Page 76 of Corrupted Heart

“Yes, even that. You say your word right now, and it all stops. Even this marriage deal.”

The wide, thick pad of his finger keeps rolling over my clit, making my legs shake as I bite back a moan.

“But we both know you won’t,” he murmurs into my ear. “You can’t, can you?” His teeth bite my earlobe sharply, making me wince as my pussy clenches and quivers. “You’re just too greedy a little slut to shut the whole thing down…aren’t you.”

My whole body begins to shake. My pulse roars in my ears. My breath chokes off as my eyes roll back.

“Say it, babygirl.”

The filthy, squelching sounds of my messy, wet pussy rubbing against my slick panties is so loud I can feel my face burn. But he’s right.

I’m not going to say it.

I can’t.

I need this darkness.

“Say it.”

Kratos rubs harder and faster, groaning deeply into my ear as my legs begin to give out. The thickness of his finger rolls perfectly over my swollen clit, until suddenly, I can’t hold back any longer.

When I come, he clamps a hand tightly over my mouth. I know it’s to muffle my cries, but the sudden lack of oxygen sends me into orbit. I scream into his hand, my entire body shuddering as I slump against him. Kratos keeps me pinned to his massive body, his finger still rubbing my aching pussy through my pants until I swear I’m about to faint.

It’s only then that he pulls away, a dark, satisfied smirk on his lips.

“Well,” he growls quietly. “I guess that’s your final answer…fiancée.”

15

KRATOS

“Mr. Drakos?” The man in the dark suit bows. “Mr. Kirakosian will see you now.”

I nod back, standing stiffly and grimacing as I flex my shoulders in my tuxedo.

I hate getting dressed up. That’s not to say I don’t like looking good or dressing sharp. But when you’re my size, “fancy” clothes are usually a major pain in the ass. People shit on NFL players for showing up to prestigious award banquets in track pants. But for real? I get it.

I haven’t donned a tux specifically to meet with Davit. But Bianca’s and my engagement “party”—if you want to call it that, which I don’t—is starting soon, and I needed to see Davit quickly before it begins. Obviously, he was invited to this shitshow, as were many heads of criminal organizations here in New York: the Kildares, the Reznikov Bratva, Jayden Robinson—who helms the Jamaican Cartel here in the city and is a close family friend—and more.

Oddly enough, Davit sent word just last night that that he’d be unable to attend. So I’ve opted to stop by before the party starts, to see if I can suss out why.

I follow a guard through Davit’s stunning Gilded Age mansion on the Upper West Side. They may be new to New York, but the Kirakosian family and Te Mallkuarit have done extremely well for themselves over the years. Spoiler: it shows.

The man opens a set of double doors, and I step into what appears to be Davit’s personal study—a huge, light-filled room with ornate furnishings and floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. What stops me cold isn’t the elegant room, though.

It’s the fact that Davit nods his head in greeting from the hospital bed he’s lying in.

My brow furrows. “Mr. Kirakosian, I?—”

“Didn’t know?” He smirks. “Well, that would be because I’m keeping this a secret.”

“And it’s going to stay a secret,” a stern voice growls from behind me.

I half turn and nod my head at the younger man around my age striding into the room. Arian Kirakosian, Davit’s only son and next in line for his father’s position as head of Te Mallkuarit, gives me a dark, lingering glare.

“Is that clear?” he mutters, eying me. “Or is that secrecy something else you and your family will carelessly destroy?”

I could take the bait, but I choose not to—just as I choose not to drive my fist into his face right now. Because I can see more than five minutes into the future, and I’m smart enough to know that settling any animosity between the Albanians and my family is ultimately a good thing.

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