Page 4 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

I have been building to this moment for years,

Now it’s here. She is here. In my car.

And if anyone tries to fuck with that?

With her ?

I’ll crack the sky open with my rage.

I'll turn the oceans red.

I’ll cut the tongue out of anyone who so much as whispers her name with disrespect.

I’ll bury entire bloodlines for the price of her safety.

Because she isn’t just some spoiled heiress or pretty face.

She’s the pulse in my throat.

The obsession in my bones.

The one I chose .

And men like me? We don’t ask permission.

We take.

So let the world watch.

Let them whisper about how far I’ve fallen.

They haven’t seen me fall.

Not yet.

Because the only time I go to my knees is when I’m putting her crown where it belongs— on her head, bloodied and blazing.

My Princess.

Mine.

Leanna has been the object of my obsession since the day I allowed myself to admit it— just before she left for college with stars in her eyes and her hair in a ponytail like she wasn’t already crawling under my skin.

I call her Princess, yeah.

It suits her.

But the truth?

She’s a fucking queen.

My queen.

Even if she doesn’t know it yet.

Even if she fights it at first.

Queens don’t get to choose their kings in my world.

They’re claimed.

Crowned.

Kept.

And I plan to keep her right by my side.

But first, I need to get her addicted.

She stirs. Softly.

A whisper of sound, a flutter of lashes.

My grip tightens on the wheel. It’s too early for her to wake yet, but I took precautions.

I let go with one hand and reach for the bag with the chloroform-soaked rag.

I don’t want to use it.

It feels cheap and dirty.

The measurements I took of her and the drug I used to sedate her should be enough.

This is just in case.

I frown and wait, see if she’ll stir some more before I press it to her sweet face.

Her eyelashes flutter again but she’s still out.

Good.

“No waking up yet, Princess. Soon,” I whisper, dropping the bag with the handkerchief.

When it’s tucked away, I can’t resist brushing my finger across her cheek.

I wonder if she’ll cry when she wakes.

I kind of hope she does.

Not because I want her hurt. But because I want her raw.

Open. Bleeding. Real.

The world’s never let her be real.

She was born into silk sheets and million-dollar smiles.

Taught to walk like a Volkov, talk like a Volkov, seduce like a Volkov.

I watched her master every move, every smirk, every fake giggle designed to kill a man.

But me? I see the cracks.

The loneliness in her eyes.

The hunger she never let show.

She tries to hide it behind smiles with the girls and casual flirtations with men who aren’t good enough to touch her.

Pretty boys. Safe boys. Soft.

But she doesn’t need safe.

She needs me.

And yeah, I waited. Watched. Endured.

Through the debutante years, the security details, the fucking trips to Vegas, Milan, London, and Paris.

I watched her grow.

Saw her bloom.

While I sharpened myself into the kind of monster who could hold her without flinching.

And now?

Now I’m done waiting.

She looked too fucking perfect tonight.

Too ripe.

Too tempting.

The way her dress dipped between her breasts like a dare.

The way her hair fell in those soft, deliberate waves made for a man’s fist.

The way she smiled. Like the world was hers for the taking.

Well, it’s not. Not without me, anyway.

She’s mine.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

But she will.

She’ll learn that obsession is a kind of worship.

That the dark doesn’t always mean danger—it can mean devotion.

That I’ve sculpted a world with her at the center, and I will burn down anything that tries to steal her from me.

Even her own name.

If I have to lie? I’ll do it.

If I have to chain her heart to mine with silk or steel? I’ve got both.

If I have to make her forget everything but my touch? I’m already making plans.

She’ll scream, sure.

Fight me. Hate me.

But love— real love —isn’t soft.

It doesn’t come in daylight.

It’s made in blood and tears and need.

And she’ll need me.

She already does.

She’ll love me.

If I have to use every trick I know and invent a few more? That’s fine with me.

So, let them all rage.

Let Adrik Volkov hunt.

Let the whole goddamn world come knocking.

They won’t find her.

Not until she’s broken open and remade by my hands.

Because Leanna Volkov doesn’t belong to the world anymore.

She belongs to me.

Finally.