Never Have an Outlaw's Baby (Deadly Pistols MC #3)(107)

Uncle Gioulio always scared me when I was growing up. His personal thugs were always around at dinners and birthdays, menacing as well trained wolves.

Once, he took me out to get a prom dress, a strangely touching attempt to make me feel better about the fact that no boy had the balls to ask me out. When we came out of the shop, he opened his trunk and I saw the black bags inside.

“Fucking shit. Can't believe I forgot to unload my lamb from the butcher,” he'd said with a grin.

I couldn't unsee the very mangled, but human shapes beneath the plastic. A man's limbs, torso, and head, clearly dismembered, folded neatly into the trunk and forgotten. The faint stink of rotting flesh didn't lie either.

He rushed me home and then waited with the servants while his men came to deal with it.

He was a brute, a killer, and seriously intimidating.

Still, he took me under his wing after papa died. He protected me, even when he wasn't around, sending steady checks and fleshing out the already sizable accounts I'd inherited. I lived like a spoiled brat during my teens and put the richest sorority girls at college to shame.

Good old Uncle Gioulio was always there for Christmas or New Year's, my last real blood relative. Even when he had two drunk, slutty bombshells half his age draped around his neck, he brushed them off for a couple hours to have a glass of limoncello or good wine with me.

Now, I wondered if those bombshells were just well paid whores with a taste for older men, or well trained slaves ready to suck his cock because they had a well concealed gun to their heads.

Later, I got up and took a nice, long bath. I had to hand it to Anton – this little prison he'd chosen had all the amenities I was used to, and maybe a few that were even nicer than the condos and suites I'd grown up in. The hug jacuzzi in the adjoining bathroom helped work out the creases in my skin.

But it didn't stop me from cursing my captor and all the Ivankovs at least a dozen times in the space of two hours. Yes, he'd rattled me, but he hadn't broken me.

I didn't know what kinda help he wanted either – probably something to do with handing me a knife to gut my own family. I wasn't going to do that. I promised myself I wouldn't do a damned thing until I had absolute proof he wasn't bullshitting me. Even then, I wasn't about to commit to helping him.

I had to know. A bland, but filling dinner laid out by the old servant helped calm my nerves. Tea, bread, and some kind of broth. I fell asleep quicker than I expected, saving my energy for tomorrow, when I expected to lay into him.

The dreams came, harsher and more fragmented than before. Bastard.

Bastard. Brute. Demon.

He'd abused me with cruel knowledge and captivity as much as seduction. My psyche let me know that night how messed up I really was. I still wanted him in all his awful glory.

My virgin * burned, clenched, and ached in my sleep. I rolled over, wrapping my wrists around the sheets, imagining how good it would feel to shove my fingernails through his hair. He'd made me come so hard with just his hands.

Jesus, what would his mouth or that huge ridge I'd felt between his legs do?

Would his tattoos come alive and dance on his skin when he held me down, pushed inside me, and f*cked me until I shook and whimpered? Would I lose myself in the dark ink or his Neptune blue eyes first?

One way or another, I knew he wouldn't hold out forever. He would take me, whether I was ready for it or not, whether I wanted it or not – and, of course, I did. I could only choose how I was going to come up for air after he held me down, filled me, drowned me in his scent and strength and sex.

A rap on the door woke me up late morning. I yanked down my nightgown, shamed awake by the sopping wet heat between my legs.

I threw my legs over the bed and waited, sliding my cold feet into the burgundy slippers they'd given me. Another bang.

“Coming! Just hold on.”

I had exactly twenty seconds to collect all my wits. When I flung open the door and saw him, I was ready to demand answers. I'd give it to him point blank, tell him I wasn't just going to be his wind up toy, marching in whatever direction he sent me.

“Anton, I –“

I threw open the door and stopped. The thick, blue eyed devil named Lev was standing there, a smile spreading across his lips. Before I could think about stopping him, he pushed his way in and shoved a small black box into my hands.

“Gift from Anton. My brother's very busy today, and he won't be by personally.” He stopped, one hand on the wall. His sleeve rose just enough to see he had black stripes of his own going up one arm.

“I see you've settled in much more nicely today” His eyes moved up and down my body, making my skin crawl. “Hm. Perhaps I regret thinking about putting you down after all. Has he f*cked you yet, or is there still room for an Ivankov to lay first claim?”

He started coming towards me. I dropped the box, ready to lunge, scratch at his eyes. He was almost as big and strong as Anton, and my odds against him weren't any better. But he caused me to feel repulsed in a way Anton didn't.

When he was just a couple inches away, I threw my hand out and raked his face. He fell back, stunned. He exhaled painfully through clenched teeth, and I saw the neat red rows I'd left on one cheek, quickly covered by his searching fingers.

“Bitch! I should throw you down and f*ck your little ass for that.” I didn't move. My knees were like steel, running on fear and hate.