Page 42 of Vermilion Desire

I cringe, curling into my shoulders when he reads one of the letters out. Out of all the letters, he finds the most disturbing one. The letter had said all the atrocious things and how they had been learning how to become a necromancer to make love to his victims.

Absolutely revolting. I’m going to avoid funeral homes and any professions that have to do with formaldehyde.

“Are there more?” he demands with a glare.

I shake my head. “No, that’s it for today.”

Reading those letters is more entertainment than anything. I get curious as to what the writers are going through when they were writing on the paper. It’s interesting because I can learn about them through words, the way they write and the tone, and the strokes of power on every word.

Our research facility had gotten massive flooding of funds from investors that security had to be amplified, so I can use that as another layer of security against the people who write these letters.

I have Mr. Wolf, and Uncle Cal escorts me home and to work, and I don’t remember one day where I’m not with someone for virtually the whole day.

“Okay,” I stammer, fishing out another letter from under the couch after seeing the unimpressed expression on his handsome face. “There’s one more.”

He seized it, reading it over, and it’s the letter from Braxton Berkshire. Every emotion in those words is filled with hate and discontent. I kept it as a victory over that man, and just to spite him, I don’t write back so he can be in prison with the thoughts if I had gotten the letter or not.

Mr. Wolf crumbles the paper, tossing it over his shoulder and a crazed expression on his face. A growl resonates through his chest, and his massive body crouches down to face me.

My heart jumps, quivering against my ribs at the feeling of dread crawling on my skin. He’s the predator, and I’m the prey, and an enclosed space is his hunting ground. With a prowess of a graceful wild animal, his muscles ripple in preparedness.

I, with the self-preservation below ten points, stupidly scuttle back. Shifting on my knees—another mistake—and crawl away hurriedly, but his massive hand clamps down on my dainty ankles and drags me back.

The carpet burns on my exposed arms as he throws me under him, a cracked grin of a sinner and a predator displays the part of him that wants to hurt me.

“Where are you going, baby?” he purrs, rolling his tongue over his lips.

I laugh with a nervous shiver, my hand frantically run over his bulging muscles on his chest to calm him down, or I won’t be able to get up tomorrow morning for work.

“Oh, you know, bed.” My lips twitch anxiously.

I like to play with Mr. Wolf because his reactions are always powerful, and I would end up with my legs spread and dripping with thick cum after being brutally split open by his massive cock.

Not that I’m complaining, but I have an important meeting tomorrow with the group researchers.

“To sleep!” I squeal as his lips meet mine, nipping and pulling at my bottom lip.

I weakly push his chest, but his strength is superior. “You will sleep when I tell you to, little red.”

I huff, playfully glaring up at him. “You don’t own me, Mr. big, bad wolf.”

He hisses, a snarl ripping through his deep voice and thundering through my ribs to ensnarl the poor galloping heart.

“Do you want to say that again, baby?” He smiles, fingers digging into my delicate ankle, and this vast difference between us doesn’t come as a surprise.

His smile disappears when I grin, other small foot pushing at his chest to knock him on his butt. The hand on my ankle disappears to support his weight on the carpet, and his dark eyes glimmer with an urgency of threats.

I jump up from the ground and sprints out the living room; fiery red hair tumbles down my back. Playing with fire will get me burned but playing with my husband will get me a night of scorching passion.

I’ll take the risk.

“Catch me if you can, Mr. Wolf.”

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