Page 59 of Vicious Hearts

“And there you go, gettingwetfor me again. Can’t help it, can you, my good girl?”

Sweet Jesus.

Heat explodes through my core, my nipples hardening as arousal floods shamefully between my legs.

Cillian chuckles a low, rumblingly laugh, and I grit my teeth as I strain against his grip pinning my arm back.

“You son of a bitch.”

“Let’s not start trash talking each other’s parents, shall we?” I shudder as his breath teases over my neck. “Least of all our fathers. My dear old da’ was a real bastard. But something tells me you’d still win that competition hands-down.”

My teeth grind. There’s a jangle of keys. And suddenly, the manacle around my wrist, the one holding me to the chair, unlocks and clanks to the ground.

“Let’s go.”

My breath catches in my throat as Cillian suddenly and forcibly yanks me out of the chair and half-guides, half-drags me across the stark room with chains on the ceiling and drains in the floor.

I stumble after him out the door and down a dimly lit, grimy hallway to an elevator. When the doors open, I blink in shock. The room I was just in was a horror show. The hallway wasn’t much better.

The elevator looks like something out ofArchitectural Digest.

Sleek, matte-black metal and glass. Modern, discreet lighting. A soft, elegant chime when the doors open.

What the fuck is this?

Inside, I gasp as he slams and pins me to the wall. His unnervingly unblinking, venomous glare holds me captive as he reaches behind him to push a button. The doors close, and slowly we start to rise. And rise. And rise.

Slowly, my jawdrops.

Where the fuck am I?

An apartment. No, not apartment. That word doesn’t do what I’m staring at justice.

It’s a freakingpalace. A penthouse, with the elevator rising up into the middle of a huge, open space. The doors open with another soft ding, and I gasp quietly as Cillian yanks me out by the arm into the most glamorous space I’ve ever been in.

The penthouse is done all in dark wood tones, brushed metal, and black iron factory windows. There’s almost no furniture. Just a single dark brown Chesterfield leather couch in the middle of the floor in front of aneye-poppingfeature—an enormous, easily fifteen-foot-high glass clock-face window, facing out over the view of all Manhattan.

It’s not even the most gorgeous space I’ve ever been in. It’s the most gorgeous space I’ve everseen, and I’ve watched some pretty over the top movies.

My mind flashes to the group homes. The shitty motels. The streets. My crappy Hell’s Kitchen apartment. And suddenly, the sheer audacity of thinking I could come after this man is almost comical.

Cillian isn’t just some guy Apostle wants dead. He’s a fuckinggod, living above the rest of us, breathing rarified air. What the fuck did I even think I was going to do to him?

Hey, you did manage to stab him.

Well. Look where that got me.

I gasp as Cillian’s grip on my arm tightens, dragging me stumbling after him across the huge open expanse of the penthouse. He pulls me down a dark, elegant hallway that opens into astunningbedroom.

At least, it would be stunning if there was some freaking light in here. Currently, the huge walls of windows are blocked with blackout curtains, turning the elegant master bedroom with the slate-black walls and black ceiling into a cave-like space.

Perfect for a monster like him.

Through another doorway, my eyes pop when I find myself in a fuckinggorgeousmaster bathroom, ultra masculine andentirelyCillian.

The whole place is slate-black, just like the bedroom, with brushed gold accents and a few dark wood elements. I stare at the huge glass shower with the skylight and rainfall showerhead above it. At the living accent wall covered in climbing vines.

When Cillian drags me over to a huge bathtub that looks like it was carved out of a single piece of slate-black and gray marble, and starts to crank on the hot water, my brows furrow.

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