Page 220 of His Pretty Little Duet

“Does her presence scare you, little deer?”

“I don’t want her anywhere near us.”

With that recall, I lift her feet to gently rest on the sofa, positioning her comfortably as though she were merely asleep. Not drugged by her son. Not drunk.

Then I retrieve the black pillow set perfectly into a diamond by her head and place it over her face, pressing down hard. No retaliation. No twitching. No response. The drugs have snatched all the fight from her limbs.

Staring emptily at the dark fabric over her face, I find myself transported back to that hospital room from more than a decade ago. Feel darkness take over. Sense hot tears spill down my face. Hate them.

“Butchers don’t cry.”

I press down on the pillow.

“Bronson was such a wimp.”

I know the truth.

“You have always looked at me as though you wanted to protect me from this entire world.”

I asked the questions.

“You should dispose of him for me.”

And I am making her liable.

“Make the tough calls.”

Baring my teeth, crunching them together until they ache within my jaw, I apply more of my weight to the back of the pillow, smothering my mother as the clock ticks slowly, over and over, dragging the seconds into minutes until her lifeless essence and bitter memory is all that remains.

"What you did today was only the start," she says, and I listen to her. I always listen. "You are not like everyone else. You arebetter. One day, it will be your job to weed out betrayals. To finalise loose ends. To make the tough calls.”

Fawn

“I need you,little deer. Open your mouth.”

I’m woken by his fingers sliding down the slit between my lips and the dangerous need in his voice. I’m on my side. My head is by the edge of the bed. I can tell it is late by the humming of the air conditioner as it breaks through the quiet.

With my eyes still closed, a moan slips from me as I part my lips for him, accepting his finger between my teeth.

He dips two long forefingers down the length of my tongue, provoking my mouth to salivate around the salty digits. He’s slow. Tense. His breaths are heavy but controlled.

I don’t gag, instead undulating my tongue up and against them, showing off my skills, wanting his praise.

“That’s my good little girl,” he growls, his voice sounding deeper, harder, cold. The way he said it didn’t sound the same as before. It sounded disconnected. “Keep your eyes closed. Don’t defy me tonight.”

Something feels wrong.

His fingers leave my mouth wanting when he slides his hand back to take a firm hold of the nape of my neck. At the feel of hiscock rubbing wetly against my lips, I force them wider to accept his entire smooth crown.

Chills rush along my spine.

The flavours of his skin, a salty, male musk that causes my mouth to water, fills me with arousal that seeps down to my toes. I curl them as he slowly deepens his penetration. But he is too controlled. Too slow. My arousal is suddenly mixed with the twitching of nerves as dark, formidable energy circles me and him, and?—

I nearly gag, so I concentrate. My throat closing around the crown, and my breathing becoming hard and strained through my nose. He's dark tonight. An aura to him that has my thighs clenching, my skin flushing with a fever, and my heart galloping between my ears.

I don’t dare open my eyes, don’t risk a glance, focusing on the slow penetration in the depth of my throat. I lift my hands to brace myself on his thighs by my face?—

“No!” he snaps hoarsely, and my heart stalls before it quickens. “Hands down. Don’t touch me.”

---