Page 22 of Promise to Break

"Kill—" My name comes out as a little gasp. My body hums with satisfaction as I try to climb inside her, completely lost to her unique aroma. One of her hands caresses my flesh, although I'm not sure she realizes what she's doing. I know she feels the bumps there because her movement slows. I, however, suck harder on her bottom lip.

"Breath— I can't—" she manages between gasps. I give her a moment to take in the oxygen she needs while I pull the skin on her neck between my lips. I wait for her to tell me off. She doesn't, and I can only assume it's because she's lost to this moment. To me. Good.

"I bet you're wet as fuck," I whisper so only she can hear. "My little wild child wants me between her legs, doesn't she?" I get no answer, and I don't wait for one as I take her lips again, and little sounds of despair are all I hear.

"Whimper for me, Little Girl," I order, biting the center of her neck. She doesn't. Not because she's trying to refuse me.

Later, she will. I know she will.

Now, however, she can't.

Her body is in control of her faculties, so I use it, biting her lips hard, causing her to cry into me.

Fuck, she's everything.

Her surrender is here. Small as it is, she gives me a cry of abandon. Knowing how much it cost her busy mind, I reward her with a pinch to her earlobe.

Claps and whistles enter our little world, causing her wild eyes to open. The green and blue have fully collided now, creating an unnatural turquoise just for me. I try to keep on kissing her, knowing the end will come at any moment. She starts to push me away, and although she's strong for her small frame, she's no challenge to my much larger one. Her attempt is like a tiny Chihuahua trying to push away a full-grown lion. Somehow, I don't think she'd appreciate the comparison, so I say nothing.

Eventually, I let her go with a final touch to her lips. I see the slap coming, but I don't stop it, and just like the tiny dog, her bite is as strong as her bark. I take the time to relish her disheveled state. Her locks are in disarray, her plump lips swollen and, I'm guessing, sensitive to the touch, and her eyes are still full of that incredible turquoise I created.

"Everyone," I shout, refusing to acknowledge my hard cock as I turn to the poor fucks in front of me. "Inform everyone you know that no matter what happens from this point forward, no one touches, bullies, or harms Maricela Fernandez in any way. She's mine."

I turn back to her shocked face and nip at her lower lip again. See her eyes glaze over just before I walk away, my cock still hard for all to see.

"This isn't over," she yells in a not-so-steady voice.

"Bring it on, Wild Child." My chuckle carries on all the way to the nearest bathroom as I take my clothes from my amused friends. Kai just shakes his head at the show, as always. He looks like one of those Russian dolls that never stops moving. I think his mother called them Nevalayshka. Kai is just like that. Instead of saying what he thinks, he just makes his body move appropriately to speak for him. One day, someone is going to break his vow of silence.

Liam lets out a snort of laughter. "This is going to be a blast, my lad."

I tend to agree with him. This is going to be refreshing.

Chapter ten

Killian

"Your father is a sick man." Kai stares at the mess on the floor. The gore surrounded by a pool of blood with vacant eyes lost to the calmness of death is not something new to the three of us. However, the body of a young boy is. Franco called me in the middle of a soccer game, ordering me to a cleanup. It isn't the first time he's done that. We have people for that kind of work, but according to Franco, some jobs are mine.

When I was younger, I'd research the people I killed—or took care of, as Santino likes to put it. The mafia doesn't use the term kill. People like us don't kill we are solving problems. I'm the only killer, because of a stupid name. I am the killer of the family, the mafia, not only by name, but by action.

So, when I was called to clean up duty, my first thought was that my asshole of a brother made a mess again. I wanted to go alone, but these two morons I have, as friends, insisted on tagging along. They're loyal fuckers. I'll give them that.

The scene in front of me tells me about an easy departure. Too easy. As if this poor sop was just picked from the streets because of how he looked. Just like Newt, maybe a little bit older. Franco likes to play these games.

"You should have stayed home," I tell them. "Your parents won't approve." And they really won't. No matter how fucked up their family dynamics are, William or Nikolai would never approve of these little missions of my father's. Franco is an actor of life. A pathological liar. Even Al Pacino would stand bold in front of the persona Daddy Dearest created for himself. But people refuse to see the authentic man who lurks behind those kind smiles and good food.

People worship Franco. Some bow to him by force and others by blind belief in the good of his unfeeling heart. He and I are regrettably the same in that regard. We suffer from what society likes to call a god complex. However, suffering is too big of a concept for people like us. People like us don't suffer, not really. We never see the error of our ways because we don't make mistakes, or so we think and believe. Manipulation, humiliation, and gaslighting are practiced on a daily basis.

Most importantly, it's in our power to decide who should live and who should die.

My mother refuses to acknowledge that I suffer from such a monstrous condition. After all, I never would have realized it if I did.

Wrong.

Most know that, on a conscious level, we can do whatever we need to reach our goal. Psychologists and researchers would probably tell you that those who know about said complex are those who were abused by it. I tend to agree. Killing, abuse, and torture come easy to me, especially but not exclusively if I think it's the right path. I tend to think that a lot. I kill just for the hell of it, as well.

It's not enjoyable for me. Liam declares the reason for that is because I don't let my beast feel the kill. He likes it. He craves the blood, the begging, the crying, and begging some more. The difference between him and me is our psyche. Liam is what society would tag as a sociopath, whereas I would be considered an empath. I kill people for a living, and I'll be doing it until I die of old age or torture.