Page 34 of Soul Of A Villain

“It’s not the same thing!” Londyn cried bitterly. “Sure, she’ll have people taking care of her basic needs, keeping her comfortable, and all that. But they won’t love her like I do. Paris will be alone. And if she ever… gets better… she won’t be safe. The man responsible for her condition will finish the job. He’ll get rid of her to protect his reputation.”

Slowly rubbing his thumb up and down her throat in a rhythmic motion, Oliver huffed. “I can’t do anything about forcing the nursing staff to fall in love with her, but I can do something about the danger you think she’s in. Tell me the man’s name, and I will eliminate him.”

Londyn froze as his words sunk in. She looked horrified by his blunt suggestion, but fuck if Oliver could understand why. It was a logical solution, and he had no qualms about following through. Killing people was something he excelled in doing. In fact, deep inside whatever was left of his twisted soul, hewantedto do it. If it made Londyn happy—if it provided a smidgen of comfort when the time came to face the end of her own life—he would gladly slice a man open from groin to throat.

“I-I don’t want that,” Londyn stuttered, her voice hoarse.

“No?” Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s a simple thing, really. Easy. Quick. I’ll make it look like suicide if you’re worried about it reflecting on your sister. Or I can make him suffer in as many gruesome ways you can imagine.”

Londyn swallowed hard, her eyes filling with fresh tears. Oliver watched the motion of her throat, feeling it beneath the pad of his thumb. His dick hardened to painful extremes as he remembered how tight and warm her throat had been. How she struggled to keep swallowing him so fucking deep when he occasionally thrust past her gag reflex.

Focus, Oliver. Focus.

“You want to be there when it happens, little killer? Is that it? Maybe you’d rather be the one wielding the knife or holding the gun?” He would do that for her, too, if she wanted. He was genuinely curious about why something so simple should require second thoughts or even soul searching. Eliminating a threat was a basic rule of self-preservation. She needed to learn that lesson, and he’d help her if necessary. Because if she wanted to shoot the guy herself, he’d give her the bullets. If she planned on slitting his throat, he would hand her the knife while tilting the man’s head back. And if she would rather set the man’s house on fire, burning him and everything he treasured, Oliver would supply her with the matches and then fuck her in the glow of the flames. Whatever would make her happy in that situation, he would do.

She looked conflicted by the suggestion. “I thought I wanted to kill him… but now, I don’t know.” Her lower lip trembled, and Oliver kissed it, tugging it between his teeth until she let out a soft whimper. Of course, considering the state he’d driven her to earlier, the sexually suggestive nature of his actions would rev her body right back up until it was begging for release.

“Think about it, Londyn. If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. You can watch from the sidelines.” Oliver paused, then said, “I’ve already killed a man for you. What’s one more?”

“That was different. I-I didn’t ask you to do that. I didn’t know until you told me.”

“If you think killing a man bothers me, rest assured that it does not. It’s how I was raised. My brother and I both.” Oliver spun her so her stomach was pressed against the kitchen island, and he stood behind her. She was shaking as he continued speaking in a low, husky voice, his hands gathering her mass of dark curls tumbling down her back. He held most of it in one fist, exposing the nape of her neck and pushing until she was sprawled over the island’s surface. “Place your arms out flat. Do not move.” She did as he ordered, her body as tight as a newly strung violin as he continued speaking.

“I grew up on violence and death, Londyn. Indoctrinated in it like it was a fucking religion,” he murmured huskily, his lips brushing her skin. He could not explain why he was telling her these things, but something about her made him want to confess his sins. To come clean and sin again. “My father’s number one priority, his only concern, was making sure Kingston and I knew how to kill and destroy things. We weren’t allowed to get attached to people or things. It’s so easy to lose them. It is far too easy for the things you love to be used as weapons against you. So, I learned not to feel. Not to care. To look after myself and my own interests no matter what.”

He trailed his finger down her back, tracing her spine through the thin material until he reached the sweatshirt’s hem. Sliding a hand beneath the edge of the material, he skimmed her hip with his palm before dipping his fingers into her panties.

“Does your brother feel the same?” Londyn asked in a strangled voice, her body jolting forward at his touch. But there was nowhere to go, pinned as she was against the island’s marble edge.

Oliver laughed at the question. “At one time, yes. Now, not so much.”

“What changed?”

“Love. Stupid, fucking love changed him. But don’t worry, little dove. I won’t be so foolish. My father made sure of that. My mother made sure of it, too, when she shot him between the eyes at the dinner table and then blew her own brains out in front of Kingston and me. I thought he learned a lesson from that… watching my mother kill our father… but I was wrong. It only made him more determined to break the vicious cycle.” His fingers slid over her bare flesh, dipping into her swollen cunt. She moaned and rocked back against his hard dick. “I’m different from him, though. King’s got a streak of decency inside him that our dad never could slice out, no matter how hard he tried. I’m more like our father, and sometimes that even scares the shit out of me.”

“Why?” Londyn’s choked whisper hung in the cool air.

Oliver hesitated, then, without warning, shoved two fingers inside her pussy, the damp flesh giving way to the onslaught. She cried out, an agonized sound of helpless lust that made his cock throb where it pressed against her ass. He felt her warmth even through his gray silk pajama bottoms. His little prisoner might not realize it, but she wanted him to fuck her, and soon enough, he would oblige her.

“Because I’m the fucking villain, and I will destroy what I treasure most in this world without blinking an eye.” His breath stirred the air beside her ear as he took the delicate lobe between his teeth, gently biting it as he slowly and deliberately finger-fucked her. Londyn trembled, her legs nearly giving way as he expertly made her aware of her own needs and how futile it was to deny them. “I’ll destroy you, too, Londyn. But I’ll make sure you enjoy every second of it. I’ll fuck you senseless. Use your body. Your mouth. Your cunt. Your gorgeous ass. I’ll do anything I want. Everything I want. And you will beg me for all of it.”

Her body tightened with his words, her legs shaking as she whimpered with the truth of his words. Untangling his hand from her hair, he gripped her throat and tilted her head toward him. “Do you want to come, little dove?” His fingers plunged in and out, driving her to the edge again. Only this time, he would allow her to fall over. The first of many climaxes she would have over the next twenty-four hours. And while he had not intended to do this so soon after their last session, circumstances demanded otherwise. “Do you want to fucking come on my fingers, my tongue, or my cock? Or better yet… how about all three?” His words were a silky promise that caused her body to involuntarily rock back against him.

“Y-yes!” Londyn gasped before his hand tightened around her neck, cutting off her air. She fought him, clawing his hands, but he squeezed harder until her motions slowed. He would choke her until she passed out if she kept fighting him, but such brutality wasn’t necessary. Her body stiffened suddenly, tremors racking her form as she came so hard and so violently it drenched his fingers. The orgasm rippling through her made her compliant and weak. Oliver was surprised at how quickly it overtook her, but fuck, he loved it. He loved that his little dove liked it rough. Liked being forced. Liked being turned into his little whore.

“That’s it, Londyn. That’s my good fucking girl. I want that sweet little cunt soaking my fingers. This is just the first of many times you will come for me. You’ll be begging for it to stop before we’re done. Now, let’s ensure we don’t lose count, dove.” Letting go of her throat, he quickly opened a drawer and pulled out a small paring knife from the selection there. Roughly shoving the sweatshirt up until the material bunched up between her shoulder blades, he slid his hand down the small of her back, where it began to curve into the roundness of her ass. Londyn was so high from the endorphins coursing through her body that she did not react when he carefully sliced a tally mark in her soft skin with the sharp edge of the blade.

Blood welled up from the single line. It wouldn’t leave a permanent scar, but he’d have no trouble counting the marks he gave her for at least a few days. His dick hardened even more as Londyn remained slack against the island’s surface, her breathing harsh and unsteady.

“This fucking shirt is in my way,” he growled, pulling his fingers out of her pussy. “And the panties, too. From now on, I only want you to wear the things I give you. Do you understand?”

Grabbing the edge of the shirt, he was ready to slice through it when she sobbed, “No! Please…don’t. My-my sister gave me this. Please… it’s all I have of home.”

Oliver paused, knife in hand. He itched to follow through. He wanted nothing on her body that he had not provided, but a tiny sliver of his heart responded to her anguish. Sentimentality did not usually affect him. Such emotions were beyond his comprehension, to be honest. How could someone place value on possessions or gifts? It had never made any sense to him. Cocking his head, he recalled how Kingston acted about his mother’s china set. How he only used it for very special occasions and special people. The first Mrs. Allan Winter, Kingston’s mother, died from a miscarriage after being horribly abused by her husband when Kingston was only three. The china was all Kingston had of hers; he guarded it over the years as though it were a priceless treasure.

Oliver had no such trinkets left to him by his own mother. Rebecca’s marriage to Allan Winter was a nightmare of abuse and screaming matches, topped off with the secret seduction of her sixteen-year-old stepson. Kingston had been both a distraction and a way to obtain what she wanted. After all, it was Kingston who gave her the gun to kill their father before taking her own life. And Kingston was to blame for the twisted path Oliver careened onto in the aftermath. Only recently had he reached a level of understanding matters from his half-brother’s perspective. Such retrospection was slowly opening his eyes to irrefutable facts; Kingston had suffered, too.

“Please… don’t cut it,” Londyn hiccupped. “I’m begging you.”

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