Page 22 of Soul Of A Villain

And doing nothing about it.

This…empathy… was annoying. And confusing. Londyn belonged to him. He paid a fortune for the right to fuck her whenever and however he wanted. And yet, he hesitated to follow through with the threats he had made earlier. For some reason, some goddamn, fucking reason that didn’t make fucking sense, he wanted to take care of her.

You almost forced her to suck your cock because you were angry. Is that some fucked-up method of taking care of someone?

Oliver clenched his teeth. Why he felt so strongly about this girl was bewildering as hell. He had never cared for anyone. All he’d ever done was hurt people. Gladly. Willingly. With enthusiasm and pleasure.

In particular, he enjoyed hurting women.

It was fucked up. Every depraved thought, calculated act, and desire revolved around forcing a woman’s submission. He accomplished that by following the teachings of his father. Sometimes, the women were complicit and willing to be dominated; and sometimes, they required more than a littlepersuasion. Until now, he’d never come across one who he wanted to protect from himself.

Or from others.

Maybe this confusing state of emotions was what his brother experienced when he fell in love. Maybe he should examine Kingston and Ava’s relationship to determine the root cause of why he felt this way now. While it was understandable that Kingston wanted to possess and protect Ava, Oliver found their deep love for one another mystifying. Even more so now when he wondered if the same capacity to place a woman’s happiness and well-being above his own needs and desires existed within him.

No. It doesn’t. You are a killer, just like your father. You are an abuser, just like your father. You love to see women bleed and cry for mercy. You want them to suffer at your hands. You are a psychotic piece of shit. Just like your father. And you know you will torment, abuse, and torture this girl until the day you end her life.

Just like your father would have. Kingston would have followed the same path had he not fallen insanely in love.

But there had always been a difference between Oliver and his older half-brother. Kingston somehow retained a thread of decency. A sliver of morality. The things he’d done over the course of a lifetime were a result of cruel manipulation by their sick father and the consequences of assuming the responsibilities of their criminal kingdom.

Oliver did awful things because hewantedto. He did them because he grew up full of hate and fear of his father and despised his mother for her weakness. The same woman who fucked her stepson behind her husband’s back and used Kingston’s love to get her hands on a gun. The day Rebecca shot Alan Winter and put a bullet in her own head at the dinner table—while he and Kingston watched in horror—was the day any semblance of decency died in Oliver.

“I’m a fucking monster,” he muttered to himself, gulping down the last dregs of bourbon in the crystal tumbler. “A monster.”

Wasn’t it about fucking time to prove it?

His gaze drifted over his sweet, little prisoner—his prize, his fucking possession. Any weakness he showed toward her would come back to bite him. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by her pretty gray eyes and a gorgeously curved body.

Not even if something inside him, something strange and unknown, demanded otherwise.

Stretching his legs so that he could touch the seat opposite of him, he leaned toward her. She was curled up with her feet tucked beneath her body. He ran a hand up her calf until he reached her knee and palmed it.

Londyn’s eyes fluttered open, sleepy confusion clouding the clear depths of dove-gray. She stared at him for a moment as though trying to place him. When he squeezed her knee, his fingers gripping her flesh even through the jeans she wore, clarity tightened her lips into a thin line. She was silent as they regarded each other, and Oliver’s mouth quirked in a wicked grin.

“Wake up, little killer. Time to play a game.”

ChapterFourteen

Londyn

Londyn swallowed hard,forcing herself to remain still as her captor’s cold, blue eyes roamed her body.

“Stop calling me that,” she whispered. The reminder that she’d killed a man—no matter how much he deserved it— made her stomach turn.

Oliver laughed, rolling the tumbler in his hands until the ice clinked against the sides of the crystal. “But it fits you so well.”

If this man was ugly, had offensive body odor, or if his breath smelled terrible, nurturing an aversion would be easier done. But that was not the case. Her owner had the bone structure, body, and good looks of a male model. She couldn’t help the stupid part of her that found him attractive, even if it was completely irrational. How could she consider him good-looking when he was a real-life, brutal monster?

“I guess I can always call you little dove.” He squeezed her knee and pulled so that her legs fell open. “Sit. Up.”

Londyn ignored his sardonic reminder that he grew up shooting those helpless creatures but followed his command. His warm hand rested on her leg before sliding up to tightly grip her hip. It was a heavy, inescapable reminder that she was under his control.

“Strip.” The directive was a low growl. “I want to see you naked.”

Londyn’s gaze darted to the smoked-glass panel separating them from the driver. In the vehicle’s low interior light, she saw Oliver’s mouth curve even more.

“Don’t worry. Joey can’t see you. Now, strip. I want every inch of you bared for me.”

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