Page 15 of Savage Hero

“Dogs can’t eat onions.” I grimace and tug at my arms. “Lay off, would you? This jacket’s a Louis Vuitton.”

Caesar lets out a such a rough grunt, I don’t know if he’s laughing or hacking up spit. Then he drags me over the marble floor. “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t you get tired of asking questions you know I’m not going to answer?” He sounds genuinely interested and even gives me a considering backward glance.

I scowl at him and then drop my eyes, fidgeting with Princess when she starts fussing against my chest. Guess she doesn’t like the smell either. It’s not my fault this place goes through so many onions.

We end up in an elevator, because of course this place has one. The Domingos obviously have issues with stairs, and I’m guessing escalators didn’t match their design aesthetic.

It’s not as cramped as I thought it would be inside. I mean, there’s enough space for two adults to stand comfortably, even after one of them rips a baby out of her arms and puts it in the corner.

So there was no need for Caesar to push up against me, but he does anyway. No reason for him to grab my throat like he seems so keen on doing all the time, lifting me up against the bronze mirrors cladding the wall, and wedging himself between my legs.

I have to wrap them around his waist. It’s that or choke.

“The fuck?” I grate out, clawed hands already going for his tanned face. It’s not as perfect as I’d thought when we first met—he has a scar on his jaw, another on his lip, and a third high up on his temple, close to his hairline. Caesar barely blinks before he grabs my wrists and slams my hands into the mirror above my head.

“Who paid you?” he asks, surprisingly calm. Then again, psychopaths are like that, aren’t they? They were last in line when God was handing out feels.

I grimace at him. “Don’t you get sick of asking questions you know you’re not—”

He pushes his lower body into me. At first I think I’m imagining it, but when I wriggle to alleviate the pressure, I feel the unmistakable ridge of a hard cock between us. “I know I’ll get the answer.” He drops his voice so low, it’s the kind of rumble that precedes an earthquake. “Question is, how much is it going to hurt?”

“Pfft.” I roll my eyes. “I know guys like you. All testosterone and no fucking testicles. Hurt me? Bet I won’t even feel it.”

I expect to see anger glimmering in his eyes. Rage, even. Beefy guys like him have a dam of adrenaline and steroids inside them—all they need is the tiniest push before the dam wall explodes.

I almost made it to nationals in the lightweight boxing division. Could have boxed against some of the great names…if they weren’t boys and I wasn’t a girl. And if I hadn’t head-butted the bitch who’d called my friend Liam a freak. Wasn’t my fault—I told them there’d be blood if I fought her.

So I know how it works with guys like Caesar. At least…I thought I did.

But instead of punching me, or choking me until I pass out, he shoves a hand between us and grabs my pussy right through my baggy pants.

“You won’t feel it, because you’re stretched out from all the dick you get.”

I think he meant it as an insult, but to me that just makes it sound like men are lining up down the block to fuck me. So I give him my sweetest grin, try to ignore the pulsing, throbbing ache he’s awoken in my nether regions, and say, “Slut.”

Charcoal eyes blink, confused. “What?”

“You left out slut at the end of that sentence, Papi.” And then, just to show him he’s not getting to me, I grind against his hand and flutter my eyelashes like I’m enjoying this.

It doesn’t take much acting. God, his hands are so fuckingbig. All I want is for him to unzip my pants and shove a few of those strong fingers in my cunt.

But let’s not forget who’s pinning me to the wall right now. His father is a monster, and from the articles I read, this rotten apple hasn’t even fallen off the tree yet. He’s taken just as many innocent lives in horrific, gruesome ways as the dear old Capo has. So while I’d love to have him finger me, maybe even fuck me, it would take more than a good scrub in the shower to get rid of the evil he’d leave behind on my skin.

I guess Caesar sees through me. Or maybe some of my disgust comes through, because he yanks his hand out from between us and grabs my jaw, forcing my lips apart.

I already know how he’s going to settle this the instant his gaze drops to my mouth.

Fuck.

“Yeah, shove y’ cock i’ my mouth,” I tell him, the words struggling to get out past his fingers. “That’ll solve e’erything.” I lick my lips, daring him, knowing he won’t. There’s hesitation in his eyes, and honestly, if he was the kind of guy who’d rape a girl, he’d have done it alr—

My feet drop to the floor, and an instant later there’s a gun pressed to my temple. But instead of blowing out my brains, he uses the pressure of the muzzle to force me down.

Onto my knees.

Son of a whore—when did I get so bad at reading people?

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