Page 16 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

"Do you actually plan to fire that thing?"

I swallowed hard; even the weight of the gun in my hand felt pitifully light against what was coming.

"I was twelve when my father—that violent bastard—forced me to go hunting with him.

Not exactly a healthy environment for a child." Silence.

Because the memory of that time laughed at me like some grotesque specter.

"He made me kill all kinds of animals. I was a wreck most of the time. Like when I shot my first fawn. It was a fucking massacre—that poor thing didn’t deserve it, just wrong place, wrong time." I held his gaze, pausing. "Eventually, I stopped counting my kills. And I stopped feeling anything at all." No remorse. Nothing. My voice was ice, stripped of emotion. I’d arrived in his world now—at least for this moment. "If I were you, I wouldn’t test me. You’ve overplayed your hand, Alessandro. I won’t let you sabotage my career and toy with me."

His stare hit me like a blade—cold, merciless.

For a heartbeat, our eyes locked, and it felt like he was pinning me in place with that look alone, stripping me of any chance to escape.

Then, without a word, he turned and strode to the brown leather chair, opening a hidden panel in the wall.

With deliberate calm, he retrieved a heavy crystal decanter filled with a dark, clear liquid—Scotch, probably.

Every movement radiated infuriating composure, as if the gun I had trained on him was nothing more than an afterthought.

Unhurried, he poured himself a drink, took a sip, and then sank into the chair with effortless ease, as though he’d already seized control of this moment.

His eyes never left me—intense, penetrating, as if the gun in my hand was irrelevant.?

"Impressive, Fiona.

You’re making this very entertaining." He raised his glass, took another sip, his gaze never wavering.

"But let me make one thing clear: the game you’re trying to play? I’ve mastered it.

In every possible way."

"Maybe it’s time for new rules, Alessandro."

A dark glint flashed across his face.

"You really are something else," he murmured.

My pulse roared in my ears, but I didn’t relent.

His gaze remained locked on me—curious, almost challenging—as if he was desperate to see how far I’d go.

He was the picture of calm, yet I could feel the coiled tension in his posture, like he’d already calculated every possible outcome of this moment.

"What do you think this is?" I asked quietly.

"Another power play for you to win? Do you really believe I’m here because I’m so easily impressed?"

His smile sharpened.

"I think you have more courage than sense, Fiona." His voice was infuriatingly composed.

"You know why you’re here.

And so do I."

I scoffed, refusing to let him rattle me.

"What I know is that your control freak routine is exhausting.

I hate your arrogance, and I hate how casually you insert yourself into my life."

He tilted his head slightly, as if debating whether my words even warranted a response.

"Interesting," he murmured, his sharp gaze flicking to my hand.

"You’re shaking, Fiona.

You couldn’t hit an elephant like that."

I stiffened, tightening my grip on the gun.

"It’s been a while since I held one of these.

But it’s more than enough to hurt you."

A flicker in his eyes betrayed a sliver of respect—brief, but undeniable.

Then he raised his glass again, as if toasting.

"Well then… let’s make this a little more interesting.

You claim to hate how I interfere in your life," he began, deceptively calm, but his voice grew louder with each word, "while you sit in my fucking office chair, aiming my Glock at me?"

Now that he said it, the irony wasn’t lost on me.

"Maybe I just enjoy beating you at your own game—with your own weapons, no less."

"The last thing I’m feeling right now is amused." His voice was brutal, icy.

Seeing how much I’d rattled him sent a triumphant smirk to my lips, one I barely suppressed.

"To be honest, Alessandro, sitting here in your… fortress of control is making me unbelievably wet." I shifted comfortably in his leather chair, the gun still trained on him.

"Getting in was almost too easy.

You’ve got serious security flaws."

A dark grin spread across his unfairly handsome, ruthless face.

"Oh, I absolutely believe you’re wet." For a second, we both smirked at the absurdity of it.

"This is the second time you’ve threatened me with a gun.

You’re seriously fucked up, you know that?"

The backhanded compliment drew a twisted smile from me.

"You just have a talent for bringing out the best in me."

"The question is—why bother, Fiona? Are you here to settle some score? Or are you just looking for answers?"

"Oh, I’m sure I found some very interesting answers in your drawers, Alessandro… Remember, ‘You’re the expert in this field’? Those were your words at the café." My eyes narrowed into venomous slits.

"Meanwhile, you’ve got half of Miami on your payroll, dictating which neighborhoods rise or fall.

How stupid do you think I am? Do you really think I crave your approval?"

I’d struck a nerve.

His full attention snapped to me, his movements deliberate as he set his glass down with eerie calm.

When he straightened, his gaze was glacial.

"Ah, so you did find them.

Then you know exactly what you’re dealing with." A pause, then his voice dropped to a lethal murmur.

"Which makes your bravery all the more… reckless.

I’m starting to think it’s not courage—just plain stupidity." He rose slowly.

"You think I’m stupid?" I hissed."

"I don’t think it, Fiona.

I know it." His tone carried the bite of a winter storm.

"So? Are you going to shoot me? Do it.

Because my patience is gone." He took a long, deliberate step toward the desk where I still sat.

The Glock weighed heavy in my hand—not just from polymer, but from the irreversible choices I’d made.

As my finger tightened on the trigger, time itself seemed to fracture—a suspended moment, thick and charged, as if the world held its breath.

But instead of a gunshot—only a hollow click.

The gun wasn’t loaded.

Goddammit.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, and in that same instant, I saw Alessandro’s eyes flash—raw shock and something darker flickering in them as he realized I’d been fully prepared to pull the trigger.

His gaze slowly traveled from the gun in my hand back to my face.

"You actually did it," he murmured, the ice in his voice slithering over my skin like a shadow.

"That you genuinely believed I’d leave a loaded weapon lying around."

I’d awakened something in him—something that had stayed hidden until now.

A side of him that bore no resemblance to the seductive, dark man I thought I knew.

A mocking smile curled his lips, cold and merciless.

"I told you—you’re stupid." For a fraction of a second, I saw respect flicker in his eyes—before the darkness swallowed it whole.

The air around me thickened, as if he’d just decided to annihilate me here and now.

My eyes darted frantically around the room, desperately searching for an exit, a gap, anything that could get me past him.

But the longer I looked, the smaller the room seemed to shrink, escape becoming impossible.

"There’s no way out, Fiona." He stepped closer, his gaze weighing on me like chains pinning me in place.

"You’re going to pay for trying to shoot me."

My heart hammered as I took in his frozen expression—every muscle taut, a predator waiting for the perfect moment.

I’d always known he was dangerous.

But now I was facing something that would undoubtedly destroy me if I wasn’t faster.

I was so fucked.

The desk between us suddenly felt like a narrow ledge, buying me mere seconds before the inevitable.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Instinct took over.

As Alessandro lunged forward, I slid under the desk at the last second—the cold floor biting into my knees as I scrambled blindly toward the door.

Panic drove me forward, but my body was heavy, uncoordinated, my hands clawing for something, anything, to shield me from him.

Behind me, his footsteps closed in with terrifying speed.

No time to turn.

No time to see how close he was.

My fingers finally grazed the doorknob—

Then I was yanked backward.

A brutal shove sent me slamming into the door, my skull cracking against the wood.

Pain pulsed through my forehead, the world tilting for a dizzying second.

I tried to twist, to fight—but before I could move, his weight crushed me.

His chest pressed against my back with bruising force, his hands gripping my shoulders, pinning me so hard the air left my lungs in a ragged gasp.

His breath was hot against my ear—but not the familiar heat of passion. This was the heat of a man consumed by rage.

"You sneak into my office," he snarled, wrenching me back only to slam me into the door again.

"You trick my people, dig for—" Another slam.

"—blackmail? And then you try to shoot me? After holding your little toy knife to my dick yesterday?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"Are you insane, you fucking psychopath?"

Pure terror flooded me.

My heart battered my ribs, my mind screaming for escape—but there was none.

I was trapped between the door and his fury.

"Look at me." His hand fisted in my hair, wrenching my head sideways until my cheek ground into the wood.

"You know your problem?" His voice was so harsh, my fear twisted into full-blown panic.

"You think you figured me out.

A lawyer.

Maybe a little corrupt. Maybe dabbling in dark circles." His grip tightened, and I gasped as pain seared my scalp. "You wanted a thrill. A taste of ‘bad vibes.’ To pretend you’re someone who dances with darkness—as long as the music stays controlled." His gaze raked over my face. "Let’s be clear: I don’t negotiate contracts. I decide who doesn’t survive them. I’m the man Colombia’s cartels lower their eyes for." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And if I want, your name disappears faster than you can blink." He tilted his head. "You want ‘bad vibes’?"

Suddenly—something cold and hard pressed under my chin.

A click.

My body recognized the sound before my mind could—pure, primal terror surging through me.

He’d pressed a gun to my throat.

And just racked the slide.

For a fraction of a second, panic overwhelmed me, adrenaline racing through every cell.

I closed my eyes.

My body remembered.

Remembered situations where control was no longer an option.

Remembered nights when death felt closer than morning light.

But I wasn't that girl anymore.

I took a deep, deliberate breath.

Felt my muscles twitch, tense—and fought to regain my composure.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, blinking against the weight of fear and adrenaline.

I wouldn't break. Never.

"You know what really sickens me, Alessandro?" I asked quietly, my voice sharp as a blade.

"That you think I'm the problem."

He stared at me, motionless.

"You're the lunatic who stalked me while I was jogging.

You forced me into a game whose rules you don't even follow."

His jaw muscle twitched.

"I carried that knife because a damn shadow was following me through the streets." I felt the panic receding, replaced by a searing rage that spread through me like wildfire.

"You pressure my professional life because you can't stand that I walked away from you.

And now we're here.

Because you can't handle someone like me refusing to submit.

That I won't crawl for you." My voice was nothing but an angry hiss now.

"And make no mistake—I never will." I lifted my chin, feeling him immediately adjust the gun's barrel, pressing it harder against my skin.

"So pull the trigger if you need to.

But stop blaming me for your personality disorders.

You're not angry at me, Alessandro."

He yanked the gun away and spun me around—my back slammed against the door, my palms scrambling for purchase on the cold wood.

"You're angry because you feel," I continued, raising my gaze.

But what I saw then was far worse than the loaded gun pressed beneath my chin moments earlier.

There was no mask left.

No facade.

Just him. In his rawest, cruelest form.

His pupils dilated.

A bizarre battle between pure bloodlust and burning desire raged within him.

For a moment, I thought he might tear me apart—with the same hands that held me so tightly, as if he couldn't let go.

"I am angry because I feel?" he repeated slowly, as if he needed to let the words dissolve on his tongue first to appreciate their full absurdity.

Then he leaned closer until his face was mere centimeters from mine.

"When exactly did you make your diagnosis, Dr.

Robertson?" His gaze was pure mockery.

"Was it when I shattered a man's kneecaps because he stayed silent when he should've talked? Or when I ordered one of my men to stomp out someone's pulse because I couldn't be bothered to dirty my own hands?"

He braced his hand against the door beside my face, fingers splayed to balance his body's weight.

"Maybe you should think twice about whether you really want to uncover what's behind my facade.

Because whatever you think you'll find—" His voice scraped hoarsely from his throat.

"—it might be far uglier than you ever imagined."

My body was electrified, trapped between the panic that paralyzed me and the unbearable desire I could no longer rationally control.

It was so twisted.

And yet real.

So real I could barely breathe.

I wanted to push him away—and feel him at the same time. I wanted to scream—and bite him. I was torn between fleeing and surrender, between fear and a craving for him that pulled the ground out from under me. And I no longer knew what would destroy me more—his closeness. Or the moment it ended.

Yet everything about him, everything with him, was fundamentally wrong.

"Let me go," I hissed, staring stubbornly into his eyes.

"You're a sick monster."

A dark smile flashed across his lips.

"I suppose I am," he said with full irony.

Then he lowered his head until his forehead nearly touched mine.

"I want the other one.

Only then will you truly have me. Those were your words. So stop lecturing me about right and wrong. You're playing the outraged one because you're afraid of the truth."

"Morality...

it's called morality, and while you no longer possess any—" I broke off, my eyes flying wide as his hand suddenly slid downward with purpose.

A sharp gasp escaped my throat.

"What are you— stop!" I tried to push him away, but my body had already betrayed me.

I couldn't prevent his fingers from finding what they sought.

"I want to know how your morality feels," he growled as his fingers roughly pushed beneath my panties.

Every part of me tensed—from shame, from fury, because I knew he would expose me.

My cover, my last protective wall—and he tore it down as if it were nothing.

The delicate fabric was already soaked through, and when he dragged his fingers over my throbbing heat, a choked moan escaped me.

"You’re a depraved little thing—dripping for me the rougher I take you...

even while calling me a monster?" His gaze stabbed into mine.

"Or because of it?" He rubbed harder.

Rougher.

I writhed under his touch—and despised myself for it.

"You want exactly this." He leaned in closer, his gaze burning with hunger as his lips brushed a featherlight kiss against mine.

"So stop pretending you're better.

You're no different than me," he whispered against my mouth.

The fleeting tenderness vanished the instant his lips crashed onto mine, as if he wanted to dismantle me with that kiss.

His tongue claimed my mouth—reckless and relentless—while his body pinned me even harder against the door. I gasped softly, trapped between the heat of his touch and the loss of control that both terrified and addicted me. It was too much. And that was exactly what made it so damn good.

"Fuck me," I finally breathed against his greedy lips, ready to lose myself.

But he froze.

"No," he said sharply.

I opened my eyes in confusion. "What?"

"You were just about to shoot me." His voice was steel.

"You don’t deserve it." His hand jerked away so abruptly that the loss of his touch almost hurt.

He practically tore it from my pants, and I felt the cool air replace the warmth.

His right sleeve had ridden up slightly, and just above his bicep, something dark glistened.

Something that instantly seized my attention.

A thick, dark substance that looked like dried blood.

"What...

what is that?" I whispered, more to myself than to him.

Alessandro's gaze followed my fixed stare.

"That's none of your concern."

My pulse noticeably quickened.

"Why aren't you wearing a suit? They said you were out all day..." An uneasy feeling, heavy with dread, settled in the pit of my stomach.

"You weren’t in some damn office, were you? What is that on your skin?"

He leaned in closer, as if threatening me.

"I said it's none of your concern," he repeated softly but firmly.

"The hell it isn't!" I screamed, shoving against him.

I reached decisively for his arm, trying to pull him away from the door and finally give myself some space.

But he evaded my grasp with a quick movement, seized my shoulder, and shoved me back against the door.

"Where were you? What did you do?" I yelled, my voice shrill.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he’d evade me again.

But then he lifted his head.

"I tortured a Colombian arms dealer."

The words made everything inside me go still.

"You...

what?" I whispered, my throat dry.

"He betrayed me," Alessandro said, icy and merciless.

"I need to find out who he talked to.

I need to know who paid him to interfere in my business."

"Your business?" My mind refused to process it.

When he’d listed those violent acts earlier, it had felt too distant, too unreal.

I simply hadn’t believed him capable of it.

But the blood—still fresh on his skin, right in front of me, so tangible—was something else entirely.

Like a damning piece of evidence, a disgustingly real testament to his cruelty. "Are you an arms dealer too?"

His gaze narrowed, and a derisive laugh escaped his throat.

"An arms dealer?" he repeated, almost mocking, as he leaned back slightly to study me.

"I'm certainly no...

ordinary merchant.

I decide who buys and who dies, who gains influence and who fades into obscurity. It's not just about weapons—it's about power. And making sure those who stand in my way quickly learn that I don’t make compromises."

My stomach twisted painfully.

"You control all of that?" I asked, and the thought of what he’d just said seized every nerve in my body.

His hand drifted slowly to my chin, tilting it up so I had no choice but to look him in the eye.

"Everything you can imagine.

And far more."

A shudder ran down my spine.

I trembled.

The idea that he ruled over such a parallel world with that kind of power was repulsive.

And yet so intoxicating it stole my breath.

Damn it, what’s wrong with me?

"You really are a psychopath," I murmured, my thoughts in chaos.

He tilted his head with a devilish smile.

"Oh, absolutely.

You’d never shoot someone, would you?"

My lips parted, a faint breath escaping, but no words came.

What was I even supposed to say to that?

"Do you want to know how I make him talk?" he asked, disturbingly soft.

Of course not, you deranged lunatic! Almost against my will, I heard my own voice: "Yes." It was barely more than a whisper, but it was the absolute moral wrong answer.

His eyes narrowed briefly.

Then he smiled.

"Everyone talks when you use the right methods.

It’s astonishing how quickly people lose their bravery once they realize there’s no way out."

He leaned even closer to me, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, as if we were discussing romantic plans for the evening.

"He screamed when I started breaking his fingers one by one.

The sound of bones giving way under pressure has something...

visceral about it." He studied every flicker of reaction on my face.

"But that wasn't enough," he continued, dragging his finger slowly down my side in a sharp, deliberate line. "So I got more creative. A knife has many uses, as you surely know. It offers so many possibilities when you know where it causes the most damage without being immediately fatal. The inner thigh, close to the artery..." His finger paused beneath my ribcage, the pressing touch igniting fire across my skin. "Or this sensitive spot right below the ribs..."

My chest constricted—I could barely breathe.

Transfixed, I stared at him.

Alessandro, on the other hand, studied me with a ravenous gaze—as if recounting this aroused him.

"I didn't kill him." His voice sent chills down my spine.

He said it almost magnanimously, as if he held every right to decide between life and death.

"He just needs to understand that his pain only ends when he tells me everything.

It will work—even on him, though he's been a damn tough nut to crack so far. But it always works. You can't imagine how much blood a person can lose before they truly panic. And panic... is the key, Fiona. Panic breaks people." His hand pressed harder against my hip.

My mind was a whirlwind of fear, disbelief, and charged fascination.

"You're so sick."

He grinned, letting his hand roam over my hip—a gesture that simultaneously conveyed possession and threat.

"Oh, absolutely," he murmured, his voice dripping with ironic amusement.

"Why play the moral high ground when it's not who you are?" He watched me with relish.

"You're shocked, but not in the way you should be," he whispered so close to my ear that his words brushed against my skin like a breath.

"I see it in your eyes, Fiona. You want to run—but you also want to... stay."

"Shut up!"

"Why?" He dug his fingers deeper into my hips, pulling me closer.

"Because I'm right? Because part of you is fascinated by what I am?" His gaze bore into mine as if trying to penetrate the darkest corners of my soul.

"Admit it, Fiona.

You want to know how far I'd go.

You're seeking out the darkness that defines me."

I shook my head, trying to twist free from his grip, but he was like an unyielding wall, holding me captive in this moment.

"You're a monster," I whispered.

"You've said that already," he murmured, his voice intimate and close.

"And yet I can feel your body betraying you, tensing when I tell you these things.

You're trembling—but not enough to blame it on fear or...

panic." His hand traveled upward, fingers skimming my waist, my ribs, while his eyes captured every reaction.

"You're trembling with arousal. It turns you on. Because you're just like me."

"I am nothing like you!" I hissed, my anger and pride cutting through the fear.

"I would never—"

"Never what?" he interrupted sharply.

"Never hurt someone to survive? Never twist the truth to save yourself? Never make someone pay for betraying you?" He laughed—a cold, deep sound that raised the hairs on my neck.

"Save the lies, Fiona." His hands on my hips pressed me harder against the door at my back.

"Today, you pulled the trigger without even having a real reason.

You're even more fucked up than I am."

His words spread through me like a dark stain, smothering everything and stealing my breath.

"No reason?" I raged.

"I was panicking! Why did you even put on this show if you knew damn well the gun wasn't loaded?"

He considered for a moment.

"Because I wanted to see how far you'd go."

Ouch.

"Let me go," I whispered, but it wasn't a real demand.

It was my mind's last attempt to regain control over a body I knew I'd already lost.

"Shut up." He crashed into me like he'd tired of waiting.

His mouth collided with mine in a savage kiss.

I staggered backward, slamming into the door, but he followed.

His fingers gripped my jaw—rough, possessive—as if making sure I couldn't escape.

I pressed my hands against his chest, trying to shove him away, but it was like pushing against a wall. And in that moment, I felt something else: his heart hammered wildly against my palm, as if his body was confessing what his lips couldn't. His hand slid to my neck, gripping me so tight it felt like he wanted to tear my defiance straight from my flesh.

"Stop," I meant to say, but the words lodged in my throat, drowned in the storm of his touch.

I knew I should push him away.

Knew I should break free.

It would be the right thing.

The sensible thing.

The last thing I wanted.

His tongue invaded with the same ruthless determination, and my legs grew weaker by the second.

My breathing turned ragged, uneven.

My mind screamed protests, replaying his threats, those ice-cold, cruel words—but my body betrayed me, going limp against him rather than pushing away.

The energy radiating from him flooded through me like a current, and what remained of my resistance began to crumble.

My fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, and I felt every shred of defiance turn to dust.

I reached for the hard length pressing against my thigh, gripping him through his pants in rough strokes from tip to base.

My hand circled his tip tightly, again and again, until Alessandro groaned with raw need.

My grip tightened—not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

The heat surging through my body burned away every last warning, every rational thought.