Twisted

Nect target

Marco was a different beast altogether, loud, violent, and utterly devoid of sweet words. He was the family’s muscle, spending his late nights in dirty underground clubs or running off-the-books garage operations. Seducing Marco wouldn't work with teary eyes or soft admissions of fear. He needed blood, grit, and heat.

It started in his private gym in the basement.

I walked in at two in the morning, wearing a thin gray tank top and tight shorts, my hair pulled back into a loose bun. Marco was bare-chested, hammering a leather heavy bag with his bare fists, sweat glistening across his muscular back and the red hair plastered to his forehead.

He didn't stop punching when the door clicked shut, but his eyes cut to me in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

"What the hell are you doing down here, charity case?" Marco grunted, his voice thick and raspy from exertion. "Get out before I throw you out."

"Make me," I said softly, stepping into the ring.

Marco stopped swinging. He turned around slowly, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm, his brown eyes locking onto mine with dangerous irritation. "You think you're brave because the Don lets you sit at the big table? You're still just gutter trash, Dahlia."

"And you're just a loud dog on a heavy chain," I purred, walking right up to him until the heat off his body warmed my skin. I reached out, my fingers lightly brushing the wet crimson hair out of his face.

Marco caught my wrist in a crushing grip, his knuckles tight enough to leave a mark. "Don't touch me."

"Your heart is beating fast, Marco," I whispered, leaning in until my breath fanned across his jawline. I didn't pull my wrist back. I pressed my hips slightly forward, letting him feel the shape of my body through the thin cotton. "You talk loud, but you look at me when you think no one is watching."

Marco’s jaw clenched hard, a muscle twitching near his ear. He looked down at my mouth, his breath turning heavy, heavy possessive anger flashing through his eyes. He didn't push me away. Instead, his grip on my wrist tightened, dragging me half an inch closer before he shoved me back toward the ropes with a harsh scoff.

"Get the f**k out of my gym," he growled, turning his back to me, but his shoulders were stiff and his breathing was ragged.

He was fighting it, but the crack in his armor was already open.

Over the next few weeks, I pushed him further. I walked into his bedroom late at night to "drop off" his schedule, letting him catch me locking the door behind me. I let my hands linger on his shoulder when he helped me out of the family SUV. Every time he snapped at me, I gave him a dark, knowing smile that drove him insane.

He was falling, little by little, drowning in a rough, violent lust he couldn't control.

Darius, however, was a wall of pure ice.

I tried the same quiet game with the eldest brother in his third-floor office late one Thursday night. I walked in carrying a tray of black coffee, wearing a fitted black dress that slit high up my thigh.

Darius didn't even look up from his laptop as I set the cup near his hand.

"You need to sleep, Darius," I murmured, leaning over his shoulder so my dark hair swept across his desk. I let my hand rest lightly on his suit jacket, right over his broad shoulder. "You work too hard for this family."

In a split second, Darius grabbed my hand, not with the messy, hot rage of Marco, but with a cold, terrifying precision. He pushed my hand off him and closed his laptop with a sharp *clack*.

"Don't," Darius said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that cut through the room like a razor. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, completely empty of desire. "I know what you are, Dahlia. I know what game you're playing."

"I'm just offering coffee…."

"I don't care what you're offering," Darius interrupted, standing up to his full height, looming over me like a shadow. "Stay in your lane. Stay away from my brothers. If you cross me again, I'll have you back in an orphanage before sunrise."

He didn't yell. He didn't look flustered. He simply picked up his leather jacket, walked past me, and slammed the office door shut behind him.

Darius was going to be the hardest nut to crack. But I didn't have time to dwell on him, because Marco was already breaking.

Two nights later, I slipped into the grand library on the main floor, knowing Marco was inside pouring himself a glass of whiskey. The house was dead quiet.

I locked the oak doors behind me, turned around, and walked straight up to him. Before Marco could yell at me, I reached out, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and pulled him down into a hard, desperate kiss.

Marco froze for a fraction of a second….and then he snapped. He dropped his whiskey glass onto the thick Persian rug, wrapped his massive hands around my waist, and slammed my back hard against the high library desk. He growled into my mouth, his hands ripping at my dress, pulling me up onto the mahogany wood as he leaned down to bite at my neck.

"Dirty little b***h," Marco rasped against my skin, his fingers digging deep into my thighs. "You've been asking for this for weeks, "

*Click.*

The heavy brass handle of the library door rattled violently, followed by the sharp, echoing sound of a spare key turning in the lock.

The door swung wide open.

Contessa stood in the doorway, framed by the bright hall light, a silver tray of tea dropping from her hands and crashing onto the marble floor. Her eyes widened in absolute, blood-chilling horror as she stared at her second son holding the adopted charity case pinned against the desk, her dress torn at the shoulder.

“What are you both doing?”