Page 10 of Ruthless Desire

There's an art to the hunt, a delicate dance of advance and retreat. Rushing the seduction would be ungentlemanly. Crude. Natalie deserves the full force of my devotion, the grandest of grand gestures.

And that takes time. Patience. Precision.

All qualities my illustrious father beat into me, usually with the drunken fury of his fists. But I've transcended his limited philosophies, elevated depravity to an artform all my own. Dear old dad never could appreciate the sublime rapture of total control, too blinded by his own base impulses. His loss.

"Penny for your thoughts, boss?" Alonzo's gruff baritone shatters my reverie like a brick through a stained glass window.

I glance up, annoyed at the intrusion. He's hovering in the door, his hulking form nearly eclipsing the warm amber light of the hallway. I take a moment to admire the effect –Alonzo always did have a knack for unintentional dramatic flair– before addressing him.

"Just pondering the strange turns of fate," I murmur, my gaze drifting back to Natalie's ethereal visage. "The way two lost souls can be drawn together, like moths to a flame. Destined to either merge or immolate in the heat of their mutual darkness."

Alonzo shifts his considerable bulk, a flicker of unease rippling across his craggy features. "About that, boss. The men have been talking–"

I wave off his concern with a languid flick of my wrist. "Let them talk. Gossip is the currency of small minds and smaller ambitions."

Rising from my chair, I cross to the mahogany bar cart and pour three fingers of 25-year Macallan. The rich amber liquid catches the light, throwing off motes of tawny iridescence. A beautiful illusion, belying the smoky burn to come. Not unlike a certain raven-haired beauty, all devastating angles and searing, unquenchable fire trapped in a shell of fragile porcelain.

I take a slow sip, savoring the flavors as they unfurl across my tongue. Caramel, oak, just a whisper of orange peel. Complex yet balanced. Mature.

The kind of spirit that commands reverence, demands to be sipped and savored, not guzzled by uncouth swine.

Like Natalie's supple charms. Those exquisite curves and inky tresses, ripe for worshipful exploration. I'll map every hollow and summit with lips and teeth and tongue, compose odes to each quivering nerve and yielding secret.

But only when the time is right.

Only when she's been primed like a Rembrandt canvas, every brushstroke of pleasure and pain leading to the crowning moment of surrender.

Alonzo clears his throat, dragging me back to the moment. "With all due respect, boss, some of the men think this chick's got you off your game. That maybe you're getting a little too, uh, invested."

I let the implication hang in the air for a beat, the words turning leaden and awkward. Then I laugh, a jagged sound that ricochets off the walls like shrapnel from a frag grenade.

"Invested?" I stalk towards Alonzo, a wolf scenting wounded prey. He backs up instinctively, his shoulder blades thumping against the doorframe. "Natalie Quinn is my fucking endgame. The jewel that will crown my empire, cement my legacy as a god among men."

I lean in, close enough to smell the fear perspiring from his every pore. It mingles with the pungent notes of his cheap cologne, a pedestrian assortment of artificial musk and spices.

Nauseating.

One day I'll have to gently steer him towards a more refined fragrance. Something crisp and elemental, to complement that Neolithic brow and jutting jaw.

"I've moved heaven and earth to lay the groundwork for her seduction," I continue, my voice dropping to a silken purr. "Called in every favor, greased every palm from here to Timbuktu. This masterpiece has been months in the making, each brushstroke painstakingly applied. So no, Alonzo, I am not 'too invested'. If anything, I have yet to invest enough."

I step back, straightening my tie with a sharp, fluid motion. "But that will soon change. Tonight, I make my grand debut into Natalie's waking world. I'll be the dark knight to her tortured damsel, the Hades to her Persephone. And once she's tasted the forbidden fruit of my attentions, there will be no going back."

Alonzo opens his mouth again, but I silence him with a look. I've indulged his baseless fretting long enough. It's time to focus on the task at hand – the complete and utter ruination of Natalie Quinn.

"The penthouse. Is it ready?"

He swallows, adam's apple bobbing like a cork in a churning sea. "Yes, boss. The men just finished the final touches. It's all exactly to your specifications, down to the--"

"The wall color in the master suite," I interrupt, impatient now. "What shade did you procure in the end?"

"Byzantium. That particular shade of royal purple with just a hint of--"

"Magenta," I finish, the word rolling off my tongue like a decadent snake of a name. "Perfect for my queen. It'll play exquisitely off her milk-white skin, make that raven hair glisten like onyx in the candlelight."

I'm already picturing it. Natalie splayed out on sheets of the finest eggplant silk, limbs heavy and pliant from both champagne and drugging pleasure. Her mercurial eyes glazed with sated passion, tracing over the constellations I've carved into her trembling flesh with my mouth, my hands, the glinting edge of my blade.

She'll be a debauched goddess, a dark Venus rising from the seafoam of blood-spattered pillows. And I, her twisted Pygmalion, finally beholding my greatest creation.

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