Stolen: Dante’s Vow by Natasha Knight
Mara
Ilie awake watching the hands of the clock tick through the minutes. It’s late. He should have been back by now. Should have been back hours ago.
But then I hear it. The sound of tires crunching rocks beneath. I push the blanket off and hurry to the window. My room is beside the master, directly over the front entrance. I wanted to be in his room. I thought I would be. But the man who seemed to be in charge told me this was mine. Noah’s, at least, is across the hall.
From here I watch three SUVs pull up to the house, but I don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet. I won’t until I see him.
The vehicles come to a stop and soldiers spill out. I count. Four from the first two vehicles. Not Dante, though.
The driver opens the door of the last one and I hold my breath, but I know it’s not Dante even from this distance. It’s Matthaeus. But then the passenger side door opens and there he is. Dante.
I exhale and warm tears fill my eyes. I touch a hand to the window, laying my forehead against it, finally able to breathe again. He slams the door shut and I notice his steps are uneven. I know why when I see the bottle in his hand, watch him bring it to his mouth.
My heart races as he disappears into the house, and it takes all I have not to go running out of the room and down the stairs. It takes all I have to stand here at the window as I listen for him. Hear someone ascend the stairs.
A door opens. Closes. I watch mine all along. My back to the window.
A few minutes later, there’s a rumble of voices outside. His.
“Why isn’t she in my room?”
My heart races, my smile wide. He wanted me in his room.
“Fix it,” he says just as my door opens and there he is. Standing in the doorway. Taking up all that space, the soft light of the sconces on the walls outside making a golden halo around him. My fallen angel. My broken angel.
He steps inside, his gaze sweeping over me in the dim light of the bedside lamp. He closes the door and sets the almost empty bottle on the nightstand to come closer.
I see then the stains that color the front of his jacket, the cuffs of his sleeves.
Blood.
I smell him. Sweat and whiskey and something else. Something dark. I push hair back from his forehead as he watches me, my beast.
He’s careful not to touch me. When I look down, I see why. His hands are dirty.
I reach out to take them, but he closes them into fists.
“Don’t,” he says.
I glance up then down and I hold them, turn them. After a moment he opens them so I can see his palms.
“I need to wash,” he says and moves to pull free. When I tug, he stops.
I trace a finger through the dried blood on his palm.
He captures my wrist and I’m surprised at the force of his grip.
“Don’t,” he repeats.
“Did you kill St. James?”
He shakes his head.
“Who then?”
“Viktor Petrov.”
“Viktor?” I’m surprised.
He nods and I smile. My avenging angel.
I reach my free hand to touch his face, rise on tiptoe to kiss his mouth. I taste whiskey and I want more. I slide my hand down over his hard chest, undo the button of his jeans, push down the zipper just enough that I can slip my hand inside and cup him.
He sucks in a breath as I wrap my hand around the shaft, feel the smooth skin.
I slip my tongue into his mouth and he kisses me back, releasing my wrist to fist my hair and tug my head backward. The kiss grows urgent as I squeeze my hand around him, stroke him.
He groans, moves me to the bed and pushes me onto it. He sets one knee between my legs, looking down at me, hair disheveled, face dark with desire. The white gown I’m wearing is nearly translucent, the buttons undone at the top, so my breasts are available to him. He fingers the delicate lace trim then tugs it aside, and we see the smear of dark red on soft white at the same moment.
“I need to wash,” he says, voice hoarse as if he hasn’t spoken in a while.
I shake my head, reach out to touch him, to grip the waistband of his jeans to tug him toward me. “Fuck me.”
He pushes my hand away. “After.”
“Now.” He watches me as I take his dirty hand and push it into the gown, over my breast. “Now. With his blood on you. Fuck me with his blood on you.”
It’s sick, I know, but some part of me wants this. Needs it. A victory of sorts. My tormentor dead. His blood on me as I live.
“I need you to,” I say.
He squeezes my breast, draws it out and grips the nightgown, ripping it partially. He looks at me as he finishes the task, the fine fabric slipping through his fingers as he rips it the rest of the way and takes me in. I’m completely naked. I hadn’t worn panties. His gaze moves slowly over me, head to toe, pausing between my legs, then back to my face.
“Hands and knees. Ass to me.”
My belly flips and I swallow hard as I climb to my knees and turn over. I know what he wants and I lower myself to my elbows. Arch my back. I want this too. A primal fucking. Like the animals we are.
He makes a sound from deep inside his chest. I don’t think it’s conscious as I look at his face, his gaze on my offering. I’m his. Doesn’t he know that? All of me. Every part of me. I was made for him. I’ve always been his.
He discards his jacket, his shirt, then sets one knee on the bed, jeans still on. He pushes them down just far enough to fist his cock. With the other hand he grips my ass and spreads me open. He looks at me there. He can see all of me and I watch him as he does, feeling the trickle of my own arousal slide down the inside of my thigh.
He brings himself to my entrance and I arch deeper, closing my eyes as I feel him slide into me. Stretching me. Filling me.
“Hard. Do it hard.”
“Mara—”
“I need it.”
He grips both cheeks pulling me wide and drawing out.
My eyelids fly open, and I turn back to find him dipping his head to me, licking me like he did before from hole to hole and back.
“Oh, god.”
He straightens, keeps me spread open. “I need to wash,” he says, but I know he won’t walk away. Not now. Not the way he’s looking at me.
“I want his blood on me.”
He studies me.
“Please.”
He finally nods and pushes into me the way I want. I suck in a breath.
“Fuck, Mara,” he utters as he takes me the way I need, hard and rough. I think it’s what he needs too. To fuck the past out of me. To fuck all those other men out of me. He kneads my ass as he drills into me and soon, I’m lying flat on my belly, arms over my head, wrists inside his hands, his weight on me, breath at my neck.
“I’m going to come,” I tell him as he shifts my wrists into one of his hands. With the other, he grips a handful of hair turning my head so I’m looking at him when my release comes. When the first wave takes me under, all I can feel is him. All I can breathe is him. All I want is him.
When I open my eyes again, I find him watching me, gaze intent. Dark. He draws out, turns me onto my back and reenters me. I’m spent, raw, but I still want and need so much. When he kisses me, it’s all teeth and lips and I taste the copper of blood. I don’t know if it’s mine or his. He shifts his grip to my thigh and pushes it up, opening me wider. He draws back a little, just enough so he can watch us together, watch me take his cock slippery with my arousal, my come.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he groans.
I smile, arch my back, my clit rubbing against him.
“Perfect,” he manages before thrusting one final time, a groan coming from deep in his chest as he throbs inside me, making me come again as he empties. And we are one. The way we were always meant to be but better. Fiercer.
Whole and broken at the same time. Together.