking between the rows of stairs. Without further conversation we bolted, not stopping until we reached the bottom. Two heavy metal doors marked the exit to the parking lot.

Freedom.

We pushed the doors open with our shoulders. The bright, blinding light of the parking lot hit me first, and I couldn’t see anything, just white. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I looked for Nikolai and Vic…but there was only one person there.

An older woman stood next to a silver car, radiating deadly elegance and poise. Wearing a long double-breasted coat that was like a dress, it somehow also highlighted her breasts in an obvious yet demure way. Big glasses framed a face below very curly silver hair. This was not the type of woman you would say used to be beautiful; this was the type of woman who aged better than those looked when still in their twenties. It was the type of woman I saw when flipping through magazines.

There was a confidence about her that said she knew it, too.

“Where are Vic and Nikolai?” I asked, turning to Gabby. “Who is that?”

“That’s…” Gabby gulped, sounding awed. “That’s Lucia Pavoni.”

The woman smiled. “Hello, granddaughter.”

A Note from the Author

Hey friend!

Are you sitting with your kindle, or nook, or paperback, or possibly pirated copy (hey, not cool, man) and thinking like what the fuck just happened? What was that cliffhanger? I hate cliffhangers. What a bitch!

Me too friend. This was supposed to be one book. I’m serious.

I started writing Beast and though it was going to be two parts, when part one started reaching 100k words I had to step back. I was like ‘bro, come on, how long is this book going to be?’ So I split it into two books. While writing this book I’ve questioned my life a few times. I mean, as a writer you expect your characters to take the wheel, but this was ridiculous. I’d sit down and write thinking, ‘Okay, this is what I’m going to do’ and then the book would tit punch me and tell me how it’s actually going to go.

Frankie & Anteros don’t play along. They do what they want.

This book is the longest book I’ve ever written and it just kept getting longer. Frankie and Anteros’s story—their WORLD—became something I didn’t anticipate.

I absolutely LOVED it though.

I hope you did too! I plan to have the other book out this year because I hate waiting. I have no patience at all, so I can commiserate with you fellow impatient people. If I could write the next book in a day and get it to you guys in two days, I would.

But let’s be real, that would be a really shitty book.

If you really hate waiting, join my FB group where we discuss this book and what’s to come for Anteros and Frankie. It will also have exclusive sneak peeks of the upcoming book!

https://www.facebook.com/groups/YouOwnMeMCG/

You can also sign up to be notified for when the next book goes live.

http://www.subscribepage.com/beauty

PS: If you’re wondering what happens to Vic, he actually has his own totally finished series (the Owned series). In the series Lucia and Frankie get a shout out!

xxoo

MCG

www.MaryGebhard.com

Facebook/Twitter/Insta/Pinterest: @marycgebhard

I have a serious addiction to social media, so you’re bound to catch me somewhere.

Acknowledgments

It takes a village to write a book and my village is amazing. Like I said in the dedication, Becca straight up midwifed this book. She saw Beast for what it could be and helped me make it what it was supposed to be, and for that I’m so, so grateful. I fucking love you Becca.

Staci, your heart is bigger than the moon. You genuinely want everyone to succeed along with you and that is rare and wonderful. You’re like an indie book Yoda, you give it to me straight, and girl, you seriously transformed my cover. I went through like twenty different designs before you. K-I-S-S man, K-I-S-S. I love you.

Kristen, you’re my best friend and you’re always there to help. You work so hard and you’re so busy but you still made time to help when once again I couldn’t format my paperback. You are the kindest, sweetest person ever.

My betas are the fucking bomb. You’ve been with me since my first book and are total rock stars. Some of you read this when it was nothing more than ideas, when pages were blank and filled with nothing more than “he will do this.” Phala with Aaly and the Books, Liz with Liza Jane Chronicles, Amanda with Disheveled Books, Katina, and Dayna, I love you guys so much.

I used a new beta this time as well, Chelsea with Love N. Books, and I’m so glad I did because she was awesome and introduced me to the whole Love N. Books team, like Ellie, who proofed this book with an eagle eye.

My editor, Caitlin with Editing by C. Marie, is the bomb. Not only is she a wonderful person with a beautiful soul, she gets the job done. It’s so rare to meet someone who is both great at their job and actually a good person. I love you!

My girls in Get Hard are the best! Over the year we’ve grown to over a thousand. That’s so amazing and I can hardly comprehend it. A thousand beautiful souls who support each other, who laugh at the same jokes, and who are just simply wonderful. I can’t wait to keep growing!

This indie community constantly shows me how selfless and supportive people can be, specifically my Tribe. I’ve found my home, found the sisters that will build me up instead of tearing me down. I love you girls.

I can’t leave out my family, either, because I’m so lucky to have them. They’re the most supportive people in the world and every day I’m grateful to have them. Also my husband is kind of cool. His name is Eric and he has long hair.

Last but not fucking least—not by a long shot—I have to acknowledge the readers! Without you guys, I’m nothing. Thank you for taking the time to read my shit, to leave reviews, to post about me on social media. Seriously. You guys are the blood of this industry.

P.S. Dayna you are as smart as Einstein and as beautiful as a rainbow.

Also by Mary Catherine Gebhard

Owned Series

You Own Me (Owned #1)

Let Me Go (Owned #2)

Tied (Owned #2.5)

Come To Me (Owned #3)

Standalones

Elastic Heart