Page 15 of Ruthless Desire

With a growl, I snatch up the toy and its charger. She won't need this anymore. Not when she has me to satisfy her every dark desire.

And then I see her.

Natalie lies sprawled across the bed, a tangle of ink-black hair and pale limbs against cheap cotton sheets. She's wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt, riding up to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of lace panties.

My breath catches in my throat. She's even more beautiful like this, vulnerable and unguarded in sleep. I want to devour her whole, to crawl into her skin and make a home there.

Instead, I perch on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight of her. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the flutter of her eyelashes against porcelain cheeks. She looks so young, so innocent. It makes the darkness inside me roar with the need to corrupt, to possess.

"Oh, solnyshko," I murmur, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. "What am I going to do with you?"

She stirs at my touch, brow furrowing in confusion. Those stormy eyes blink open, clouded with sleep and then sharpening with sudden, horrified awareness.

"What the fuck?" she yelps, scrambling back against the headboard. "How did you– What are you doing here?"

I smile, slow and predatory. "Now, now, little painter. Is that any way to greet your gracious benefactor? The man who's made all your dreams come true?"

Realization dawns in her eyes, quickly followed by a maelstrom of emotions – fear, anger, and underneath it all, a flicker of unmistakable desire.

"You," she breathes, voice raw with sleep and shock. "You're the one who bought my paintings. Who's been... watching me."

I nod, pleased by her quick deduction. "Smart girl. I knew there was more to you than just a pretty face and a talented hand."

She pulls the sheets up to her chin, as if the flimsy fabric could shield her from my hungry gaze. "Get out," she snarls, eyes flashing with defiance. "Get the fuck out of my apartment before I call the cops."

I laugh, the sound rich and dark in the stillness of the room. "Oh, solnyshko. Always so quick to bare those little claws. It's adorable, really. But we both know you're not going to do that."

"And why the hell not?" she demands, chin jutting out stubbornly.

I lean in close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, to smell the lingering traces of whiskey on her breath. "Because deep down, in that beautiful, twisted soul of yours, you know you belong to me. You've known it since the moment our eyes met across that gallery."

She shakes her head, but there's a tremble in her lower lip that betrays her. "You're insane," she whispers. "I don't belong to anyone. Least of all some psycho stalker who breaks into my fucking apartment."

My hand shoots out, fingers tangling in her hair and yanking her head back. She gasps, pupils dilating with a heady mixture of fear and arousal.

"Careful, little girl," I growl, my lips a hair's breadth from hers. "I've been patient. I've played by the rules, given you time to come to terms with your destiny. But my patience has limits. And you, my darling Natalie, are rapidly pushing me to the edge of them."

I can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my palm, the way her breathing has gone shallow and quick. She's like a bird in my grasp, fragile bones and racing heart. I could snap her neck with a flick of my wrist, extinguish that defiant light in her eyes forever.

But that would be such a waste.

Instead, I gentle my grip, letting my fingers card through the silken strands of her hair. "I saw you. At the gala. You were breathtaking, a dark goddess among mere mortals. But then you ran from me. Denied the connection between us."

She swallows hard, throat working against my palm. "There is no connection," she insists, but the words lack conviction. "You're just some rich psycho with a fucked-up obsession. I'm not your plaything, your possession. I'm a person, with my own life and dreams and–"

I silence her with a bruising kiss, swallowing her protests and pouring every ounce of my twisted devotion into the clash of lips and teeth and tongue. She fights me for a moment, hands pushing ineffectually against my chest. But then she melts, a broken whimper escaping her as she yields to the inevitability of us.

When I finally pull away, we're both panting, lips swollen and eyes wild. I rest my forehead against hers, breathing in the intoxicating cocktail of her fear and arousal.

"Tell me you didn't feel that," I rasp, my voice rough with need. "Tell me you don't ache for me the way I ache for you. That you don't see the glorious darkness we could create together."

She shakes her head, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "I can't," she whispers. "I won't let you drag me down into your sick, twisted world. I've worked too hard to claw my way out of the darkness."

I laugh, the sound edged with equal parts amusement and frustration. "Oh, moy voron. You sweet, naive thing. You are the darkness. It's in every brushstroke, every line of your art. You can't escape it any more than you can escape your own skin."

My hand drifts lower, skimming over the delicate arch of her throat, the jut of her collarbone. She shivers beneath my touch, a full-body tremor that sets my blood on fire.

"I'm offering you everything," I murmur, nuzzling the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Power, wealth, a kingdom to rule by my side. All you have to do is surrender. Give in to the inevitable."

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