Page 32 of Cruel Master

“Look at me.” His command sent shivers down my spine and I was compelled to lift my gaze to his for the second time. “There’s nothing wrong about enjoying sex with your husband, Angel.”

I bit down on my lower lip before releasing it with a sigh. I resisted the urge to turn my face away, but as the words came out of my lips, I found my eyes drifting to a point over his shoulder—fixating on a piece of the car’s interior.

“You know that our marriage is irrelevant now,” I said. “Besides, it wasn’t something I wanted. I never wanted to be married to you, and you trying to force me back into it isn’t going to make that any less true.”

Despite the honesty of the words, they burned like acid against my tongue as I spoke them. It felt wrong to dig that particular knife between us, creating a crack that had been mending over the last few days, but it was necessary. I was getting too comfortable, too close to him again, which wasn’t conducive to remembering my ultimate goal—to get away and gain my freedom.

I needed to recall that Gaven wasn’t treating me gently because he cared. He just wanted me back because I was a way to ensure that he still had a claim to the Price Empire—even if his wife was the supposed murderer of the last head of the family. This was the mafia … I wondered if that even mattered. It had to, or else Jackie wouldn’t have framed me for it.

I kept my face averted to remain steadfast in my resolve. Gaven was quiet for a long time. So long, in fact, that I wondered if the limo would arrive at whatever club we were intended for before he spoke again. Alas, that wasn’t the case. As his hands clenched on my bare thighs and my pussy still leaked over his lap, Gaven tucked his head against my throat and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow—right above where the diamond choker he’d given me again sat.

I blinked and then swayed back, looking down at him in shock. “Didn’t you hear me?” I demanded. “I said—”

His hand came up and covered my mouth as those midnight eyes of his glittered dangerously. “I heard you,wife.” He growled that last word, as if he needed to emphasize what I kept denying him. “There’s no need for you to repeat yourself.”

I pulled my head away from his hand. “Then why—”

“Because,” he said, interrupting me for a second time, “it doesn’t matter where our story started, only where it’s going.”

I wanted to ask him where he could possibly see our story going, but as I parted my lips—the question hanging on the tip of my tongue—I felt the limo decelerate, and I looked up, noticing that we’d entered a much more urban area. I blinked as Gaven didn’t give me time to formulate a response and instead quickly and firmly deposited me on the seat next to him before he began to adjust my dress.

He pulled the hem down and urged me to shift so that I could also pull the back down . He said nothing else as the driver pulled up to the curb. I glanced out of the window, taking in the tall buildings that surrounded us, practically blocking out the sky. They were all massive brick buildings. The limo came to a stop, and when I expected someone to immediately open the back door, instead, I heard a knock and it wasn’t opened until Gaven called out.

Moving first, Gaven stepped out and then reached back, bending down so that I could see his face—and the dark look in his eyes as he held his hand out for me to take. “Take my hand, Angel.” That was a command if I’d ever heard one and for some reason, it was the easiest one to follow.

My fingers slipped through his and he curled them around mine as he tugged and helped me out of the back of the limo. I wobbled slightly on the heels, but his arm came around my waist and held me steady. With the get-up I was wearing, I’d half expected a team of paparazzi to approach us. Instead, when I peered back, all I saw was a long line of limos, SUVs, and town cars waiting to drop off their charges at the front of what looked like an industrial building.

“You said this was a club?” I clarified as I gazed up at the flat face of the building. “What kind of club?”

There was nothing particularly insightful about the outward appearance of the building. For the first several floors there were few windows, and what few there were seemed to be covered in thick black coating that made it impossible to see inside. Only when I craned my neck back and saw the upper floors did the windows look a little more normal. What was with that?

Gaven’s arm tightened around my waist, and he urged me forward towards the waiting doors as our limo pulled away and the next car took its place. “You’ll see soon enough,” he promised.

For some reason that lack of answer made me nervous, but a club was just a club, right? There shouldn’t be anything to fear.

Then again … thiswasGaven Belmonte: hitman, mafia king, and a bloody obsessive husband. There was really no telling what kind of deviant things he had planned for me tonight.

15

ANGEL

While the exterior of the building left a lot to be desired in comparison to the luxury of our attire, it became apparent why we were dressed so ostentatiously as soon as we stepped through the guarded front doors.

Low, sensual lights illuminated the large open room, casting the other club goers in a soft glow. Music filled the room, rhythmic and deep. It seemed to lull those in attendance to sway and move, showcasing high-end jewelry glimmering on women's necks, ears, and hands, while peeks of gold glinted on men's wrists whenever the designer suit jackets and underlying dress shirt sleeves shifted just enough.

Glancing around the room was enough to tell me that even the decor and furnishings within the nightclub were no doubt expensive. Deep red velvet couches, silken drapes hung from the ceiling, and crystal and gold embellishments covered the walls and ceiling in detailed designs. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary for me to see, having been born a Price Family princess, but what caught my attention and triggered my internal alarm bells was the undercurrent of excited tension that seemed to plague the guests as they mingled.

"Come," Gaven instructed, his hand practically burning my skin from where it rested on my lower back. My husband guided me through the room, greeting various people with a respectful nod or minute smirk on his lips. Implications and questions whirled in my mind as he began to slow near a small group of people—three men and two women—all conversing in hushed tones that were lost amongst the music.

When they noticed our approach though, conversation ceased, and their focus turned to us. I’d been in enough uncomfortable situations now that the fresh, probing gazes that zeroed in on me didn’t make me shift nervously. I tamped that shit down, and thankfully, the inspection only lasted a few brief moments before the tallest of the group, a man with inky black hair and tanned skin, reached out to shake Gaven's hand.

"Gaven," he greeted in a steady but friendly tone, "it's been too long."

Without hesitating, Gaven gripped the outstretched hand, echoing a similar sentiment at the man. "That it has, Ian, but all seems to be going well for you and the others. How is Miss Perelli, or should I say Mrs.?" I didn't need to look up to see the knowing grin on his face; it was blatantly apparent in his tone, but neither the man—Ian—nor the others seemed bothered by it.

“She’s only a Perelli by blood, man. She’s got a new last name now … well,”—he chuckled—“a few of them. She’s doing very well, though. Who is this?" With that, all the focus was on me again.

"This is my wife, Evangeline. Angel, these are some of my friends," Gaven introduced, gesturing to each person. "Ian Marshall, Jensen Travis, and Archer Petrov. These two ladies are Katerina Markovski and Genevieve Durand."

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