Page 14 of Ruthless Desire

I roll out of bed with a groan, my joints popping like bubble wrap. Thirty’s still a few years off, but my body feels like it’s been through the wringer. Hazards of the starving artist lifestyle, I guess.

My phone’s blowing up as I stumble into the kitchen, the texts piling up like a Jenga tower. More from Mark, my agent.

“OMG Nat, you won’t believe this! Your whole REBORN series just got snapped up. 6 figures, babe!! ?????? Call me, we need to celebrate!”

I stare blankly at the words, waiting for my sleep-deprived brain to catch up. Six…figures? For my paintings, I poured my blackest bits of soul into? It feels like some sick cosmic joke.

With shaking fingers, I set down the phone. Ever since this mysterious benefactor started playing fairy godmother, my skin won’t stop crawling. Eyes constantly burn holes in the back of my neck, even in the safety of my apartment.

I shudder, pushing away the paranoid thoughts buzzing like wasps in my skull. Stop being so fucking ungrateful, Natalie. This is everything you busted your ass for. Take the money and run.

Except running is the last thing I can do, tethered to this hellhole by some unseen force. Maybe it’s my penance for all the bullshit I pulled to get here. Or maybe the universe just gets off on dangling temptation in front of girls like me, only to snatch it away.

The ancient coffeemaker sputters to life, its hiss soon drowned out by an urgent pounding at my door. The sound shoots ice through my veins, rooting me to the linoleum.

Every hair on my body is telling me to grab the knife and get the fuck out of Dodge. I’ve watched enough true crime docs to know better than to answer…but another part of me knows that I would never be able to escape him anyway.

Chapter 6 Dante

Istare at the live feed playing across the array of screens before me, my eyes devouring her every move. The way she worries that plump lower lip as she paints, the graceful arc of her throat as she throws back another shot of whiskey. Even in these stolen, unguarded moments, she takes my breath away.

A dark angel, oozing raw sensuality and tortured genius.

My fingers itch to touch her, to trace the delicate curve of her collarbone, to tangle in the inky mass of her hair. But she's not here. She's in her dingy little apartment, blissfully unaware of the storm that's about to descend upon her.

The memory of her rejection at the gala burns like acid in my veins. The way she'd looked at me, equal parts desire and terror, before turning tail and fleeing into the night. It was... unprecedented. Infuriating. Intoxicating.

No one says no to Dante Corleone. No one.

"Boss?" Alonzo's gruff voice breaks through my reverie. "The car's ready. Are you sure about this?"

I turn to face him, my most trusted lieutenant, my human attack dog. The concern etched on his craggy features would be touching if it wasn't so fucking irritating.

"Tell me, Alonzo," I drawl, my voice dripping with lethal calm. "When was the last time someone questioned my decisions and lived to tell about it?"

He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing like a buoy in choppy waters. "Never, boss. I just... this girl. She's got you all twisted up. Maybe it's best to let her go, yeah? Plenty of other fish in the sea and all that."

A laugh tears itself from my throat, jagged and mirthless. "Let her go?" I stalk towards him, a predator scenting weakness. "Oh, my simple friend. You don't understand. Natalie Quinn isn't some common whore to be used and discarded. She's... everything. The missing piece to my empire, the dark queen to rule by my side."

I grip his shoulder, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his suit. "She just doesn't know it yet. But she will. Oh, she will."

Alonzo nods, knowing better than to argue further. Smart man. I've broken bigger, stronger men for far less.

The ride to Natalie's apartment is a blur of neon and shadow, the city's underbelly pulsing with nocturnal life. But I'm blind to it all, my mind consumed with visions of alabaster skin and storm-gray eyes.

I can almost taste her fear, her desire. The intoxicating cocktail of emotions that radiate off her in waves whenever I'm near. It's addictive, this push and pull between us. A dance of predator and prey, though I'm not always sure which is which.

The lock on her door is laughably easy to bypass. A flick of my wrist, a twist of a pick, and I'm in. The scent of her hits me like a physical blow – paint and turpentine, cheap whiskey and something uniquely, intoxicatingly Natalie.

My cock stirs, straining against the confines of my tailored slacks. Just being in her space, surrounded by the detritus of her life, is enough to set my blood on fire.

I move through the cramped apartment like a wraith, taking in every detail. Half-finished canvases litter every surface, splashes of color and violence that mirror the chaos in her soul. Empty liquor bottles and overflowing ashtrays speak to her desperate attempts at self-medication.

My lip curls in disgust as I spot a baggie of white powder tucked behind a stack of art books. Cocaine. Of course. My beautiful, broken angel, trying to numb herself to the world's cruelties.

I pocket the drugs, a hot curl of possessiveness unfurling in my gut. I'll be her only addiction from now on. The only high she'll ever need.

A soft whirr draws my attention to the nightstand. There, nestled among the clutter, is a sleek, purple vibrator. The sight of it sends a jolt of white-hot fury through me. The thought of her pleasuring herself, finding release without me... it's unacceptable.

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