Page 27

Veronica

T he heavy slam of a door rattles the bed frame, sending a shudder deep into Veronica’s bones. Her eyes crack open, only slightly, before she squeezes them shut again. It’s not Raidon. Not really. Something else has taken charge of his body and mind. Something twisted, something extremely wrong .

His presence is a looming shadow stretching towards her, thick with menace. A dark aura wraps around him like a sickly sweet perfume, cloying, suffocating. In all the time his hands have touched her, she feels something being stripped away, something fragile, something innocent.

“Are you awake yet, ladybird?” His voice echoes in the room, rough, sharp, tainted with sin. The sound of liquid pouring fills the room, the smell of whiskey weaving into the air.

“I know you’re awake,” there’s the echo of a body colliding with leather as he sits down. “I can hear your racing heart.”

She has read about people with multiple personalities before, and found their fractured minds fascinating in the safety of a book’s pages. But fiction never warned her of what it would feel like to be trapped inside the story. To live in it. To breathe it. To be at the mercy of a man whose body is a battlefield, where one brother suppresses the other, taking turns wearing his skin.

And right now, the one in control isn’t Raidon.

He hasn’t told her his name yet.

“It might interest you to know,” he muses, voice smooth like the whiskey he’s taking, “that while you passed out, I learned some fascinating things about you. Things my brother doesn’t know.” There’s a slow smirk, a glint of wicked amusement in his golden eyes. “Because he’s that reckless, so fucking careless. He didn’t even bother to run a little background check on you. Because he’s so trusting, he thinks you are too fragile to possibly be a threat to him.”

With that information, Veronica bolts upright, the sheet slipping from her body, baring her naked breast to the cool air.

“There it is,” his golden eyes gleam of mischief, darkening when they flicker momentarily to her heaving breasts, his lips curling in satisfaction. “I knew that would get your attention.”

Her pulse thrums, fast and erratic. Anxiety coils tight in her stomach as he lifts the glass of whiskey to his lips, savoring a slow sip. The way he watches her—as if peeling her apart layer by layer—makes her breath hitch.

What does he know?

“Do you wanna know what I know?” His lips curl into a sharp, mean grin. A predator’s kind of smile.

She swallows hard, her head bobbing only once.

Leisurely, he swings his legs off the glass table, the leather of the chair groaning as he rises. Another sip of whiskey, a deliberate swallow. Her eyes track the movement of his Adam’s apple, the way his throat works as the amber liquid disappears behind his smirking lips

Then, with excruciating slowness, he sets the glass down on the table. And begin to move towards her.

Every step is unhurried, controlled, deliberate. Yet each one feels like a countdown, a slow descent into something inevitable. The air thickens, charged, suffocating.

On reaching the bed, he doesn’t hesitate as he grips the sheet, yanking it away. Exposing her in one swift motion.

Her nipples harden, her thighs clenched against the ache pulsing between her legs. The need to be touched by his wicked hands. Like he hasn’t already destroyed her.

His weight presses into the bed as he leans over her, lips grazing the corner of her mouth. A breath, a whisper of warmth.

“The more time I spend with you, ladybird,” he murmurs, “the more the pieces fall into place. The more it becomes undeniable.”

His fingers tangle in her head, tilting her head back, his other hand prying apart the thigh she had clenched together.

“You and I…” His breath ghosts along her jawline, teasing, tormenting, his hand wandering deeper between her thighs. “Are bound together in a way even fate can’t dare unravel.”

Her skin prickles, a shudder rolling down her spine.

His lips brush against her ear, voice dropping into something darker, something edged in cruelty.

“What are the odds?” he drawls. “That your father is such a remarkable man whose works I really adored once upon a time?”

The words sink into her like a blade. Her breath stutters.

He knows.

“If I had known I would meet you,” he continues, his finger ghosting over the slick heat between her thighs now. “I would have gotten something special.” His teeth scrape against the delicate skin below her ear, next to where his previous marks bloom. “Something in exchange for an autograph.”

Her stomach lurches.

His finger presses into her clit just enough to make her whimper, to make her body betray her completely.

“After all,” he muses, dragging his thumb over her swollen clit in a slow, tortuous stroke. “an autograph from the daughter is just as good as the father, right?”

Her lips parts in a gasp, her body trembling under his touch as his fingers plunge into her tight cunt. “Tell me, ladybird,” he pumps into her, his pace slow and deliberate, a wicked smile on his lips as he watches her unravel under him. “Will you sigh in your father’s place for me?”

“Are you afraid, ladybird?” his thrusts pick a little pace, his lips grazing over her swollen nipple, “that I might tell your little secret to the world?”

Fear wracks her spine, her body jerking against his as he pumps his fingers harder into her heat.

“Don’t worry,” he brushes a hand over her jaw. “Your secret is safe with me.”

His lips skim the line of her jaw, his voice silk over steel as his thumb slides inside her, teasing her from the inside out. “You’re one insatiable little slut, you know. Hours later, and look at you, still dripping for me. I bet you’d swallow around my cock again if I let you.”

“Raidon—”

“My fingers are inside you, ladybird,” he growls, his teeth scraping below her throat before sinking in. “Call me by my name.”

Her hand fists the sheet above her head, nails digging into the fabric. She doesn’t want to say it. Doesn’t want to build familiarity. Calling him by his name feels dangerous, like an invitation she isn’t ready to extend.

“I—I really don’t feel comfortable with that,” she manages, breath hitching as he adds a third finger, pumping harder into her.

“Why is that?” he asks, kissing his way down her chest, his lips leaving possession in the form of bruised skin and half-moon marks from his teeth.

“I don’t know you,” she gasps when his fingers curl inside her, thrusts turning erratic, deeper. “I don’t know if all strangers by their name.”

His breath fans hot against her breast, and she barely registers his wicked smirk before his teeth graze her nipple. “Oh really?” he muses, flicking his tongue over the tender peak. “Is it your mother or your stepmother that taught you that? Did she also tell you not to bounce on a stranger’s cock?”

“Oh my—”

She doesn’t get to finish. He rips his fingers from her and flips her onto her stomach so fast her breath leaves her in a startled gasp.

He yanks her hips up, positions her on all fours. And before she can brace for what’s coming, his cock is there—stretching her open, splitting her apart.

A sharp cry rips from her throat.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s taken her tonight. It doesn’t matter that she should be used to it. He’s big. Too big. She feels like he’s going to ruin her from the inside out.

“Oh, god,” she whimpers, hands scrambling for leverage, gripping on the sheet as he slams into her from behind.

“Not god, ladybird. Me.” His voice is a guttural snarl as his fingers close around her throat, wrenching her head back until her dazed eyes lock onto his. Black, empty, and consuming. “Call me by my fucking name. Stop squeezing around my cock and calling some guy I don’t even fucking know.”

Her mouth parts, but her words collapse beneath the force of his thrusts, her cries blending into the obscene, wet sounds filling the room. He’s relentless—pulling out, leaving her empty for a heartbeat, only to slam back in, harder, deeper, tearing through every barrier.

His grunts of pleasure echo around her, every inch of his thick cock dragging along her walls, filling her up until there’s no space left for anything but him.

“Please, don’t stop.” Her voice is broken, shattered between pleasure and overstimulation, her entire body trembling when his hand slips beneath her waist, fingers rolling her swollen clit.

Her legs quake, hands slipping against the sheets, her mind unraveling as moans pour from her lips, a desperate, delirious mess. She’s too far gone to even realize whose name she’s chanting.

His fingers dig into her throat, squeezing just enough to remind her who owns her pleasure. “If you want me to keep fucking this tight little pussy of yours, you know what to do.” He strokes her clit again, watching her jolt against him. “Call my name. I need the world to know who’s between your legs. I need them to know who owns this fucking pussy.”

She lets out a whimper instead, clenching around his cock to hold him in place when he begins to pull out. But she really doesn’t want to call him Kael or whatever the hell he introduced himself as.

“Say my name,” she gasps loudly when he thrust roughly into her unannounced.

Her cries and the sound of his wet cock slamming in and pulling out of her dripping pussy fill the room, bouncing off the walls and returning to her ears.

“Good girls are supposed to conserve their manners and do as they’re told.” His fingers tighten around her neck, pushing her face against the sheet so much that it becomes hard to breathe. “But you seem to throw yours out the window the moment there is a cock inside your pussy, isn’t it?”

“Oh god,” she draws out the last word, the weight of the severity in her cry causing a burn in her chest as he slowly rolls his hip into her.

“God?” he demands, his voice lethal as he yanks her head backward until her skull is pressing into his chest, her eyes on him, thrusts uneven and wild. “God?”

She shakes her head.

“Is he the one responsible for all this mess you are making all over my cock and my sheet?” His voice is gruff and cold.

“No,” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks, his angry thrust both painful and pleasurable.

“I am doing all the work and you are calling another man’s fucking name?” He is so angry, the veins stretch along his neck, bold, unforgiving.

“I’m, fuck-” Her stomach tightens at his quickened pace.

“Who is fucking you?” he growls, thrusting deeper into her.

“You.”

“Say my fucking name.” She can feel her scalp burning at the hold on her hair.

“Mr. Vol-”

“My name, Veronica!”

She caves. “Kael!” The cry tears from her chest, her walls clenching around him as he pounds harder into her.

“Kael who?” he demands, releasing her hair and grabbing her waist with both hands, lifting her hip for a better angle.

“Kael…” her lips tremble, her speech flawed as she struggles to keep up with his ravenous and damaging pace. “Kael Volkov.”

“Who owns this pussy?” He rolls his hips against hers, plays with her opening with the tip of his throbbing cock before pushing through her walls again.

“Kael Volkov!” she cries louder, caring not if her voice can be heard and if those who hear it know it’s her.

“Who will be fucking this tight pussy from now on?” He pushes her face into the sheet again.

“Kael Volkov.” The echo of her moans is swallowed in the sheet as her stomach caves, her chest shuddering, pleasure building at her core, traveling to the aching spot between her thighs.

She is so close again. She can feel the onslaught of pleasure beating loudly in her veins.

“I’m coming-” Her words are caught in her throat, an explosion depositing behind her temporarily closed eyes as her body locks, toe curling.

“Come,” he commands in a guttural tone. “I need you to come all over my fucking cock.”

“Fuck!” The cry is the loudest she has heard of herself as it all comes crashing down; a series of wet sounds as she finishes around his throbbing length, feeling her juices dripping all over the sheet and between her thighs.

Then a thunderous sound roars from his chest, his fingers digging into her hips as he jerks, his cock throbbing until she feels it deep inside her—his hot release.

She should be worried. This is the fifth time he is coming inside her. She is neither on birth control, nor does she have a stable circle to know if she is ovulating or not. But for some reason, she doesn’t care. Instead, his releasing inside her continuously sparks something innately corrupt inside her. It feels a lot like euphoria. A sort of thrill.

Perhaps he is right about her. As much as the truth angers her, he is so fucking right. There is a hidden darkness inside her. A miniscule fire of depravity and uncultureness that needs just a little spark to raze and burn.

Everything about this sexual escapade from last night till now has been all about him and less of her opinion. She didn’t verbally give her consent, but he made her give him that consent, both in her actions and her body’s reaction to him.

He explores a hunger she doesn’t know she has. Being a victim of domestic abuse, she always felt she needed someone who would handle her with the utmost gentleness. She thought she would run away from a man that didn’t care about her wants and needs. But something about him giving her no room for opinion and consent enchants her, turns her the fuck on that before he touches her, she is already a dripping mess for him.

But she doesn’t want to become that. That thing he desperately wants to turn her into.

She will never be that person.