Page 26 of Vow to Corrupt You
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. “Then hell will freeze over soon.” I brush my lips against hers, her breath heavier than before. “Should I remind you that you just came on my face, calling me God? Oh, and you still have your cum and my saliva dripping between your thighs.”
“I didn’t call you G—”
I scoff, my lips claiming hers, silencing her frustrated, embarrassed protests. My teeth grit against her bottom lip, causing a grunt to rumble in her throat as I pull away.
“You will come to me, crawling on all fours, sooner than you think. That’s a promise, wicked one.”
I sit in my office, my fingers drumming on the leather armrest, my ankle resting on my opposite knee. The black walls seem to absorb the faint light from a lamp beside the rich oak desk. My gaze is fixed on a decanter of whiskey and the cold steel of my gun on the wooden top of my desk, but my mind is consumed by her. The taste of her arousal lingering on my lips drives me to the verge of insanity. I could have any whore choking on my cock right now, but I only want her. It’s an obsession. Maddening, sickening, haunting obsession. She was supposed to be my possession, an innocent to corrupt, to dominate, and yet she’s the one to possess me. She has me losing my damn head. I can’t stop thinking of her. I want to hear her moan my name in both pleasure and pain, to see both fear and desire mingling in her eyes.
A low growl of frustration rumbles down my throat, my hands clench into fists. I am a fucking Romano, a king in his own right, ruling over an empire built on blood and death. And yet, this slip of a girl has managed to turn me into a miserable creature of maddening obsession and sickening desire.
I pour myself a glass of whiskey and take a long, burning sip. I will have her, and it will be on my terms. I will drag her down into my world, corrupt her until she is molded into the perfect reflection of my own desires. I vowed all of this to her at the altar, and I shall keep my word.
The night is pretty restless, and my mind is haunted by thoughts of her. The following morning, an array of various breakfast dishes stretches out before me as I wait for her in the dining room. I had no idea what the wicked one preferred, so I instructed the maid to prepare it all.
My eyes instinctively cast upward as she enters; unwittingly, like Hades, I’m captivated by the purity I’m destined to taint. She approaches the table, glancing at the spot at the other end opposite me. I knew she would want to sit across the table, the farthest away from me possible, and that’s why I told the maids to leave only one chair next to mine.
“Sit,” I say, and she instantly sinks into the seat.
My gaze is still stuck on her—her attire, to be precise. A pink dress reaching her ankles that would fit an eighty-year-old lady, and not an attractive young woman sixty years younger. It’s so bad that it stands out against the black dominating the room—the black décor, my black suit, the black attire my servants are instructed to wear—and looks hideous. I can’t tear my gaze away from it. It’s like a buzzing mosquito in my ear, impossible to ignore. That’s something we must fix. My wife can’t dress like Cinderella, hiding her beauty underneath such… clothes, while she’s my Queen of desire and darkness.
“How did you sleep?” I try to focus on something other than her dress.
“Not well,” she draws a deep breath. “It’s hard to sleep surrounded by so much darkness. Everything is so... black. I feel like in the pit of Hell.”
I can’t fight an amused scoff. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Do I have any other choice?” She locks her gaze with mine.
“Actually, no.”
Her eyes roll involuntarily. Her coy kind of annoyance causes a smirk to tug at the corner of my mouth.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I had my maid prepare everything.”
“Oh,” her chin lowers, brows twitching. “So instead of simply asking, you had your maid cook all this, wasting food that could feed a small tribe.”
“I knew it the moment I saw you,” I growl, my tone teasing.
“Knew what?” She frowns.
My teeth graze over my lip. “You’re a good person with a pure heart.”
“You don’t know me.” She’s so rattled that her entire body tenses in protest as if I had accused her of a crime instead of stating the obvious, complimenting her. Don’t ordinary people like being told they’re good? “You don’t know me at all.”
“Then tell me about yourself,” I lean back on the chair, and now she’s baffled. I know, surprising, a beast like me, a monster, the God of the Dead, can act human and ask a simple question.
She pauses momentarily. Her sweet mocha eyes flicker between mine as though she’s browsing through a library of books, pondering which one to pick. “I love art. I was about to start my senior year studying sculpture at the Academy of Fine Arts of Palermo. But I don’t know if you’ll let me attend.” Her tone is much softer now. She has dropped the defensive attitude she had before, probably to shield herself from me.
I don’t blame her for being scared of me. Sometimes, even I am scared of the darkness within my own mind, of the mayhem that runs rampant inside my head.
My head cocks, my gaze never leaving hers. “I won’t keep you locked up like a bird in a cage. You’re free to continue your studies.”
“Are you serious?” she beams, her face lights up with such pure happiness that this house hasn’t seen in decades. I’m staggered by how something so trivial can bring her true joy.
“Now eat,” I order. Jesus, her dress won’t stop burning my eyes. “We’re leaving soon.”
She gazes at me, alert. “We? Where are we going?”
