THE DEVIL AND HIS ASSASSIN

Chapter 11

Raven's POV

It was around one in the morning when I heard a car pull into the lower garage bay.

Not that I’d been waiting for him. God, no. I had better things to do at one in the morning.

Like… stare at the ceiling. And pretend I didn’t check the time every fifteen minutes.

I threw my legs off the bed a little too quickly, then stopped myself and flopped back onto the pillows like I’d never moved.

I lay exactly as he’d commanded, my only covering the darkness and the faint glow bleeding in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room felt too big, too quiet, too aware of me.

And the stillness only made the reality hit harder.

I hadn’t forgotten what this place was. During my one-week "stay", I’d already done a desperate, fumbling search of every drawer and crevice, hunting for anything that could pass as a weapon. There wasn’t a single damn thing. Just overpriced linen and sterile décor made to look pretty, not useful.

Which, honestly, told me everything I needed to know.

I was just a prisoner in his cage and my only purpose was to be his decoration. His toy.

The soft, definitive snick of a keycard in the lock made my entire body jolt. I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the front door opened and closed with a hushed, final sound. Heavy, unhurried footsteps moved through the living area.

I kept my eyes shut, settling into the stillest version of myself, even as my pulse pounded hard enough to bruise. Fake sleep wasn’t my finest strategy, but it was the only one that didn’t involve sprinting through the mansion barefoot and trying my luck with whatever trigger-happy sniper Dominic kept on the roof.

The footsteps stopped at the bedroom door.

I didn’t have to open my eyes to know he was looking at me. I could feel it; that slow, measured sweep from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. Not lust. Not affection. More like he was checking inventory. Making sure his things were where he left them.

After a long, excruciating moment, the footsteps moved again, heading toward the ensuite bathroom. The door clicked shut. A second later, the sound of a shower hissing to life filled the silence.

The water ran for what felt like an eternity. I pictured him under the spray, water sluicing over the hard planes of his chest and down his powerful back. The image was unnervingly vivid, and that unwelcome heat between my legs flared again.

Finally, the shower cut off, and he stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips and steam curling around him from the open bathroom. Water droplets clung to his skin, tracing the lines of his abs, disappearing into the dark trail of hair that led beneath the towel.

He didn’t even look at me as he walked to the edge of the bed and sat down, his back to me. The mattress dipped under his weight.

"Dance for me."

I blinked, certain I’d misheard. "What?"

"You heard me. Get up and dance."

My mind went blank. Dance? Here? Now?

"There’s… there’s no music," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

He finally turned his head, just enough to pin me with a sliver of that cold, piercing gaze. "I know."

A part of me, the proud, vengeful part, wanted to spit in his face. But the smarter part, the survivor, knew that defiance right now would only make things worse.

I slowly pushed back the silk sheet, the air cool on my exposed skin. I felt a hot flush of shyness as I stood before him, completely bare. I’d been naked on stage for months, but this was different. This felt… intimate.

His eyes, now fully on me, did not simply look; they devoured. They traced the curve of my hips, the swell of my breasts, the delicate juncture of my thighs, with a possessiveness that made my skin prickle.

Swallowing my pride and my fear, I began to move. It was awkward at first, a silent, self-conscious swaying of my hips. But old habits took over. My hands came up, one tracing a slow path up my side, cupping the weight of my own breast, my thumb brushing over the peak until it tightened into a hard nub. I arched my back, letting my head fall back, my other hand sliding down over my stomach and stopping just below my belly button.

His eyes were locked on my every movement, his jaw clenched. The angry tension in his shoulders seemed to intensify, but it was morphing, transforming into a different kind of intensity.

My eyes dropped to the towel. A distinct, hard ridge was now tenting the fabric, growing more prominent with every circle of my hips.

With a sudden, impatient grunt, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the towel and shoved it down. His c**k sprang free, thick and hard and intimidatingly large. He didn’t touch himself at first, he just let me see it, let me absorb the reality of what was to come. Then his hand wrapped around the length, giving himself a few slow strokes. The sight was so visceral, so brutally masculine, that a soft, involuntary whimper escaped my lips.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

I walked to him on trembling legs, stopping just between his knees. The scent of his clean, soapy skin and something uniquely him filled my senses. I sank to the floor, looking up at him.

"The rules," he said, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. "Do you remember them?"

I nodded, my voice a faint breath. "Yes."

"Say them."

"No touching unless you ask," I recited, my eyes locked on his. "No kissing. And… I don’t do a single thing unless you tell me to."

A dark flicker of approval passed through his eyes. "Good girl." He grasped my chin, tilting my face up. "Now get on the bed. On your hands and knees."

The command was so crude and so degrading. My cheeks burned, but the slick heat pooling between my legs betrayed my true state. I was too far gone, too consumed by this terrifying, addictive game to refuse.

I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself on all fours, presenting myself to him. The position made me feel wildly vulnerable and completely exposed. I closed my eyes, burying my face in the sheets, bracing myself for whatever was to come.

I heard the rustle of him moving behind me, the click of a bedside drawer opening. The distinct, unmistakable tear of a foil packet. A condom. The sound sent a fresh jolt of fear and anticipation through me.

This was really happening.

He was preparing for something I should’ve fought, should’ve feared. And the worst part, the part that made my skin crawl with self-disgust, was that I didn’t want him to stop.

Then I felt him. The blunt, warm head of his c**k nudging against my entrance. I clenched instinctively, a sob catching in my throat.

"Relax," he growled, his voice strained. One hand gripped my hip, his hold firm and unyielding. The other guided himself.

He pushed.

A searing, blinding pain ripped through me. I cried out, a sharp, broken scream muffled by the sheets as he sheathed himself fully in one relentless, unforgiving thrust. I felt impossibly full, stretched to my absolute limit, the burning pain so acute it stole my breath.

"Bozhe moi (My God)," he groaned from behind me, his voice thick with a mixture of surprise and lust. "You’re tight."

He stayed like that for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting my body adjust to his invasion. The initial sharp pain began to ebb, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache. And beneath that ache, a faint, traitorous pulse of pleasure began to bloom, echoing the rhythm of his own hard heartbeat that I could feel inside me.

Then he moved.

He withdrew almost completely and thrust back in, setting a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. There were no more words. The room was filled with the raw, animalistic sounds of our bodies meeting—the slap of skin on skin, his low, guttural grunts with every powerful drive of his hips, and my own ragged, hitched moans.

Each thrust stoked the fire within me, the pain gradually melting away, consumed by a building tidal wave of sensation. The feel of him, so hard and thick, filling me, stretching me, hitting a place deep inside that made me see stars. I pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, a silent plea for more. The pleasure was unbearable, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring about to snap.

His grip on my hips tightened, his fingers biting into my flesh as his pace became frantic, erratic. I felt his body tense behind me, a low, savage groan tearing from his chest as he plunged into me one final, devastating time, holding himself deep as he found his release.

I felt my own climax crash over me a second later, triggered by the feel of his own pleasure, a silent, convulsing wave that milked him through the condom, leaving me trembling and breathless.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing. Then, he pulled out abruptly. The sensation was strange, a sudden emptiness where there had been overwhelming fullness. I flinched at the feeling. I stayed bent over, gripping the bedsheets my entire body trembling with aftershocks. I heard him dispose of the condom.

A moment later, his hands were on my hips again, turning me around. His expression was no longer one of anger or cold lust, but of stark, stunned confusion. His eyes scanned my face then dropped down my body.

His gaze was frozen on the inside of my thighs.

I followed his look.

There, against my pale skin, was a smudge of bright, crimson blood.

"f**k," he cursed quietly that I almost missed it. Then he turned around and left.