Page 112 of The Ecstasy of Sin

Our kiss is transcendent. It shatters whatever walls I tried to keep between us, burning away my doubts and tethering us together in ways I never imagined possible.

I understand him now. I know all of Dominic’s inner demons by name. Each one, wickedly divine, part of a man more perfect for me than I could even think to conjure myself.

To be loved by a monster of a man… it’s exactly what a ghost of a girl like me always needed.

He pulls back, panting against my lips, his voice ragged from lust and need. “You’re fucking mine, Wren. Only mine.”

A pleasured sigh escapes me as I grind myself against the hard ridge of his cock. My entire body aches from the way my captor beat me, but it’s nothing compared to the love rushing through me now. “Yes,” I gasp. “I’m yours.”

He hisses, his pupils blowing wide as his lust overtakes him. He presses a scorching kiss to my throat, then gently slides me off his lap and lowers me to the floor. “Don’t move,” he commands, shifting back and rising to his feet.

Dominic grabs the chair I was tied to, dragging it over to the wall. Then he stalks over to the unconscious man, fisting his collar and lifting him up off the floor like he weighs nothing, depositing him into the chair like worthless trash.

He walks over to me, grabs the rope that once bound me, and uses it to secure my captor to the chair. His hands work fast, tightening knots, and anchoring his wrists. He finds more rope and secures the man’s ankles, then wraps another length around his midsection, threading it through the slats in the back of the chair like he’s trussing a pig for slaughter.

When he’s satisfied the bastard isn’t going anywhere, he heads for the kitchen.

I hear the table legs screech as he drags the whole thing across the floor and positions it a few feet in front of the chair. With one quick sweep of his arm, he clears it—glass, cutlery, and scraps of paper clattering to the floor.

I lean forward, curious. “What are you doing?”

Dominic offers me a demented grin. “Playing with my food.”

I take a deep, steadying breath. I know what’s coming. I can do this. I can look at the darkest parts of Dominic, and not turn away.

He returns to the chair and slaps the man until he rouses. He comes to with a garbled scream, his jaw dangling uselessly from his face.

“There you are,” Dominic croons, his voice mockingly sweet. “I wouldn’t want you to miss this part.”

He reaches behind his back, withdraws his blade, and slices the man’s shirt wide open. The fabric parts to expose his hairy chest. Then he reaches into the man’s pocket and fishes out his old leather wallet.

He flips it open casually, then begins calmly tossing cards to the ground one by one. Finding his drivers license, Dominic stares at it for a moment before flicking it directly at the mobster’s face.

“Bad news, Boris,” he says with a charismatic smile. “You’re going to suffer before you die.”

The sounds coming out of Boris’s mouth are a garbled mess, his broken jaw ruining any attempt at speech. There is agony clinging to every syllable that fails to form.

“What’s that?” Dominic asks, leaning in, hand cupping his ear like he’s genuinely trying to listen. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

The chair rattles as Boris fights the ties that bind him, tears spilling down his face. “Those sad little tears don’t mean shit to me.”

Dominic points at me, that lethal blade clutched tightly in his hand. “Her tears, however. Those matter to me. They’re mine,” he tells him, leaning into his space. “Andyoutook them from me.”

Boris already looks like a mutilated corpse. His nose is shattered, his jaw disfigured, and there is blood painting his skin. I can tell it’s about to get a whole lot worse.

Dominic crouches again, peeling away what remains of Boris’s shirt. “So, Boris,” he continues conversationally, “here’s what we’re gonna do.” His blade glints in the low light. “I’m going to make you bleed. One drop for every tear you stole from me.”

The dagger spins in his grip like an extension of his arm, before he drags the edge slowly across Boris’s chest. A red line blooms in its wake, his eyes wide and twitching as he tries to breathe through the pain.

Dominic carves another line. Then another. And another. The blade dips deeper each time, sculpting the muscle, and flaying his skin.

Boris is screaming. The sound cracks under sobs, then sharpens again as Dominic ruins every inch of his chest in a savage display of artistry.

With a casual flick, Dominic tosses the blood-soaked dagger into the air. When he catches it again, he drives it straight down between Boris’s legs.

He shrieks—a blood-curdling noise that fractures into a strained choking sound. His body jerks, his eyes bulging, and just like that, he slips into unconsciousness.

I gag, watching the blood soak the front of his pants, the scent of urine mixing with the metallic tang tainting the air.