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Torian
I stalk away from the bench press, turning my back to her as I adjust my cock.
She’s plotting to kill me, and here I am, rearranging the dick tenting my fucking shorts. If that’s not psychotic I don’t know what is.
But at least it’s clear now. All the shit I’ve worried about has come to fruition.
My father’s perverted afflictions must have been working their subliminal bullshit toward me for years. I’ve always been his perfect protégé—Luther’s mini-me with bigger plans and even bigger ideas. And I naively thought his teachings had been limited to business.
Turns out he handed down the fetishes, too.
Sexualized brutality is new to me. Harming women has never brought a thrill.
Until now.
Maybe this is how the fucked-up shit starts. The twisted kinks are triggered by an event.
A woman.
This woman.
Bringing her here was fucking reckless. Indulgent. But the reasons I’ve told her aren’t a lie.
I need someone reliable to relay the information of my father’s death, because those who don’t believe I’m capable will be hard to convince.
Luca’s account won’t hold merit. The word of anyone loyal to me, or easily bribed, is worthless.
But Anissa isn’t either of those.
I didn’t fabricate the truth about her being here to ensure my success either. Every time she looks at me with her narrow-eyed judgment, I grow more determined.
She’s here to push me. Provoke me.
Her bitchy, self-righteous superiority will ensure I finish this thing with my father despite the guilt hovering close.
There’s more though.
So much more it feels like she’s the linchpin to this entire fucking operation for no justifiable reason. I’m propelled forward because of her. Not my sister’s need for closure. And definitely not due to my father’s nameless, faceless victims.
Anissa messes with my head to the point where I’m beating back a goddamn erection at the thought of her trying to choke me with a weights bar. I’m crazed with the need to get her back on top of me. Those wide eyes staring down at mine. That bated breath brushing my mouth.
And that fucking pussy. Nothing has ever felt better than her heat against my stomach.
“Cole?”
Gentle pressure leans into my shoulder blade. A hand. Her hand.
“What?” I jerk away.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I shake my arms, and it’s not because of the building lactic acid. I need to get these toxic thoughts out of my system. I have to figure out where the fuck I went wrong and if there’s any possibility of going back.
I’m not a weak son of a bitch who takes pleasure in hurting women. I’m not my father. I don’t need to strong-arm the vulnerable to make myself feel powerful. Not for a fucking second.
“Sorry,” I snarl. “I have other things on my mind. I guess when someone tries to kill you, it’s hard to focus.” I turn to face her and shouldn’t be surprised when she straightens those shoulders and raises her chin.
“I didn’t try to kill you. I just…”
“Just attempted to crush my throat, then pussied out at the last second.”
She blinks at me, those eyes wider than usual, her lips slightly parted. She wants to reject my claim, but she can’t.
This woman contemplated ending my life.
Maybe I would’ve let her, too.
Maybe I should’ve.
“Cole, please, I want to believe you, but your logic is hard to justify.” She keeps staring. Pleading. “You know I’m loyal to my job. There’s no way I could keep my mouth shut about this.”
She’s right.
There’s no logic. No rationale. No sense. There’s only impulse and instinct when it comes to her.
“If you report this, you won’t live long enough to testify. Never forget that.” I flash my teeth in a feral smile. “You should also realize I’m my father’s son. So maybe think twice before you straddle my dick next time.”
She recoils, her mouth agape.
Good.
The shock should keep her at bay.
“Come on.” I stride across the room. “I’ll show you where you need to be when he arrives.”
I shove open the gym door, holding it wide until she enters the hall.
“You’ll be in my room.” I continue toward the other end of the house, her footsteps following behind me.
“Why your room?”
“You’ll see in a minute.” I don’t stop until we reach my door, then push it open for her to proceed before me.
She stares, dubious, but walks ahead to pause near the bed. “Now what?”
“The walk-in robe.” I jerk my head to the door at my left.
She sighs and does as instructed, sliding the opening wide.
“Pull the hanging shirts to the side.”
“Which ones?” she drawls. “There’s a whole heap.”
I follow her into the cramped space, making sure to keep as much distance between us as possible. For my dick’s sake. “Start in the middle.”
She separates the hung clothing, the clink of hangers skittering along the rail as she exposes the door behind with a keypad lock on the wall beside it. She glances at me over her shoulder. “What’s this?”
“A panic room.”
A different kind of concern crosses her features, more speculation than worry.
“The code is eight-nine-seven-one. And only the two of us know those digits.”
She keeps staring.
“Go on.” I encourage her with a wave of my hand. “Eight-nine-seven-one. Pin it in.”
She turns her focus back to the door and keys in the numbers, then the door panel slides across as she hits Enter.
“There’s a light switch inside, on the right wall.”
She reaches out, ru
I remain in the middle of the wardrobe, not wanting to tempt myself with her close proximity. I already know what she’ll find in there—a wall of six blank screens, each capable of exposing a real-life feed of any main room inside the sprawling mansion.
There’s also a mini bathroom and a disabled communications station. At one time, anyone hiding in here could call for help. But I can’t trust her with that option. Not yet.
“You’ll stay in there.” I lean back against the shelves. “You’ll have access to the video and audio feed.”
“How?” She pokes her head back out the door. “Can you show me?”
I contemplate denying her. I try to convince myself it’s a fucking bad idea to insert myself into the small space beside her. But seconds later, I’m in there, almost shoulder to shoulder with this beguiling woman as I turn on the switch to illuminate the six monitors displaying the pool, yard, kitchen, living room, and my bedroom, along with two different angles of the hall.
“Are these the only rooms under surveillance?”
“No.” I keep my focus on those screens, ignoring her as she turns to face me.
“Are there cameras in every room?”
“Apart from the bathrooms, yes. Every bedroom. Every square inch of livable space.”
“How convenient.” The words are grated, her anger crackling to life in the air between us. “I guess you’ve spent a lot of time in here.”
A smirk slowly spreads my lips. Her anger is invigorating. Always has been. I bet it always will be. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Her shoulders relax, her relief evident even from the corner of my eye.
“I don’t need to be in the panic room. I get the video feed on my cell.” I pull the device from my pocket, unlock the screen, and show her the view of her bedroom.