Page 37 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

I swallow a whimper, as Marcello’s finger is joined by the other that had just been inside me, gently prying my lips open and sliding the two digits inside my mouth.

He doesn’t say a word as he shoves his fingers in and out of my mouth, while his other hand clamps gently around my throat, holding me in place.

His half-mast eyes fixate on how his digits disappear into my mouth, testing me, owning me.

And I let him. Because the truth is, I want this.

More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

Marcello’s cock presses hard against my stomach, aching to replace his fingers.

My mouth waters at the thought of taking him in, of tasting him like he tasted me.

Of bringing him to the brink with nothing but my lips and tongue.

The fantasy becomes so intense that I’m sure he can read my desperation to do just that.

I’m just about to drop to my knees when Marcello suddenly yanks his fingers from my mouth and pins me flush against the wall by the throat. Pressing his forehead against mine, he begs in pain, “Don’t.”

I breathe him in for a second, then open my eyes just as he opens his. What I see makes my blood run cold—a devil staring back at me. This isn’t Marcello anymore. It’s something darker. Something that doesn’t have a soul.

I don’t think the ‘Don’t’ Marcello uttered mere seconds ago was intended for me. He was pleading with something else. Something that wanted to take over Marcello, and he was helpless to stop it, unable to end the soulless shadow that now stares deep into my eyes, his smug smile a warning sign.

This thing in front of me has none of Marcello’s warmth.

It’s hollow, empty, and by the glimmer in its eyes, it wants to be fed.

Whatever this fucking thing is, it has decided that it’s his turn to play with me.

And unlike Marcello, it’s not gentle. It starts to tighten its grip on my throat, reminding me that it isn’t the same man who had just made my body sing.

No. This thing doesn’t want to coax pleasure out of me. It wants suffering, pain, and misery.

Too late do I realize his intent, as his hand wraps tighter around my neck, threatening to suffocate the air from my lungs. I claw at his hand, nails digging into his skin, trying to force him to let go, but his grip refuses to loosen. Panic starts to bloom when my windpipe strains.

“Marcello,” I croak. “Stop.”

However, my voice is paper-thin, barely more than a breath.

My useless pleas mean nothing to him. By now, I’d fall back on my basic training to escape this situation, but my muscle memory takes me a minute to react.

I’m just too stunned by the sudden shift in Marcello’s demeanor, completely thrown off by how quickly he switched from desire to hate.

One minute, he was eating me out as if I were his only salvation, and now he looks like he might actually kill me.

When my vision begins to blur, my instincts thankfully snap back into focus. I lift my arms and slam them down hard between his elbows, breaking away from the grip he had on my throat. The moment his fingers loosen, I shift my weight and pivot, driving my elbow hard into his ribs.

However, before I can put more distance between us, the animal inside him lunges. This time, I don’t give him the chance to put his hands on me again. I swing as hard as I can muster, my fist connecting with his jaw so brutally I’m shocked it doesn’t crack.

Fortunately, my punch is enough to make him stumble back, giving me just enough of an opening to push off the wall and put some space between us.

I don’t wait for him to strike again. I pull my arm back, ready to swing my fist again, only to stop myself when I see something shift in Marcello’s eyes—like a storm cloud blowing off suddenly, the darkness in his eyes is now replaced by light, leaving clear blue skies behind.

Marcello clutches his jaw, blinking in confusion, and then looks up at me, seeing the fresh red marks on my neck. At that exact moment, his disorientation clears, confronted by his actions. It all hits him at once. The violence. The fear. What he almost did. What he almost let happen.

Marcello’s eyes widen in horror as his expression instantly drains of color. He staggers back as if the floor beneath him just shifted sideways.

Once I’m sure he’s no longer a threat, I take a cautious step forward and say, “Marcello—”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, shame, panic, and shock making his whole body shake.

This time, I know he wasn’t talking to himself. That ‘Don’t’ was for me and me alone.

“Marcello,” I try again, needing to comfort him and try to understand what happened myself.

Still, Marcello doesn’t stick around for explanations or consoling. He bolts from the office as if the demon who possessed him were now chasing him.

As I stand there feeling bereft and confused, I wish I could say that this was the first time I ever experienced such a thing.

Unfortunately, it’s not. I had more than a few squadmates in my unit who suffered from PTSD.

Some with such crippling conditions that once triggered, they would let something unholy possess them too.

That blank stare in their eyes, the disorientation, the untapped rage, the manic episodes. It was all there in Marcello’s gaze. Whatever happened in his life left a mark so deep that he’s still living with the scars.

Still, that’s not what scares me most. What terrifies me is that his pain has somehow managed to become mine too.

Unfortunately, it’s Thursday, so I’m expected to give Haynes a full report on the week’s progress. To say he’s the last person I want to see tonight is the understatement of the century.

Still, after pulling into the nearly deserted parking lot, I get out of my sedan and slide into the passenger seat of his black Dodge Charger, ready to get this check-in over with.

“You’re late,” he growls, irritated at making him wait all of two minutes.

“I had to make sure I wasn’t followed,” I lie.

The truth is that I needed time to cover the dark bruises forming around my neck. If Haynes saw them, he’d ask questions I’m not ready to answer. Not about the choke marks or about the man who put them there.

If I do tell Haynes about how my relationship with Marcello has turned an illicit corner, I’ll do it when I’m good and ready.

For now, it’s better that he remains clueless. Only fair since he’s not afraid to leave me guessing in regards to information about my case either.

So as a precaution, I’ve dabbed enough foundation and layered concealer over the bruises for them to go unnoticed. I even added a wool scarf around my neck, just in case.

“Don’t give me an excuse and tell me what progress you have made this week,” he snaps, eyes never leaving the dashboard.

God, I hate this asshole.

“First, I convinced the headmistress at Sacred Heart to let me run self-defense classes. If I can get close to Father McDonagh’s inner circle, I might uncover the nature of his relationship with Marcello. Maybe a motive. Maybe even a link between them that we might have missed.”

The words barely leave my mouth before Haynes snaps his head toward me, nostrils flaring like a bull seeing red, and states, “I don’t give a shit about motive.

I want him in cuffs!” His tone is thick with venom.

“What I want to know is why you aren’t in his inner circle yet?

What good are you if you’re wasting time between nuns and gym rats? ”

I keep my cool instead of letting his frustrations rile me up. Haynes has never been a big-picture kind of guy. Honestly, it still baffles me how someone so short-sighted rose so high in the Bureau.

“We need means, motive, and opportunity to build a solid case. That was the directive when I was brought on— your directive,” I remind him coolly. “We can’t take Marcello down on his family’s affiliation alone. If we don’t have an airtight case, he walks. And you know that.”

Haynes huffs, his eyes snapping back to the windshield while clenching his fists. “Very well,” he grunts, unhappy with my reprimand. “What about the sister? Stella?”

My mind immediately flashes back to the night she came to the gym.

The same night she had a falling out with Marcello.

For the first time, I hesitate to tell Haynes what I overheard.

But since I have to give him something, I offer just enough to hopefully keep him from filing an official complaint against me.

“I think the alliance between the Bratva and the Outfit isn’t as rock-steady as we might have thought. I overheard Stella and Marcello talking, and apparently, Kirill Petrov kidnapped her and her brother not too long ago. Which brother, I’m not sure.”

“Well, the Romanos and Petrovs must have patched things up, since an all-out war didn’t break out. If it had, Little Russia wouldn’t be standing,” he snorts sarcastically. “What else do you have?”

Guilt stabs at me as my lips slam shut. I can still feel Marcello’s mouth on me, taste his fingers on my lips.

I still have the memory of his body caging mine against the wall.

How his kiss woke something inside me that’s been dead for years.

How his tenderness unlocked something I didn’t even know I had.

Haynes wants more, but I refuse to give him this. Not this.

“That’s all I have so far.” Another lie.

I might not fully understand what happened between Marcello and me tonight, but I do know that Haynes would be the last person I’d tell. He’s too focused on the finish line to care for the wreckage I might leave behind.

I tell myself that what happened between me and Marcello has nothing to do with the job. That it will never happen again. And that line of thinking is exactly what makes it so dangerous.

“Get out, then,” Haynes barks, as if I’d wasted enough of his time. “Next week, don’t come fucking empty-handed again. Bring me something with actual meat on the bone. Or I’ll find someone who can actually get results.”

I don’t argue. There would be no point in doing so. Instead, I just open the door and step out, grateful to put distance between me and Haynes’s bullshit.

He doesn’t even wait for me to reach my own car before tearing out of the parking lot like a petulant child. Tires squealing. Ego intact.

What a fucking asshole. Still, he’s my superior. And if there’s one thing I can admit, it’s that Haynes has his eyes dead-set on the prize. No distractions. No weakness. No compromise.

Can I honestly say the same for myself? Especially after what I let happen tonight?

What did happen, exactly?

Sure, Marcello touched parts of me I thought had died.

Lit nerves that hadn’t flared in years. Made me feel things I have no business feeling for him.

That tight coil of arousal. The adrenaline-fueled high.

The longing to be touched. But that wasn’t all that happened.

For those final moments in Carmine’s office, I came face to face with what I can only describe as some kind of past traumatic response.

An alter of some kind. It was dark… and hungry. Not quite human.

What terrifies me most is how late I was to respond, even when my life hung in the balance.

The fear. Real, visceral fear. A feeling I thought I’d long outgrown, buried beneath years of training, discipline, and armor.

But tonight, it came flooding back like muscle memory.

Like a nightmare determined to wake me up screaming.

Perhaps I can’t explain what I saw in his eyes. What actually triggered him to shift like that. But I know it was real.

And I know that I’ll see it again.

That it isn’t done with me.

Not by a long shot.