#Spicy #MafiaLord #Obsessive #RunAwayBride #Possesive #AgeGap #DirtyTalking #PsychoEx
ZARIAH'S POV
The sound of thunder above drowns my heartbeat, but it doesn't matter because to me it's the pounding of my blood that really deafens me.
The wedding veil sticks to my face, almost suffocating me in the process; my gown is torn from the waist down, now stained with blood---- someone else's, not mine.
... At least not yet.
Luc killed her.
He didn't even hesitate he just sent one bullet with a casual shrug to her brains like she was nothing.
Dahlia's body dropped at my feet with her mouth still open in shock; she was my best friend, and she was going to run away with me.
But now she's just dead and in my memory.
And I'm the one now being hunted.
I stumble through the emergency stairwell barefoot with my stilettos in my right hand, very much glad for the fact that Dahlia faithfully kept her favourite dagger in her bouquet.
... It's what gave me the opportunity to sneak up on the guards at the chapel doors and escape.
Now, the slit in my dress is long enough to allow me to move but still short enough to show every inch of my shaved leg when I finally stop to throw the red heels back on back on.
If I'm going to die tonight, I want to look like a f*cking goddess when I do.
I burst into the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton like a stray animal with my hair matted and dripping, and blood and water--- from the drizzling rain---- mixing together and making me look like a mess.
No one recognizes me here, that's the thing about the society's elite— they don't look at you when you look poor, crazy, or completely out of place which, given the situation I'm in, is a good thing.
Finally finding an elevator, I stab at buttons blindly till the doors close behind me and show my reflection in the gold panel walls.
Fuck it's haunting; I've got mascara running down my wide eyes and my lipstick is a bit smudged.
I soon hit the top floor, and somehow, I know that's where I'm meant to go.
The corridor is empty and only a few soft light flicker above the last penthouse door.
My limbs are trembling now by the time my fingers wrap around the doorknob, and I don't knock, I push.
... and it opens.
The first thing my senses register is the warmth from the inside.
And then I notice him.
... A man who sitting in a leather armchair by the window with a glass of scotch in his left hand, a suit jacket draped over the back of the chair he's sitting on and his shirt's sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He doesn't look at me right away, he instead watches the storm from outside the closed window.
"You're late," he says and I freeze, then he finally turns.
Dark eyes, those are the first features o notice on his face, followed by his sharp jawline.
His hair is slicked back and that smirk, God, that smirk-----
"You were supposed to arrive thirty minutes ago," he adds smoothly, taking a sip of his drink.
"I was considering sending you back with half your pay."
I swallow thickly, realising what this means; he thinks I'm… someone else.
He thinks I'm the escort.
And I could correct him, like really correct him
I could say, "Wrong room, sorry," and run. Again.
But there's blood on my dress, someone is hunting me outside, and this man doesn't look like someone who gets hunted, instead he looks like someone you could hide behind.
So I step in and close the door, making sure that my fingers don't tremble.
"I don't care about the money," I murmur and his brow lifts up slightly.
"Don't play the noble card now, sweetheart, you're here to perform. Don't worry— I'm not into degrading kinks... unless you ask nicely."
I almost makes me choke, but I don't.
I step closer to him instead.
"What are you into then?" I ask, my voice coming out hoarse from crying and running and pretending.
His smile darkens. "I'm into control and beautiful women who follow instructions."
He stands up now to an all six-foot-plus of muscle in a black dress shirt and cufflinks.
"Take off the veil," he commands.
I do so immediately and falls to a small puddle on the floor.
He walks toward me slowly, eyeing every inch of the chaos that clings to my skin and I expect him to ask about the blood but doesn't.
"The dress," he says next. "Take it off slowly."
I hesitate to obey him this time and he notices it.
"Second thoughts?" he murmurs, stopping just inches away from me so I can smell the danger on him, all expensive, masculine and intoxicating.
I tilt my chin up. "No. But I get to keep the heels on."
That earns me a deep, rasped chuckle.
"As you wish."
His fingers touch my waist and my body reacts like a lightning just struck it.
Sucking in my breath so slightly, I unclip the buttons at the back, one by one until the ruined gown slinks off my shoulders and pools at my feet.
I stand there in nothing but red heels, a lacy white thong, and this sort of silence that feels like it's being wrapped around my throat.
His eyes trace my body and finally he asks,
"What's your name?"
But I don't give it to him.
"Do names matter?" I whisper.
"No," he replies, moving to stand behind and brushes his finger over my shoulder.
"But moans do."
The next moment, his mouth is at my ear. "Do you moan pretty, little thing?"
I don't answer, but my lips part on instinct when he drags a finger down my spine.
Suddenly he stops just at the curve of my lower back and my body arches— seeking more and yet fearing all of it.
He breathes on my skin, touching me warmly, "Not talking? That's alright. I've had silent ones before, they all scream eventually."
My knees almost give out then but his hand slips into my hair, tugging gently and I gasp.
"There it is," he whispers.
Suddenly, he pulls me back against him, and I feel everything, the heat from his body and the hard thick length pressing firmly against me.
"You didn't come here for romance," he growls into my ears, "You came to be ruined."
My breath hitches at his words and he turns me around slowly, then his fingers run along the side of my neck, tilting my head back to look at him fully.
"I'll ask you once," he says lowly. "Do you want to be destroyed?"
I'm trembling now and I can't hide it this time, but it's not from fear... it's from want.
"Y-yes."
A growl of approval
"Good," he says, growling in approval such that it vibrates in his chest and I shiver, then he leans in.
His lips graze mine but he doesn't kiss me, he tastes me... almost like he's memorizing me with his mouth before he devours me.
And then…
He steps back away from me, making my eyes that I hadn't known were closed to fly open in protest.
"You can take off the heels now," he murmurs.
"Or keep them on while I ruin you."