Page 30 of Draven

His mouth crashes against mine, and he roughly pushes me backward until my ass hits the wall. I pound my fists against his chest, but he quickly captures my wrists and raises them over my head, his hips pinning me in place—an almost mirror image of our last frenzied coming together. Forcing my lips open with his tongue, he explores every inch of my mouth, his kiss more powerful and more punishing than last night.

A swell of desire starts in the pit of my stomach, spreading outward, sending tingles over my entire body. I tilt my pelvis, greedy for the friction and more of the thick erection I can feel through his jeans, my anger withering under his attention.

God, this is so fucked up.

Draven groans into my mouth before he releases my hands and grips my hips, yanking me forward and grinding himself against me.

Oh, yeah, right there.

He releases me so fast, I stumble. By the time I’ve found my balance, Draven has moved to the other side of the room and is perching casually on the end of the table. I, meanwhile, can’t catch a breath, my chest heaving as I struggle to get myself under control while trying to maintain my dignity.

Dignity? Ha! Safe to say that ship has sailed.

“What the hell was that?” I snap.

He flicks a shoulder in a careless gesture. “Had to shut you up somehow. It was either my tongue or my dick I shoved in there.”

Vibrating with contained rage, I grind my teeth hard enough to need a trip to the dentist. “You are a giant asshole, and I hate you.”

“That delicious flush across your cheeks sends a different message, Lola.”

I press my hands to my face, covering the offending tell. “That’s anger, not desire, Draven. Maybe learn to tell the difference. Now, can we get back to the subject at hand?”

His gaze slides over my skin, taking in every inch of my body, but I force myself not to react, even if my blood heats and my nerve endings tingle. There’s something about the way he looks at me as though he wants to fuck me and murder me at the same time that turns me on. What that says about me isn’t an issue I’m keen to examine too closely.

“Do you know what Gia Moretti’s role is in her husband’s organization?”

“No,” I say folding my arms beneath my chest, needing the false protection it offers. “Why would I?”

“Why indeed. Allow me to enlighten you. She sources the girls, finds the most desperate ones: the runaways, the drug addicts, the kids trying to escape an abusive home. She befriends them, gets them to trust her, and once they have, she hands them over to Moretti. You see, she likes to watch. Watch him and his associates while they rape, torture, and maim. Most of the girls don’t last a year. They’re fucked to death before they’re dumped like they never mattered, like their lives weren’t valuable just because they’d fallen on hard times. Nice, huh? So, yeah, she’s real innocent. And as soon as we have enough evidence to throw her ass in jail for the rest of her life, I’ll take great pleasure in snapping a pair of cuffs on that evil bitch.”

I pick at my bottom lip, his words turning my stomach. I know exactly what happens in a lot of these kinds of cases, but hearing it aloud makes it all the worse.

“Even so, Draven, by doing what you did, doesn’t that make you just as bad as him? Whatever her crimes, or however a disgusting excuse for a human she clearly is, it’s the responsibility of the courts to hand out sentences, not you.”

A muscle thrashes in his cheek, and his dark pupils dilate. I don’t miss his giant hands curling into fists, either. “You don’t know me at all, do you?”

I snort. “No, actually, I don’t. I haven’t seen you in eight years, and even back then, did I ever really know you? Does anyone know the real you?”

“What did I ask you to do right before Moretti walked into that room?” His voice is low and menacing, but there’s also a hint of disappointment buried beneath the surface of his words. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s hurt.

I press my fingers into my temple as the onset of a headache forms right behind my eyes. “To trust you.”

“Exactly, so why didn’t you? Do you think so little of me that you think I’d allow harm to come to any woman, including the likes of Gia Moretti?”

“Of course not,” I say. “And in answer to your question of trust, I don’t know, Draven. Maybe because hearing that woman’s terrified scream, even if I know and you know she wouldn’t come to any physical harm, pushed my buttons. Those men might have been acting, but she didn’t know that. And all I can think is that this is Kiera’s reality.” A sob threatens, but I swallow it down. Crying won’t do me any good, and I don’t want Draven to hit me with the female emotions card. If he does, I might actually murder him.

“That wasn’t Moretti’s wife.”

“What?”

“I said it wasn’t Moretti’s wife on the other end of the line.”

His repeated statement hits me like a wrecking ball. Stunned, I rub my forehead, squinting at him. “What are you talking about? Of course, it was his wife. He went crazy when he heard her.”

Draven shakes his head. “The woman you heard was not Moretti’s wife,” he repeats for a third time, the faintest hint of annoyance in his tone. “Her name is Octavia. I’ll introduce you if you like. Octavia has a rather unusual talent. She can hear a voice once and imitate it. Men, women, children. I’ve heard her do them all. Damn useful talent it is too, and one I’ve used many times over the years during sting operations.”

My mouth drops open. Struggling for words, I run both hands through my hair. “Th-that’s impossible.”

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