Page 28 of The King of Hearts (The Raven Group #1)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HER

T he cliffs.

I look down at the lit screen of my phone, reading the two words over and over again, as if more will magically appear if I concentrate hard enough.

The text came thirty minutes ago. It was from a private number, but I know who sent it.

The old iron gate in the twelve-foot-tall concrete wall surrounding the estate creaks when I push it open.

I don’t bother closing it behind me. The damp grass under my feet soaks the toes of my flats and tickles my exposed ankles.

There’s a slight salt-scented breeze, and off in the distance, I can hear the waves crashing along the rocky edges of the cliff.

There’s about a hundred feet of even ground between the wall around the estate and the cliff.

The moon is nearly full, and with not a cloud in sight, it’s bright enough for me to see without a flashlight as I walk the worn path to the same spot I always go to when I come here.

There’s a concrete bench about ten feet from the edge of the cliff.

I sit out here sometimes, taking in the briny breeze, the birds chirping, feeling the sun heat my skin, and letting my mind wander. I’ve always loved the sea.

My eyes are alert, and my senses are tuned in to the surrounding area. A lone tree sits off to the side. The old oak is big and tall, the long branches reaching over the cliff’s edge. With the full moon high in the sky, the tree casts ominous shadows that sway slowly along the ground.

My devil is here. I may not see him, but I feel his dark presence.

It’s midnight, and I snuck out. I’m supposed to inform Marcelo anytime I step out of the house, but I didn’t want him to know where I was going because he’d follow me. Even if he stays at a distance, I want to be completely alone with my devil.

I stop when I’m a few feet away from the cliff’s edge.

In the bright moonlight, I see the white caps of the waves a hundred feet below.

The loud clash of waves crashing against the rocky walls is a sound I usually find comfort in.

The wind whips my hair across my face, and the long, silky slip I’m wearing molds to my body on one side.

Goose bumps pop up on my arms, and I don’t know if it’s from the cool breeze or from the anticipation of seeing my devil again.

It’s been days since the last time he came to me.

I don’t hear him when he comes up behind me, but I still know he’s there. It’s like my body is wired to seek out his, and when it finds him, a charge goes through me. An electrical charge that makes every hair on my body stand up and every nerve come alive.

“I know what you did last week,” he says in his deep, gravelly voice.

My mouth goes dry for two reasons: one, because his voice just does that to me. Sucks all the moisture out of my body and steers it toward one focal point. Between my legs.

And two, there’s no way he knows what I did last week. He can’t know, right? I would have felt if someone was watching. Especially my devil, because the aforementioned charge he always brings forth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

His chuckle is rusty, like he doesn’t make the sound very often. “You’ve been a naughty girl, Vicious. I know your secrets.” His breath gets closer. “Every dark and deviant one. You can’t hide from me.”

A shiver races down my spine, and my stomach dips uncomfortably.

He has to be lying to fuck with me.

But what if he isn’t? What if he really does know?

What will he do with the information? Will he use it against me in some way?

I don’t see him going to my father and brothers, because then he’d have to tell them how he knows, which begs the question.

If he does know my secret, how did he find out?

I’m always careful. There’s only one person who knows about my extracurricular activities.

And Marcelo won’t say a word. If he did, it would implicate him as well.

“I see the wheels turning in your head, Little Savina. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

For some reason, his reassurance doesn’t do what I’m sure he intended. It scares the shit out of me that someone else could know what I’ve been doing. That they have that power over me. Especially this man, because he’s proven he’s capable of anything.

The light touch on my arm has me jerking. I look down just as something appears in front of me. It’s a box. A black one with a silk ribbon tied around it.

My phone is slipped from my hand. “Take it,” he orders in my ear.

I grab the box, noticing the weight is slight. I didn’t pick up the other two boxes he sent that contained hearts, but I remember the weight of the hearts in my hand. This weighs about the same.

“Open it, Vicious.”

He stays at my back, not touching, but close enough that I feel his heat through my silk slip.

Resting the box in the palm of one hand, I pull the end of the satin ribbon, and the bow easily falls apart.

I let it drop to the ground. The top of the box falls away too.

Inside the box, something shiny rests inside, and the scent of blood tickles my nose.

I reach inside and wrap my fingers around the hefty organ. I should be disgusted as I lift it out and let the box fall from my hand. But I’m not. Blood and gore have never bothered me. I was eight years old the first time I saw the guts of a man slip from his body and hit the ground at his feet.

I bring the heart closer to my face to get a better look, and despite the overwhelming scent of the ocean and salt, the smell of old flesh wrinkles my nose.

“Who does it belong to?” I ask my devil.

“That’s a question you’ll have to ask your father.”

Surprised by his answer, I turn around and face him. Of course, he’s wearing the mask again.

“What does that mean? What does my dad have to do with it?”

His head is tilted down, like he’s glaring down his nose at me. “He found the piece of shit that it belonged to. I took the liberty of removing it from his chest.”

“What did he do?”

I can’t see the smile behind the mask, but I can hear it in his voice when he speaks again. “Talk to your father.”

My eyes narrow. “You know I can’t. I’m asking you. Tell me who it belonged to and what he did,” I demand.

The words have barely left my lips before I’m gasping in air. A hard grip wraps around my throat, and all of my air is stolen from me. The heart falls to the ground as I reach up with both hands to grab his wrist. I’m pulled forward by his grip, and he drops his face closer to mine.

“Not how this works,” he says in a deceptively calm voice. “I order, you obey. Learn your place, Vicious.”

Panic sets in when his fingers tighten around my throat, but I force myself to stop struggling.

It’ll get me nowhere. However, I do keep one of my hands wrapped around his wrist, going so far as digging my nails into his skin until the sharp edges threaten to pierce flesh.

It has to sting, but he shows no sign of pain.

We glare at each other. Him behind his mask and me with defiant eyes. I don’t back down, and neither does he. Not that I expected him to.

“You know what I think?” he asks after a moment.

He doesn’t give me a chance to reply before my feet are swept out from under me, and I’m lying flat on the damp ground.

He hovers over me with his hand still wrapped around my throat, his knees on either side of my hips.

His grip has loosened a fraction, just enough for me to barely suck in little gaps of air.

“I think you like being a bad girl because you want to be punished. You want me to hurt you.”

I shake my head, even though a little niggle in the back of my mind says he’s right.

“Lying will get you nowhere, my vicious little angel. It’ll only make your punishment harsher.”

By his guess, it will get me somewhere. If I like pain, as he says, why wouldn’t I defy him to earn more?

I keep that thought to myself.

Using the grip he has on my throat, he turns my head to the side. He drops his mask-covered face, and I feel the coolness of the plastic touch my neck.

What in the hell is he doing?

But then I feel it.

His lips.

I try to turn my head to get a glimpse of him, but his hold tightens again.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls.

I freeze at the harsh demand, and a fissure of fear tingles through me.

I feel something scrape across my neck, and I realize it’s the edge of his mask. He hasn’t taken it all the way off. Only lifted it enough so his mouth is accessible.

His tongue swipes across my collarbone, and the moan that comes out of my mouth at the sensual contact sounds all wrong because his hand is still around my throat, and I can barely draw in air to do it properly.

God, that felt good.

“You taste like fucking apples,” he groans. “Fuji apples and honey.”

It feels like there’s a thousand tiny electric shocks singeing my body, and the pinpoint is right where his lips are.

I lift my hands, wanting to put them somewhere on his body. I need to touch him anywhere and everywhere. Under his clothes. I want to feel his skin against my palms, to touch the hard ridges of his muscles and feel them ripple.

I’ve barely grazed the sleeves of his hoodie with one hand when my wrist is suddenly caught and yanked above my head.

My other wrist is brought up so he can grip both with one of his big hands.

It’s not until my air supply is restricted again that I realize he let go of my throat, and I missed my opportunity to try and look at him.

“Follow the fucking rules, Vicious,” he barks in my ear.

A moment later, there’s a sharp pain in the crook of my neck. It’s so piercing that I let out a garbled scream, and I jerk beneath him.

Jesus , that fucking hurt.

Then why in the hell are your thighs so wet? my mind mocks.