213

Darling , I will be back.
I did not hear a lock. Was he so confident that he thought he didn’t need one? His footsteps receded until I could no longer hear them. What was he doing?
I’ll be back.
It sounded like a threat. My eyes found the bed and I got up quickly. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what he was going to do when he came back. How was I going to get out of it ?
I tried to stifle the panic, but my heart would not stop beating and my hands were damp with sweat. Blades flashed in the corner of my eye. I knew I was not a fighter, and I did not know how to handle a knife or other weapon. I had never had to hurt anyone. I wasn’t sure if I was capable. I approached one of the daggers. It was the least conspicuous, no curved or zig-zag blade. It was the one that scared me the least. I reached out my hand and tightened my fingers around the handle. It didn’t feel as wrong as I expected, but I had no illusions that I could do more than hold it. I pulled it away from the wall. It weighed more than I had thought, and somehow I was relieved to have something substantial to hold on to.
My eyes darted around the room. Adrenaline had banished my terror for now, at least for the most part. I hurried toward the window, but there were bars in front of it. A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in my throat, but I swallowed it.
There was no point in going crazy, at least for now. The windows were covered with a layer of dust, giving the illusion that the outside world was even further away. Not that the outside of the house was more enticing than the inside. This was a completely hopeless place.
I moved away from the window and gripped the knife tighter. This was my only chance. It might as well not have been at all. Footsteps were heard and for a moment I was paralyzed with indecision and fear. Maybe things would only get worse if I attacked Growl, but I wasn’t sure how that was possible. There was no light in his eyes, no mercy or kindness, nothing I could cling to and hope for an acceptable fate. Perhaps there was little hope of that, but….
My eyes flicked to the bed, only double, which was strange for a man Growl’s size. The blankets were dark red, probably to hide the blood stains. I shuddered as images blossomed in my mind, one more horrible than the other .
I leapt into motion, fear now greater than indecision, and hid behind the door. I had to catch Growl by surprise if I was to have any chance of hurting him. But would that be enough? I had a feeling that Growl was like a bull in a bullfight. A few wounds were not going to bring him down. An image of Growl with several knives stuck in his chest still chasing me crossed my mind. I had to aim to kill.
A new wave of panic swept over me. I was not that. I did not want to be that. For the first time in my life I hated my father. He had brought it upon us, forced us into a life neither of us had chosen. God, what was happening to Thalia? Was she okay? She was too young for that. What if she had been given to another gangster? She was only fifteen years old. I should have been there for her, protecting her;
instead I wasn’t even sure I could protect myself.
Growl’s footsteps stopped just in front of the room. I quickly shrugged off my high heels, then held my breath to hear better and raised the knife. I should have aimed for his throat. Even I knew that was the most vulnerable spot on a human being’s body. But he had survived a wound at that spot once before. How could I hope to succeed in killing him when others had clearly failed?
He was much taller than me, so I would have to push the knife upward. I was afraid I could not put enough force behind the stab like that. The door began to open and then Growl’s tall figure appeared into view. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I launched myself at him.
Growl raised his bare arm to fend off my attack.
The blade sliced through his tattooed forearm and blood immediately rushed up. But his face showed no pain. He tried to grab my arm but I dodged it, using my smaller form to avoid him. I slammed the knife upward again, almost blindly. With a low, deep sound in my throat, Growl grabbed my wrist. I cried out in pain from the force and dropped the knife.
An icy fear swept over me as I watched my only weapon land on the floor with a resounding thud. My eyes lifted sharply.
Growl’s face was a mask of nothingness but I had no illusions that he was not furious. This man had killed people for minor transgressions. I flinched back but his fingers around my wrist were relentless. But that did not stop me . I had only this one chance. He might very well decide I was not worth it and kill me.
I kicked at him but missed because of his quick reflexes.
He pushed me toward the bed as if I weighed nothing.
I had no chance to stop my fall and landed on my stomach on the mattress. The air rushed out of my lungs and for a moment I was sure I would die from lack of oxygen in my body, then I inhaled deeply.
I tried to pull myself up but Growl’s muscular body pressed against my back, trapping me between him and the bed. Panic coursed through me. I moved my hips in an attempt to free myself. When that didn’t work, I lashed out with my arms, trying to hit Growl. With an impatient sound, he turned me so he straddled my hips and grabbed both my wrists with one palm. Now I had no choice but to look into his face, to look at every inch of his frightening body.
He had changed out of his bloody clothes and was now wearing a tight white shirt that was now covered with blood from the wound in his arm.
His hands were rough and scarred; they looked almost alien against my pale skin. A horrible, terrified sound made its way between my lips. Growl’s strange emotionless eyes found mine. His cheekbones and chin were sharp lines on his face. There was nothing soft about the man, least of all his heart.
His grip on my wrists did not loosen. All he did was stare at me. I knew I should have looked away. Wasn’t that what one was supposed to do when confronted with a dangerous dog? But I was not only trapped by Growl’s mighty body, but also by the terrifying look in his eyes. His breathing was calm, no sign of our struggle. It was nothing to him. One of his hands moved lower toward my stomach. My shirt had lifted during our struggle and revealed the skin underneath. I stiffened when Growl put his hand on my stomach. What was he doing? He stared intently at his hand resting on my lighter skin. His fingers and palm were barely touching me. Slowly his gaze rose again to meet mine.
Growl was watching me as if I were an unknown species, something he could not possibly understand. And perhaps it was true.
I made another half-hearted attempt to break free, but it was almost ridiculous. Perhaps if he had been capable of that kind of emotion, Growl might actually have laughed at me.
“Stop it,” he ordered calmly.
And for some reason I stopped.
GROWL had a reputation, and he was proud of it. His reputation was feared, respected, and that was more than anyone expected from someone like him.
The son of a bitch. The bastard. The boy who never spoke.
He was destined for the gutter.
He had never had anything for himself, had never dared to even dream of owning something so precious.
He was the unwanted bastard son who had always had to make do with other people’s leftovers. And now Falcone had given him what only a few weeks earlier had been out of his reach, someone he was not even allowed to admire from afar, one of society’s most prized possessions.
Thrown at his feet because that was who he was, because they were certain he would break her. He was her punishment, a fate worse than death, a way to give the ultimate punishment to her father who had displeased them so much.
And a warning. No one would dare oppose Falcone if it meant that their precious daughters might end up in the hands of a man like him.
Cara, a fitting name for someone like her, someone too good for a place like this, for someone like him. A princess and a monster, that’s what they were.
Eyes wide open. Lips half-closed. Flushed cheeks. Pale skin. She looked like a porcelain doll: big blue eyes, chocolate-colored hair and creamy white skin; a fragile beauty, something he was not meant to touch with his scarred, brutal hands. His fingers found her pulse; her heartbeat fluttered like a bird’s. She had tried to fight, she had tried to be brave, she had tried to hurt him , maybe even kill him. Had she really hoped to succeed? Hope; it made people stupid, made them believe in something beyond reality. He had lost the habit of hope long ago. She knew what he was capable of.
She had hoped that she could kill him. He knew he could kill her, there was no doubt about it.
His hand slipped the soft skin of her throat, then his fingers encircled her. Her pupils dilated but he did not press into her touch. His wrist hammered against her rough palm. He was a hunter and she was the prey. The end was inevitable. He had come to claim his prize. That was why Falcone had given it to him.
Growl liked things that hurt. He liked to hurt in turn.
Maybe he even loved it; if he was capable of that kind of emotion. He leaned down until his nose was inches from the skin under her ear and inhaled. She smelled sweet and floral with a hint of sweat. Fear. He imagined he could smell it, too. He could not resist and should not do it, not again, never again with her. Hers. She was his.
He had never liked sweet things, but maybe she would change his mind.
He lowered his lips to her warm skin. His pulse buzzed under her mouth where he kissed her throat. Panic and terror beat a frantic rhythm under his skin. And they made him fucking hard.
Her eyes sought his, hoping-hoping still for the foolish woman-and begging him for mercy. She did not know him, did not know that the part of him that was not born a monster had died long ago. Pity was the furthest thing from her mind as her eyes claimed his body.
He tore off her shirt, revealing inch upon inch of immaculate skin. There was not a single scar or stain. It could not be hers. She was too perfect, simply too .
He tightened his fingers around her shoulder. Soft. Softer than any woman he had ever touched. None of them were like her, not even close, not even of the same species, if you asked them .
The bones of her shoulder were sharp against his palm. So fragile. She looked like a doll. Fragile but beautiful. Nothing for him to possess. Her skin looked dirty compared to his, and he lifted his hand a few inches, half expecting her skin to remain soiled from his touch.
It was nothing he had ever thought within her grasp.
It was not meant to be. Nothing he should have touched with his scarred, brutal hands. He was not worthy of it.
It was not worth it.
She was not worth it.
He was not worth it.
Something hot and sharp clawed at his chest.
He didn’t like it, not at all. He pushed himself off the bed, staggering to his feet. She remained on her back, her eyes full of confusion and questions, and again that glimmer of fucking hope. “You better stop that,” he growled.
“What?” she whispered.
“Hoping. It’s a waste.” He took her in his arms. She weighed nothing for him. He needed her gone, out of his sight.
He carried her out of his room and into the small guest room, which he had never had to use before. She shivered against him, and for some reason it angered him even more. He dropped her on the bed and she let out a shocked sigh. He turned on his heels, tired of looking at her, wondering, doubting himself.
He shouldn’t have-no matter why Falcone had given her to him. She was his; he could do what he wanted with her. He headed for the door and slammed it behind him.
The next day he would claim it. Whether it was worth it or not. He fucking deserved something good in his life.