Unholy Union Page 8

  “And what the hell were you doing watching me sleep? Do you think that seems remotely normal?”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “I like looking at you.”

  I don’t know if I expected him to feel embarrassed at being caught, but he’s not. Far from it.

  “Tell me something,” he starts, leaning in so close I can’t help but inhale the scent of cologne and soap and man. “Are you still afraid of the dark, Cristina?”

  I try to tug free because now he’s just playing with me. “Let me go.”

  “Are you?”

  “Fuck you.”

  He pushes my back to the wall and cages me in, leaning his elbows on either side of my head.

  “Are you asking me to fuck you?” he asks.

  My belly flips at the way he says those last two words. The fuck you. It’s sensual, erotic.

  No, more than that.

  From his lips, it’s pornographic.

  One corner of his mouth curves upward, and I realize the shadow of stubble along his sharp jaw has grown denser. He hasn’t shaved since yesterday.

  My knees give out again, and I instinctively grab his shoulder just as he catches me, holding me upright. His eyes grow serious as he studies me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say I spy concern in them.

  “You should get back into bed. You’re not stable.”

  “Because you drugged me.”

  “It’ll be out of your system soon. Get back into bed until it is.”

  “I want my clothes.” I’m flustered and out of my element. Way out of my league.

  “You don’t listen.”

  “No, I’ve never been known to do as I’m told.”

  “You’re cute.” He grins and grabs hold of the blanket I’ve got a death grip on.

  “Let go.”

  “You let go.”

  We have a stare down. I have no doubt he could pull the blanket free if he wanted. “Do you like this? Messing with me?”

  “It passes the time.”

  “Let go. I mean it.”

  “I thought you’d have more pressing questions you’d want to ask.”

  “Let go or I’ll fucking hurt you.”

  “Is that so? I’d love to see you try. But let me warn you, you get rough, I get rough. And I don’t think you’re in any condition for that.”

  I swallow at his warning, my body shuddering.

  He grins again. He sees I’m afraid of him. And he likes it.

  Bastard.

  He wants to see if I’m all talk? A coward?

  Fine. I’ll show him.

  I let go of the blanket just like he wants, and when his gaze drops along with it, I make a fist, and I smash it into his too perfect face.

  8

  Damian

  She hesitates right at the end. If she didn’t, the hit would likely have had more of an impact.

  And this right here is a key difference between men and women. They hesitate to hurt even if they themselves are in the crosshairs. Men—men like me, at least—we like the game, like when they fight, and even like when they hurt.

  Her fight—and the fear in her eyes as she awaits my reaction—makes my dick hard.

  As soon as I move my hand to touch the spot she hit, she scoots under my arm and heads to a door. Which door, though? All four in the room look identical.

  Again, she hesitates, and at that moment, I catch her around the middle, lift her off her feet, and carry her onto the bed.

  “Let go, you goddamned freak!” She fights, using her arms, legs, fingernails. Anything she can. She’ll wear herself out quickly, considering she’s already weak from the remnants of the drug, so I take it easy on her. But that turns out to be a mistake because as soon as I let my guard down, she manages to almost knee me in the balls.

  I catch her leg, though, and flip her onto her belly, giving her my full weight.

  She struggles to move. For as tall as she is, she’s built petite. I collect both wrists and drag them over her head before shifting them to one hand. I grip a handful of hair to force her head back so I make sure she can see me.

  “Cristina,” I say, low and dangerous. My hold is firm. I won’t take a chance that she’ll smash her skull into my nose. “I thought you’d be smarter than this.”

  “Let me go. You’re hurting me.” She wriggles this way and that. Is she aware of what all that movement is doing to me?

  “You’re a slow learner, aren’t you?”

  “Get off me! I can’t breathe, you jerk!”

  I lift my torso a little and bring my cheek to hers, then grind my hips against her panty-clad ass, and she freezes.

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper. “I like it.”

  Silence. I feel her squeezing her ass cheeks together.

  “Get off me.” This time, it’s more of a squeak than a demand. That’s good. She’s learning.

  “But your ass feels so good against my dick.”

  She presses her eyes shut and seals her leg. “Get off.”

  “Ask nicely.”

  She swallows.

  I grind. And fuck, her ass does feel fucking amazing.

  But she is in no way ready for me. Her head’s not even close to that yet.

  “Please,” she says.

  “Please get off me, Damian. I’m sorry to be insolent,” I instruct.

  Her eyes open again, but she won’t look at me. “I hate you,” she says through gritted teeth.

  I rotate my hips and let out a moan.

  “Please get off me, Damian!”

  “What’s the rest of it?”

  She turns her head as much as my grip allows her and glares at me. “I’m sorry I’m insolent.”

  “Close enough,” I say. Keeping hold of her wrists, I slide off her and roll her onto her back. I keep her arms over her head and look her over. Her dark nipples peek out of the tops of the bra cups, and every muscle is tensed and stretched tight.

  I shift my grip to one hand and adjust my cock. I don’t miss her eyes following the movement. Don’t miss her little tongue darting out to lick those lips, her body preparing itself even if her mind isn’t ready yet.

  I need to get my head clear, though. Now isn’t the time for these games.

  Getting up on my knees, I bring her arms to her sides and straddle her, trapping her arms but keeping my weight on my knees so I’m not crushing her. I look at her, brush her hair back from her face. She is fucking beautiful.

  “What are you doing?” She struggles to pull free. She won’t, but she can try.

  “I can be gentle with you, or I can be harsh. It’s mostly up to you.”

  She doesn’t reply as I study the scar across her chest. It must have hurt. I try to get my brain around the fact that we were both there that night. Both in our own personal hell.

  I meet her eyes to find her watching me intently as though she will snatch any thought she can. “I’ve watched you grow up, you know that. Watched you become a woman.”

  She swallows, eyes wide and shiny with unspent tears.

  “I made sure you were well cared for.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I take care of my things, and you were always mine. Always.”

  She sinks into the bed a little at that.

  “Now let me tell you something, and you need to listen very carefully, do you understand?”

  She turns her face away in reply.

  “Are you ready to listen, or do you need me to punish you first?”

  Her eyebrows furrow.

  “Hmm?”

  She returns her gaze to mine.

  I wait for her reply.

  She nods.

  “Is that a nod to being punished first or to listening? Be a big girl and use your words, sweetheart.”

  She mutters a ‘fuck you’ under her breath.

  “What’s that?”

  She narrows her eyes. “I’ll listen.”

  I watch her for a minute. I’ve studied photos, but this is different. In the flesh, she’s differe
nt.

  “I’m not the only monster in this house.”

  She goes pale at my words. Good. She should be afraid. Because fear may keep her safe. Not from me but from the others.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. In time, you’ll be allowed to walk freely but always keep that in mind.”

  “In time? Are you going to lock me up?”

  “Yes. For your own good.”

  “Is that how you’re going to justify this to yourself? It’s for my own good? You kidnapping me is for my own good? You killing my father…” Her voice breaks, and I watch a tear slide out of the corner of her eye and down over her temple. “Are you doing this to me because of the accident?”

  She knows that answer, doesn’t she? I have to remember she only just learned that we were in that accident together while I’ve had almost a decade to come to terms with it.

  “Are you going to hurt me?” she finally asks as more tears flow.

  “What we have will always hurt. You should remember that.”

  “We have nothing, Damian. You’re nothing to me.”

  “But you are something to me, and soon, I will become your entire world.”

  “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

  “You. You’re what I want. I thought it was clear.”

  “Why?”

  Just as she’s not ready for my cock, she’s not ready for that answer, so I switch tracks.

  “Never attack a man like that again. You’re not strong enough. No woman is. Even the weakest will easily overpower you, and you’ll just end up pissing him off.”

  “I won’t be a meek little victim.”

  “Take care, Cristina. Many men will retaliate. He will retaliate.”

  “Who’s he?”

  I release her, my mood darkening. “You’ll find out soon. Get up. Get showered.” I touch her hair. “Did you cut it yourself?”

  “I didn’t have time to visit the hairdresser before you kidnapped me, did I?” She sits up, watching me as I walk to where her backpack is. I slide her laptop back inside but leave the books, the toiletries, and that stuffed rabbit on a chair. I walk to the door, checking the time as I do.

  “Who’s he?” she asks again.

  “You’ll find out sooner than you want to know.” I open the door. “I’ll have food sent up.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Eat it anyway.” I take a step out.

  “Damian?”

  I stop and turn to her.

  “Are they okay?”

  “Who?”

  “My family.”

  “You care about your family when they betrayed you?”

  “They didn’t betray me.” Her forehead furrows. “Not all of them.”

  True. “They’re fine and will be as long as you do as you’re told.”

  “You can’t hurt them.”

  “That’ll be up to you.”

  “Please.”

  “That’ll be up to you,” I repeat.

  “My backpack—”

  I take a step back toward the bed. “Nothing is yours anymore, Cristina. Everything is mine. Including you. Don’t you understand that yet?”

  I wonder if she realizes that she shrinks from me.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why?”

  She nods.

  “An eye for an eye. A life for a life.”

  “My life.”

  “It’s in the Bible, so it must be right.”

  “No. Turn the other cheek. That’s the rest of it.”

  “Not in my world.”

  “Did you kill my father? Were you in that room with him?” Her eyes glisten with tears I can see her fighting to contain.

  I sigh. “The night we first met, the night your father died, he made a great sacrifice. He bought you eight years. Your childhood.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He made an agreement with my father, and I’ve honored it.”

  “But…” She flounders, her forehead wrinkling as she tries to make sense of this.

  “But you’re no longer a child, are you?”

  9

  Cristina

  When I hear the lock turn, I get up and walk across the thick carpet, then onto cold stone. The door is a heavy wooden one with black iron hardware that looks about as old as the rest of the stone, but I know it’s newer. Or at least it’s all been refurbished.

  The door doesn’t give when I try to open it, tugging on it once, twice, three times. I put my ear to it but don’t hear a sound. Not even his receding footsteps. Nothing.

  Turning back into the room, I lean against the door and take stock of myself. I may as well be naked since he undressed me while I was passed out. He claims he didn’t touch me, but he certainly did touch me a few minutes ago.

  My face burns at the memory of him on top of me, behind me. His erection pressing against me.

  I shake my head to dislodge the thought and my body’s reaction to it.

  He could have done more, taken what he wanted to take and gotten it over with, but he didn’t. So, what does he want? I mean, he never answered when I asked him why he wanted me. Revenge? Against who? My father is dead. My whole family is dead apart from my uncle and cousins.

  Picking up the blanket from the floor, I wrap it around my shoulders and look around the room, then walk to where he’d left Patty and the books I had packed along with the toiletries. At least he left those, but everything else is gone. I’m alone. I have no way to contact anyone, no money, no nothing.

  “Shit.”

  I take in the room. The stone walls are ancient, and I wonder where we are. The bed I was sitting on looks to be an antique although the mattress was comfortable, and the thick, plush duvet smelled freshly washed.

  The canopy is a deep, beautiful violet, and everything in the room seems to have been chosen to accentuate the bed. It’s pretty, the wooden posts and headboard heavily carved, the canopy intricate.

  Is this to be my prison? He admitted I’d be locked in here for a while at least.

  There’s a small vanity with a mirror set upon it. On its surface are several bottles of perfume, and a chair is situated before it. I go to it and pull open one of the drawers, finding it full of high-end cosmetics.

  I snort.

  If he expects me to look pretty for him, he’s got another thing coming.

  Closing the drawer, I turn my attention to the dresser that matches the frame of the bed. It stands against one wall, and various tables are scattered against the others, holding lamps that are lit even though it’s daytime.

  There’s only one window, but it’s huge. I wonder if it was more than one before, and they had it redone this way as I make my way toward it. It almost reaches the floor and does touch the high ceiling. If I stretch my arms out, I still don’t reach either end. The glass is cold to the touch.

  Looking out the window, I realize how big the house is, how vast. It’s a mansion, not a house at all—with large stone walls and shaped like a U. Although I try, I can’t count all the windows. To my right, I see light through some of them. Other occupants. How many and who?

  My mind wanders to what he said—about the other I have to look out for—but I force that thought away and turn to my left where most of the windows on the upper floors are shuttered.

  All the rooms on this side overlook a perfectly green view of forest that only stops at the rock of the mountain in the distance. It looms over the trees, casting what I think may be a permanent shadow. It’s breathtaking and scary as hell all at once. I don’t think there’s another soul out there for miles.

  When I look down, I have a moment of vertigo.

  Closing my eyes, I step backward.

  It’s got to be a hundred-foot drop to the neglected gardens below that are so overgrown I wonder if the forest isn’t creeping in to reclaim the house.

  Taking a deep breath in, I try to see the exterior around my room. From the bits of paint o
n the walls, I think it used to be yellow at one time.

  I turn away from the window. I need to find a bathroom.

  There are three doors in addition to the one Damian exited from, and they all look similar. Old wood, new hardware. One is locked, so I leave that for later. I need to pee first.

  The second door leads to a deep alcove. It’s dark, and I feel along the wall for a light switch, grateful when I find one.

  It’s like a cave in here and even smells a little dank. A bench built into the wall has a thick, deep purple velvet cushion that looks brand new, and beside it is a bookshelf loaded with books. I go to it, read some of the titles. Leather-bound and old.

  I pull one out and open it. I’m in my first year studying religion and history at school, and these books are what I’d use in the coming years. Is he so prepared for my arrival? He did say he knew everything there is to know about me.

  Putting it back, I walk toward the desk that faces the wall. It has a leather top and a comfortable chair along with a modern study lamp on top. I switch it on. It’s bright.

  Inside one of the drawers, I find a stack of notebooks, pens, pencils, all sort of school supplies. I close it. I don’t want to think about all the preparation that went into this, into him taking me. I don’t want to think about what that means for me.

  I walk out of the room and open the last door, grateful to find the bathroom. It’s huge with a small alcove for the toilet, which is where I go as soon as I close the door. When I’m finished, I walk to the sink and wash my hands. I swap the blanket out for a large, plush towel that I wrap around myself and secure at the front. It’s better than the blanket.

  The bathroom is all wood and stone and completely renovated. Although I wonder if the giant stone tub in the center is older. There are places on the floor right around it that must have been mosaic. They’ve preserved sections of it with a glass overlay. It’s pretty.

  I splash water onto my face, pick up a towel to pat it dry then meet my reflection.

  I look paler than usual, and there are shadows under my eyes. I touch the bruise on my neck where he stuck me, it’s tender to the touch. I turn to look at my hair. It needs to be fixed. It’s crooked. I hadn’t really noticed last night, but it’s cut almost at a diagonal with the right side being longer than the left.