Chapter 38

ROSALIND

I push against the leather restraints, too freaked out by what I heard.

Cesare didn't answer Roman's question about what he saw when he stepped into the alley. From the way Roman spoke, it sounds like he even thinks his brother is guilty.

Shit.

I knew Cesare was a murderer, and I knew he was a psychopath. But is he the type of man who would kill a lover, dump her body in the alley beside his own club, and conceal the truth from his brother?

This torture must be screwing with my mind because I don't know what to think.

And how does Miranda fit into this sordid mess?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to cut through my hunger, my thirst, my lingering arousal, my complete and utter confusion.

She doesn't.

Miranda didn't witness the waterboarding. That was the dead woman, Tania. Miranda was only there when Cesare fired her in front of the staff. Miranda was also in the safe house when Cesare may or may not have murdered Tania in the alleyway.

The door swings open, and I even out my features. There's no point in antagonizing Cesare by mentioning what I overheard, otherwise he'll upgrade his method of torture to something I can't abide. If he ever noticed how I stiffened in the swimming pool, then he'd drag me out of the basement and drown away the last vestiges of my sanity.

He wouldn't risk giving me the chance to escape. Most likely, he'd put me in sensory deprivation.

His footsteps approach, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Eavesdropping on that conversation has made me think of my own survival. What's Cesare's end game?

It's always the same with the predatory type of psychopath. He'll lose interest after he breaks my spirit and turns me into an obedient pet, then I'll die.

"Want to come?" he asks.

"Who doesn't?" I reply through clenched teeth.

"Look at me."

I crack open an eye.

All traces of mania have left his expression, leaving him looking somber. This is probably some kind of lull because he's realized he isn't invincible.

"Are you sure the hit is canceled?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

I gulp. "You should know I can't give you guarantees."

"Explain."

"Unexpected events like Roman's release from death row will cause waves. If he's innocent like the papers say, then whoever framed him might want to finish the job the state of New Alderney failed to execute."

He scowls. "So, the information you gave me is useless. What's the point of keeping you alive?"

My adrenaline spikes, and the monitors go apeshit. I grind my teeth and force in a deep breath to slow my pulse. "I can't control who wants you dead."

"Give me something," he growls through clenched teeth.

"Okay." I lick my lips, my heart fluttering with nerves, wishing I could think straight. "Don't be at the same place at the same time. That makes you too much of a tempting target. If you do, then wear bulletproof vests."

"How does that help protect our heads?" he asks with a sneer.

"It's company policy not to damage the face so the corpse will be recognizable."

"And you get paid." Every word drips with venom.

His eyes bore into mine, his features hardening with judgment and scorn. He acts like my line of work is lower than his.

Forcing back the sting of his judgment, I hold his gaze. Cesare Montesano wouldn't know how it feels to be powerless, outcast, and desperate to save a child from a life of abuse.

"It must be nice to be pampered with no responsibilities apart from keeping yourself alive," I say. "Assassins make clean kills and don't drag out people's pain by torturing them or peddling drugs."

He flashes his teeth. "You think you're better than me?"

"Murder is just business," I say.

His lip curls. "Anything else you want to share?"

"Have you ever thought of being less of an asshole? That could slash the number of people who want you dead."

A sadistic cackle pierces my eardrums and makes my skin crawl with dread. What the hell possessed me to provoke this maniac and goad him to subject me to further horrors?

When he walks to the sink to wash his hands, my stomach plummets, and I imagine him sewing my mouth shut.

My heart pounds as he returns to the end of the table and stands between my spread legs.

"Still want to come?" he asks.

I stiffen.

This has to be a trick.

He unbuckles the chastity belt and rubs the pad of his finger over my swollen clit. Sparks of pleasure skitter across my sex, and the muscles of my pussy tighten with need.

I've wanted to come for hours, if not days.

"Are you... are you serious?" I choke out. "Because if this is another of your games?—"

"No game."

As he makes gentle circles over my needy clit, a part of me wants to sob with relief. This is a hundred times more intimate than the chastity belt's vibrator, and I'm so sensitive that I feel every ridge of his skin.

His slow strokes detonate tiny sparks along my nerves, burning slowly toward what's going to be an explosive climax. If he even allows me to come.

Arousal makes my heart pound, and the muscles of my pussy clench and release in sync with Cesare's finger. I glance at the monitors and shiver as my blood pressure and heart rate climb. No matter how slowly I force myself to breathe, I can't control my body's response.

Inhale. Stay calm. Exhale. Don't spike. Inhale. Exhale.

Shit.

The numbers climb toward the dreaded threshold. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and try to stem the rising tide of arousal, but it's no use. The alarms blare, making my ears ring with the shrill sound of my body's betrayal.

Cesare's finger slows to a halt.

Emotions flood my psyche, causing my internal walls to tremble under the weight of fury, fear, and frustration. My eyes sting with unshed tears, and it takes every ounce of strength to keep them from spilling.

"Eyes on me."

My eyes snap open, loosening two tears.

"Hump it," he says, his grin widening with malice.

"What?" I rasp.

"If you're that desperate to come, then take what you need."

I hesitate, my eyes wide, my heartbeat pounding against my eardrums. "Is this a test?" I ask, trying not to stumble over my words. "Some kind of joke?"

His gaze softens. "Go on, pet."

I should close my eyes, turn my head, and refuse to play his sick games. But hunger, thirst, and hours of sexual torture have changed the chemistry of my blood. My hormones rage at me to take what's offered and clear my head with an orgasm, so I can think through my escape.

My survival instincts wonder what happens if I give Cesare everything he wants and he gets bored? Will I end up like Tania, dead and discarded?

"Want a shower?" he asks.

I clench my jaw. There's no fucking way he'll ever unbuckle these restraints. I'll say yes, and he'll drench me with the sprinklers. Or a hose. Or he'll stick my head in a bath.

Shit. I should stop imagining the worst.

"If you want me to take you to the bathroom, then you'll come on my finger like a good pet," he growls.

My resolve crumbles, and I buck my hips within the restraints, rubbing my aching clit against his finger. It feels so good that my throat loosens a whimper.

"Tell me how much you love this," he says.

"Get fucked," I reply through clenched teeth.

"Watch your mouth." He slaps my thigh, and the sting goes straight to my clit. "If you don't want me to pull my hand away, then you'll beg me for more."

Gritting my teeth, I force back a moan. "I love it."

"Louder."

"I said I fucking love it," I snap, my hips jerking.

"Tell me more."

"Your finger is so thick," I say through clenched teeth. "I love rubbing myself against it."

He flashes me a grin, his eyes dancing. "What else?"

I've fucked men to perform kills or to gather intel, but none of them have ever forced me to say something so degrading. Humiliation burns through my body like an inferno, electrifying my nerves with an endorphin rush.

My senses become agitated, alive, alert, and my pleasure receptors sing. I'm trembling with anticipation, my breaths coming in short bursts, desperate to chase these intense sensations. Even if I wanted this to end, my hips can't stop writhing.

What the fuck is this crazy bastard doing to my psyche?

He's fine-tuning my kinks, transforming me from someone who enjoys pain into the truest form of masochist.

"Dirty little pet," he says with a cruel chuckle. "So horny, so wet. Humping my finger like a bitch in heat."

I grit my teeth and grind out, "Don't. Fucking. Stop."

He reaches over and delivers a sharp slap to my breast, sending another jolt of pleasure to my clit. Quivering, I moan, my nipples aching for his cruel fingers. I want him to pinch and twist them. To make me scream.

"Fuck," he groans. "You're dripping. Streaming for me. Shaking like a fucking slut."

I squeeze my eyes shut, loosening tears that roll down the sides of my face and mingle with my sweat. The last vestiges of my self-respect scream at me to get a grip, but my hips won't stop chasing the pleasure.

It's intoxicating.

"You should see your cunt," he says, the words taunting. "It's fucking pulsing."

"F-Fuck you," I snarl through gritted teeth.

"Is that what you want, pretty pet?" His voice drops to a low growl that makes my fine hairs stand alert. "You want me to remove your stitches?"

Yes. God, yes.

I need him to fill me with that massive cock. I need him to pound into my pussy like a beast. I need him to fuck me with all his might.

"Fuck no!" I yell, the denial tearing me apart.

He pulls his hand away and steps back, leaving me alone in the horror of my own lust.

"Time for a shower," he says with a smirk.