2. Victoria

I’m fumingas I stride away from Cian, my entire body humming with a mixture of arousal and anger. His words keep replaying in my head, branding themselves on my brain like a hot iron. Cock-tease. As if I don’t have the right to use all the power I have to get what I want, and I wanted that kill. I was prepared to do it myself, but Cian had to swoop in like a fucking hero. His jealous streak wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise.

The air is cool outside as it is winter. Too fucking cold to be walking around in a short denim skirt, lightweight jacket and heels, but fuck it. As chilly as it is, it does nothing to quench the fire inside. The bastard knows how to push my buttons, knows how to make me burn with desire and rage at the same time. It’s infuriating that I love it so much, that I love him so much.

“Fucker.” He is a Gannon through and through. They’re all like peas in a fucking pod. Irish, tall, dark and way too handsome for his own fucking good. Ruthless, charming, all the things that make my cunt wet. “Fucking fucker.”

I ignore the glances from the few students still loitering around the Union at this hour. They can sense something dangerous just passed by them, and they’re not wrong. I feel lethal—like every step I take leaves scorched earth behind.

I’ve shot myself in the foot, figuratively speaking, because I’m heading home, which is on the other side of this vast campus. Cian’s is a stone’s throw from the Union, his domain, just the way he likes it. But my townhouse feels like a million miles away right now. I have a fifteen minute walk in these heels and contemplate calling for a taxi, but that’s just fucking dumb, and gives Cian exactly what he wants: an excuse to swoop in and be the fucking hero. Again. No fucking way am I giving him that satisfaction tonight.

So, I walk. The rhythm of my heels against the pavement soothes the chaotic whirlwind that’s been on my mind since Dad called for this meeting. We’re midway through the last year at BlackBriar, an elite university where the kids of powerhouses in the mafia world stretch their criminal wings, so whatever this is, it’s not good.

Halfway across campus, now deserted and dark, a prickle goes over the back of my neck. Narrowing my eyes, I don’t stop. It’s just Cian being a prick and following me to either scare me or make sure I get home. Not that any idiot stupid enough to follow me to scare me is going to get what they want. Not from me and not fucking tonight. So, I ignore him and keep walking.

It feels like hours when I finally spot the townhouse looming in the darkness. Striding up the path, digging in my jacket pocket for my keys, I stop dead when I see the black box on the doormat. Pulling the thin stiletto blade out of the holster at my back, I crouch down and glare at it. It’s the size of a shoebox with one of those stick-on red rosette ribbons on it. Using the tip of the knife, I gingerly lift the lid and then rear back.

“Oh, fuck no,” I growl as I scowl inside the box. It’s crawling with—massive gag—maggots over withered-up roses, but the pièce de résistance is a small rag doll with black woollen hair and a black cotton dress that has been burned enough to disfigure.

Rolling my eyes, I pull out my phone and take a quick pic before I drop the lid and shove it back into place with the top of the knife. This isn’t the first threat I’ve had, and it won’t be the last. But I don’t do maggots.

Fuck off. No.

Rising, I take the pointed toe of my heel and kick it slowly down the path until I reach the bordering hedge and slide it under there with my foot. I’ll deal with it tomorrow, but I don’t want those little fuckers anywhere near my front door while I’m asleep.

I shudder and walk back to the door, unlocking it and shoving it open, checking the threshold for creepie-crawlies before I step inside.

Giving it the all-clear, I shut the door and slide the bolt across. I leave the lights off as I kick my shoes off to pad across the Italian tiled entrance hall of this three-bedroom townhouse that my dad bought me when I was first accepted into BlackBriar three years ago. I wanted to attend Castle University, the quam optime of mafia elite universities, but Dad insisted on BlackBriar. It’s where he went and ruled, and as his only child, so too shall I.

I reach my bedroom on the second floor and close the door behind me. I toss the phone and knife onto my bed, where it lands with a muffled thud on the plush duvet.

The reflection staring back at me from the mirror across the room looks worn out—eyes that have seen too much bullshit for one evening. Stripping off my jacket, black tee and skirt, I let them fall to the floor, not caring where they land.

Scooping my long black hair, I tie it up in a messy bun and then strip off my black bra, letting my tits tumble free. They’re way too big for my liking. Cian loves them, loves driving his cock between them, but the Double Ds are not my best asset in my eyes.

But I can’t deny that when they grew, that’s when he stopped touching me.

Gritting my teeth against the memories of a childhood best forgotten, that I need to stay buried deep in my black soul, resurface in a moment of weakness that I absolutely will not allow again anytime soon, I turn from the mirror. After a quick shower, I crawl into bed, letting sleep, and the haze of a couple of glasses of scotch drag me under.

I waketo a banging on the front door, I groan as it’s too fucking early. I know it is before I even pick up my phone from somewhere in the covers to check.

“Ugh,” I spit out as I see ten missed calls and fifteen text messages. All from Cian.

It doesn’t take a fucking genius to know it’s him at the door.

I push myself out of bed, feeling like shit warmed over. I grab the black silk robe hanging off the bedpost and shrug it on, knotting the sash tight across my waist. A yawn wrestles its way out as I trudge down the stairs, each step making my head thud louder.

The pounding on the door doesn’t let up, and I know Cian won’t either. He’s relentless when he wants something, and right now, that something is obviously me.

I don’t even bother to check as I slide the bolt across and yank the door open with enough force that I jar my fucking shoulder.

Cian stands there, his dark hair a mess and his dark blue eyes wild. He leans one hand against the doorframe, his other balled in a fist that stops mid-air when he sees me. Before he can say a word, I cut him off.

“What the actual fuck, Cian? It’s—“ I glance back at my phone, “—five in the fucking morning.”

“Victoria,” he starts, but I’m not having any of it.

“No,” I press a finger to his chest. “You do not get to ‘Victoria’ me after this shit.”

“Why didn’t you pick up?” he murmurs, the intensity in his gaze sends that dark thrill skittering over my soul.

“I was asleep.”

“With who?” he growls.

Snorting, I shake my head. “Don’t be a jealous fuck or you can fuck off.”

“Need you,” he murmurs, pushing his way into my house, forcing me to step back or be mowed over. “You know how I get when you don’t answer me.”

“Don’t give me that toxic bullshit. The way you get isn’t my fucking problem,” I snarl, beyond pissed off with him right now.

He slams the door shut and grabs my upper arms, forcing me back to the side table where I keep my keys. He lifts me up to sit on the table and wedges himself between my thighs, already pulling his cock out.

“Mine,” he growls, and it’s not a fucking question. He’s staking his claim, like he always does, his face inches from mine, eyes burning with possessiveness. I can feel the hard head of his dick as he presses against me, and fuck, I hate how my body responds to him.

“You don’t own me,” I spit back, even as my hands betray me and reach for him. The silk of my robe parts, and he doesn’t miss a beat, his fingers digging into my flesh, claiming every inch of me as if he has the right. It’s infuriating and intoxicating all at once.

Cian grunts in response, his mouth crashing down on mine in a bruising kiss that tastes like desperation and need. There’s no tenderness, just raw hunger. He grips my thighs, pushing down as he shoves his cock deep inside me in one thrust.

All coherent thought is blasted away by the onslaught of sensation. His movements are rough and urgent, driving into me with a force that borders on pain but skirts the edge just enough to make it pleasure. It’s dark, and it’s twisted – this thing we have – but in moments like this, I don’t want to analyse it. I just want to feel it.

I rake my nails down the sides of his neck, making him grunt. His pace is relentless as he pounds into me, each thrust harder and more brutal than the last.

He stiffens and unloads into me before I’ve even got wet enough to soak his cock.

“Nice,” I snap, pushing him away as he grins, that lazy fucking smile I want to punch off his face. Or sit on. It’s a blurred line. Always with him.

“My fucking doll,” he murmurs, stashing his dick in his pants. “My little cum dumpster.”

“Fuck you—” I slap his face so hard, his head snaps back. “Wait. What did you say?”

He glares at me, bringing his hand up to his face. He is fucking furious as I’ve split his lip, but I know with every cell in my body that he won’t strike back. Not ever.

“Cum dumpster,” he spits out. “That’s all you fucking are.”

“Oh, fuck off, Cian,” I say, shaking my head and folding my arms. “The first bit.”

He gives me a fierce frown. “My fucking doll?”

“Yeah, that bit. Was it you?”

“Was what me?”

Huffing, I pick up my phone where I dropped it and show him the picture from last night.

His lip curls up. “No, but now I wish it was.”

“You’re an ass.”

“Not going to deny it,” he says with a smirk. “Someone sent this to you?” He has gone protective now, the sudden shift in his mood that is as erratic as mine. Maybe that’s why we work so well together. Well, that and I don’t take any of his bullshit. “Where is it now?”

“Under the hedge out front.”

He turns from me and opens the door, striding down the path as I stand in the doorway with my thin satin robe fluttering around me in the breeze, his cum coating the inside of my thighs. He crouches down and flips the lid off the box, giving it a look of disgust.

The doll inside is a grotesque mockery, a pathetic attempt at a threat. It’s fucking amateur hour. Whoever sent it, but the message is clear: I’m being watched. It strikes me then that whoever I sensed following me last night probably wasn’t Cian. He stands up, his jaw set in a hard line, and glances back at me before his eyes scan the street like he’s going to catch the fucker loitering with a latte.

He marches back to me, grabs my wrist, and hauls me inside. “You’re cleaning up, and then we’re tracing this,” he orders.

“Can’t. Daddy time,” I remind him.

He nods slowly. “He coming here?”

I nod.

“Better get cleaned up then, princess. Unless you want to face him with my cum dripping out of your pussy.” His smug smile pisses me off, but I can’t help laughing at him either. “I’ll call Luke and Gianluca. No one fucks with my girl.” He draws me in and kisses the top of my head, all sweetness and protection. This is the Cian I would walk through fire for. Even when he’s being a cock, I know this side of him exists. He’s as fucked up in the head as I am, and we both know it about each other.

As Cian locks up the front door, I head to the bathroom, scrubbing off the remnants of our rough encounter. When I’m done, I find clothes that mean business: tight jeans and a black tank top—they make me feel in control even when everything else is spiralling.