Category: jealous possessive hero

Black Friday GIFT – Big Bad Masked Dom Chapter I

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn best of booktok, bestselling dark romance, billionaire romance, books with trigger warnings, books with trigger warnings, booktok, contemporary romance, Dark and Dangerous, Free Reads, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, Read Online, romantic suspense, spicy romance, stalker romance, steamy romance, you're mine romanceLeave a comment

I wanted to do something special for Black Friday.

So, as my treat to you, here’s the entire first chapter of my upcoming novella Big Bad Masked Dom, the second book in the Big Bad Billionaires series — releasing December 3rd. It’s an early sneak peek into the Roman-masked debauchery, the danger, the heat, and a whole lot of wrong that feels so wickedly right.

And because Black Friday is all about getting things early…
ARCs are now open — and free — and they go out tomorrow.
If you want one, just email me at anacalin@theromancetrove.com with ARC in the subject line.

All right — enough talk.
Let’s get dirty.

***

CHAPTER I

Margot

Okay, so this masked ball is everything Emmaline and Rick advertised it to be, and it sure as fuck is the “hot bitch of a show” they promised. The ancient Roman villa is the best backdrop the promoter could have chosen for a decadent masked ball, and the remodeled gladiator arena is the perfect stage for the twisted spectacle taking place in its center.

The girl is, of course, a more than willing participant. She’s wet down her thighs as that burly animal and his friend, both dressed as Roman guards, hold her down for a gladiator to have his way with her. 

This right here is exactly why none of my relationships ever worked out. This is what I’m into, and I can’t let anyone in on it. The tragedy is there’s no way I can actually live it out in real life, which is why I came here tonight. I crave this kind of rough fuckery, but I won’t put up with it from some random Tinder date, and much less from my office fuck buddy Kale after Netflix and chill. I know that, deep down, he’d judge me for my dirty desires.

I mean, what person in their right mind wouldn’t? I couldn’t even bring myself to share this stuff with Emmaline, my bff, and she’s here getting gross with multiple men while her boyfriend Rick is watching. They’ve been together for five years, in an open relationship for one, and always looking for nasty little pleasures. Well, they’ve got themselves a feast this time.  

And yet, I’m afraid not even they would understand. On one hand, I think Emmaline only agreed to this swinger life to please Rick, and doesn’t really enjoy it. I’ve known her longer than he has, and I can tell you for a fact she’s not really this person. I mean, I wouldn’t share my man either, not if I truly wanted him for myself, but I would do other stuff that would blow her socks off. 

So I keep the twisted part of me hidden, even from my oldest friend and from the entire world. It’s too pervy and filthy to share with anyone who knows me in real life, which is why my eyes keep drifting to the burly Roman guard holding the main girl down in the arena. He doesn’t know who I am, and he never will. The glittery Venetian mask covering the upper part of my face hides my identity. Under the cover of anonymity, I could act on all of my filthiest fantasies tonight. Imagine if I could act them out with him.

I lick my lips, my entire body humming with lust.

But it can’t happen. Even if this whole party ends up as one big, decadent orgy, what are the odds that he and I end up tangled?

Still, a girl can dream, right?

Especially since there’s no way I can look away from him. Unlike a real ancient Roman guard, there’s no breastplate covering what seems to be a naturally tan, young, strong body, just a red cape hanging from the plates on his broad shoulders. Not that I’m complaining. I love me a half-naked soldier, especially when he’s such a magnificent specimen. Muscles like an apex predator, body hair in all the right places, a square jaw and perfectly chiseled lips. With the Roman helmet on, only the lower part of his face is visible, and God save me, it reveals the perfect blend of masculinity and beauty. Even in even more ancient times, way before the Roman Empire, he would have been the perfect caveman. An alpha. I get wet just looking at him.  

“He’s yummy as fuck, I’ll give you that.”

I jump, searching for the voice. Fixated on the hot piece of ass, I didn’t even notice when Emmaline found her way to my side.

“Where’s Rick?” I ask, trying to throw her off the object of my fixation, strangely territorial.

“Getting sucked off by some drunk young model,” she replies dismissively, but the bitterness in her voice isn’t lost on me.

Emmaline is twenty-six, same as me, which means she’s officially a year past Rick’s so-called upper age limit for women he sleeps with, as he likes to joke about at office parties. Emmaline laughs like it doesn’t bother her, but I know better.

“How about you line up for him, eh?” She motions with her chin toward the Roman guard, then points to the line of giggling girls forming on one side of the arena. The line thickens by the minute under the guidance of a small, round man dressed as a harlequin.

Most of the girls are fit and bubbly, many with perfect bodies and smooth skin, while I look like a mommy, and I’m not even one yet. There’s just something about the shape of my body, and it’s been that way since puberty. And if Emmaline is in the game too, what chance do I stand? The woman has the perfect hourglass shape, with a tiny waist that makes the rest of her all the more irresistible.

I’m just about to throw in the towel when she grabs my wrist.

“Come on, let’s go.”

Next thing I know, she’s dragging me through the crowd toward the line. I dig my heels in.

“Wait, Emma, no.”

She whips around. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to do it,” I lie.

Her eyes narrow behind her mask.

“Yes, you do,” she says. “I saw you watching him, you were totally drooling in your mouth.”

I hesitate, but the woman is like a pit bull. She’ll bite into the matter and not let go until I spill all the tea. So I give it to her, just to make this quick and minimize the pain.

“What’s the point? Just look at that line. The offer is well exceeding the demand. Let’s face it, he’s not going to choose me.”

“You don’t know that.”

I scoff. “Don’t give me that shit, Emma. I have a better chance of getting picked at a rock concert for backstage action than getting under the armor around that guy’s jewels, and you know it.”

She squeezes my hand and yanks me closer. “Then you’ve got nothing to lose planting yourself in that line, do you?” She starts pulling me along again, but I resist.

“Damn it, Margot, what are you afraid of?” she challenges.

Rejection. Watching his gaze sweep over me and not stop for a single instant.

“I just don’t think I can handle rejection tonight,” I admit.

For a moment, Emma stares at me like she doesn’t understand.

“Rejection?” Her pretty mouth twists around the word. “Margot, have you looked around to see how men have been reacting to you all night? I had to push my way through a whole gang of drooling college boys just a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, those kids would fuck just about anything,” I dismiss.

“Damn right, and they have plenty of options here. Yet they had their sights set on you.” She looks down at my body to make a point. I’m wearing a flimsy toga that hints at all my curves, clinging just right to some of my body, but it only creates an optical illusion. Underneath, I’m a far cry from the goddess of fertility I’m representing.

“As good as every girl here wants to get laid tonight,” she says. “Those college guys are a bunch of hotties, they could fuck anyone.” She glances in their direction. “And don’t make me remind you how many guys write to you on Tinder.”

“Yeah, indeed, I’m a magnet for creeps,” I tease. 

Emma grabs both my arms in an attempt to shake me. 

“Margot, I know you think I’m just being supportive, but I need you to trust me when I say: Men aren’t actually into the beauty standards that the media is pushing down their throats.” She looks toward the arena, where the action has heated up so much that the crowd is roaring. The gladiator is pounding into the woman with fucking abandon.

“Look at that girl,” Emma says. “Far from a runway model, wouldn’t you say? Yet a billionaire has built this entire event around her and, by the way he’s doing her right now, her thicc body drives him crazy.” 

I follow her gaze down to the show. “She’s a body positivity influencer, if I’m not mistaking.”

“She is,” Emma confirms, happy that I’ve just proven her point. “And she talked shit about him online. Instead of hate, this is what it got her.”

“You’ve been following her content,” I realize in surprise, returning my attention to Emma. She shrugs unapologetically.

“She makes me feel good about my body. And you should feel good about yours, too.  Beautiful or not in your own eyes, it clearly has an effect on men. If you paid more attention around you, maybe you’d notice.” Then, closer, “and maybe you wouldn’t be still be single despite having so many suitors.”

Those words send a wave of sadness through me, not because of my own situation, but hers. 

“Is that why you put up with Rick’s shit?” I dare to finally broach the subject. “Just to not be single? Because let me return the compliment and assure you that you wouldn’t be single for long if you decided to dump his sorry ass.”

I expect her to lash out at me. I actually see her inhale deeply to do it, and I brace for the hit, but instead she says, “You’re getting in that line and period. If the Roman hunk chooses you, then you’ll have the best night of your life. And, if he doesn’t, I’ll be right here to point out another dozen men with serious boners just from looking at you.”

As she begins dragging me toward the line again, another possibility fills me with dread.

“What if he chooses you?”

How would I be able to ever look at her again without feeling nauseatingly jealous?  

She glances at me over her shoulder. “Oh, I won’t be part of the offer.”

This is how only I end up in line to be chosen and used by the Roman hunk, relieved that I don’t have to compete against my best friend. If I lose to anyone else, the sting won’t be as bad. In fact, I expect to lose. 

But I also hope I’ll win, which makes this more unbearable by the minute. 

The waiting is filled with tension and competitive glances until the main show ends in a shattering orgasm for the main characters and the rest of the fornicating crowd. That’s when the Roman hunk starts in our direction.

Panic clogs my throat. This is getting real.

If I weren’t squeezed among the other girls, I’d probably bail, even though Emmaline would drag me right back, waiting like a Cerberus behind the lines. 

“He’s coming, he’s coming, oh em gee, he’s coming,” one of the girl bursts out, grabbing one of the others so hard the girl yelps. Another one screeches and fidgets on her feet. A lascivious sigh somewhere close draws my attention to another woman slipping a hand into her panties while looking at him, already worked up from the main show. 

My teeth grind, a territorial instinct firing me up. I have a lot of seriously twisted desires, but sharing my men with multiple women isn’t one of them. 

I should really bail now, because there’s no way he’s going to choose just one of us, not with the overwhelming demand. 

By the time he reaches us, the group fangirls hard and, as hot as he is, I find myself rolling my eyes, and feeling stupid.

“Line up, wenches,” the round-bellied harlequin orders theatrically as the Roman guard steps into hearing range. He naturally moves like a feline on the prowl, and I wipe the corners of my mouth to make sure I’m not drooling.

I pull back, not moving in line with the girls as the harlequin starts snapping shackles around their necks. They look like real iron, but the girls don’t flinch under the weight. On the contrary, they giggle even harder. They’re looking forward to the role-play and, while it’s good to see that I’m not the only one with sick fantasies, I know I don’t belong here.

I take another step back, but trip on a discarded empty bottle, which draws the harlequin’s attention.

“You, there,” he calls, his red-and-white painted cheeks glowing in the torchlight. He picks up another faux shackle from the pile, and holds out his gloved free hand. 

“Get over here,” he commands in the same theatrical tone, impersonating a slave master preparing the goods for his client to inspect. “Show this honored soldier what he can get for the right amount of coin.” 

The Roman guard appears larger with every step he takes closer. I mean, you could tell he was exceptionally well-built even from a distance, but up close he’s striking. With the helmet obscuring half of his face, my eyes lock on the lower part, trying to infer what he might look like without it. That jaw is perfectly cut under a shade of stubble, his nose is straight and perfect, and his lips… what would it be like to ride that mouth while holding on to his helmet? What would it have been like to encounter this man in ancient times, take him hostage on the battlefield, chain him, and then have my way with him in the dungeon while everyone else in the villa was sleeping?

I’m still indulging in that fantasy when he reaches the first girl. It’s oddly painful to watch him giving her attention, but I can’t look away.

He lifts his hand, and she whimpers, eager for him to touch her. But before they make contact, he lowers it again. Changing his mind, he moves on. The girl’s jaw drops, and I watch in real time how despair sets in. It resonates in my bones and, for a moment, I feel sorry for her. Having this man come so close and then walk away, not choosing you… I can’t imagine anything crueler.

His rejection just destroyed her ego, and it’s about to do the same to mine. I shouldn’t be here. 

The girl steps out of the line, moving to grab him, but what seem to be members of the staff appear out of nowhere; they blend into the crowd so well you don’t even register them until the need arises. They yank her arms back and drag her away while she struggles and wails like a fan being torn from her idol. A few other girls lose it too after he simply passes them by, suffering more or less the same fate.

He moves closer and closer, until he’s just a few girls away. They shift wildly, pushing their tits forward, one turning around and starting to actually twerk for him. Nausea creeps up my throat. I’m all for the right man degrading me, but debasing myself for the privilege of it? No fucking way.

I spin around before the big man can even see me, but the harlequin grabs the chain of my shackle, yanking me back. I reach up, curling my fingers between the shackle and my throat, trying to get it off my windpipe while also fighting to regain my balance. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” the harlequin demands, too loud and annoyingly theatrical. “Turn around and face the master. Let him see what he’s getting if he chooses you.”

He’ll never fucking choose me. He probably won’t choose anyone, and only gets off humiliating women, breaking their hopes and their egos. There are all kinds of creeps in this world.

Well, sure as fuck not with me. And where the hell is Emma? She must see that I could use her help. 

I whip around to glare at him with all the poison I’m capable of. The harlequin takes a step back with a sobered expression. Glad to see that I have that effect even with a mask on my face. 

“You’re taking this game too seriously,” I grunt, looking daggers at him. “Don’t forget, it’s just that—role play. I’m free to leave whenever I fucking choose.”

“But do you really want to?”

That wasn’t the harlequin speaking. It was a much deeper voice, calm and collected, and directed straight at me. 

READ the first novella of this series, King of Decadence, HERE!

Uhealthy Obsession – Chapter I

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn best of booktok, bestselling dark romance, billionaire romance, bodyguard romance, books with trigger warnings, books with trigger warnings, booktok, contemporary romance, Dark and Dangerous, dark romance, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, over the top hero, Read Online, romance books, spicy romance, stalker romance, steamy romance, touch her and you die, you're mine romanceLeave a comment

Bestie, tonight the vault cracks open.
You wanted to know more about Priest Ward—the celibate, whip-wielding Brother Superior of the Iron Cleric and bodyguard to content creator Hailey Saintpatrick—and in Chapter One of Unhealthy Obsession, you’re getting exactly that. This is a good peek behind the curtain, into the story that forged him, the shadows that made him dangerous, and the choices that made him untouchable. Some of your juiciest questions are about to be answered… and a few new ones are going to emerge.

Ready to meet the man before the obsession? Let’s begin.

Note: Mind the triggers! This is a Dark Romance, with dark themes.

Read Priest’s first book, Unholy Intentions, HERE.

***

Monastery of the Forge

Normandy

November 12th, 2005

Father Sextus

Starvation can break a man but, occasionally and if he’s formidable enough, it can make him—into a monster. It’s those formidable monsters we’re after like greedy miners after gold, and I’ve just hit a big, fat vein.

I wring my hands, waiting for Reverend Plutarch to show some semblance of enthusiasm. If only he’d get on with it a little fucking faster. But of course the Reverend Father is taking his sweet fucking time. 

“A once in a century find, you say,” he muses, eyes on the video, trying his fucking best to act unimpressed and not have to reward me for this. 

“Of the twelve methods we use to discover talent, this one never fails,” I say as if he needs reminding. “And Item Twenty-Seven, Your Excellency, is a true diamond.”

Plutarch’s expression remains blank, obscured behind his thick beard and bushy eyebrows. I know that ‘talent’ isn’t exactly what he’d call this, but it’s the next best thing, and watching the footage, he can’t deny it. All I can see is the back of the tablet I handed him, but the scraping drag of iron and terrified whimpers tell me he’s at the part where the grate falls shut over the boys’ pit. Not long after, the dogs enter the scene, growling low in their throats. 

Then the other thing enters. 

A normal person, one with a heart, would flinch at every snarl and huff, but not Plutarch. It’s only when the sound of flesh tearing off bone hits that his fingers tighten around the tablet, his fingernails whitening. When the action stops, the kids are still whimpering. The dogs? They’re not breathing. And not because they’re dead—but because they recognized the bigger dog. The reason is staggering, and I’m pretty fucking sure the Reverend Father is shocked for the first time in his life.

I know I was.

He keeps holding the tablet for long seconds after the video has ended. Then, slowly, he lowers it onto the sleek surface of his desk, setting it down with glacial calm.

Fuck him. He’s not fooling anybody.

He thought he’d seen it all in matters of atrocities. After all, he runs the most vicious training camp for contract killers that ever existed—The Forge. Before he became headmaster, he trained the boys himself. Before he trained them, he worked as an operative, as the highest ranked Cleric. And before that, he was one of these boys. Nobody knows what he did to be recruited as a kid, but I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t anything like this. 

“Item Twenty-Seven,” he says, “what’s his real name?”

“He doesn’t have one.” I bow slightly, the way one does when speaking to the Reverend Father. “But I do know he’s twelve years old, from Memphis. The Order recruited him themselves, and they sent him here for training.”

“What made them recruit him?” It’s not unheard of for The Order to send in recruits, but still highly unusual. They normally leave the recruiting to us.

I shift my weight, my robe shuffling over the stone tiling, the big dark gothic walls amplifying the sound. “Something he did in a ghetto. And what the employees of a coffee shop found behind the dumpsters in the morning.”

The black chair creaks as Reverend Plutarch leans against its large back. 

“What did they find?”

“Dead men. Big, bad men. Men that even the S.W.A.T. had failed to bring down.”

Silence stretches out into the gothic study, an invitation for me to continue. I clear my throat, the echo carrying through the dimly lit space. 

“Investigators found the perpetrator fast—the boy,” I explain. “He was an ingenious killer, but not a good cover-up. His crime was savage and ‘wickedly brilliant’, as the press called it, but he was still just a twelve-year old.”

“The press?”

“His crime made headlines, but only very briefly, so he’s not a liability. The Order shut down the news fast.” I raise my eyes, finding his. “And they retrieved the boy from police custody.”

“About this ingenious kill,” he says, the question implicit.

I structure the details in my mind before relaying them. His eyebrows rise gradually as I speak and, when I’m done, he rests in silence for whole minutes. 

“I don’t think the police caught the boy, Sextus,” he finally says, rising to his full size, and starting to pace the room, his long robe dragging in his wake like the cape of a vampire.

“Your Excellency?”

“He’s clearly a genius. He would have known how to cover his tracks. He simply chose not to.”

“You’re suggesting he wanted to be caught? But why?”

“You said it yourself—he’d killed big, bad men. The entire underground would have been after him. He needed protection, so he made it easy on the cops to find him.”

“An evil genius,” I say, turning the idea around in my head. The little shit is even harder than I thought.  

“Not necessarily evil.” Plutarch turns to look at me from beside the pointed window like some kind of undead Pontiff. “Angry, yes. Inherently brutal, maybe. But what he did there?” He points to the tablet on his desk. “He didn’t do it only for himself. He did it for the other boys, too. In the end, he did it for the dogs, as well.”

I lower my head more. “I’ll make sure to cauterize the altruism out of him.” 

“Make sure you do.”

“Shall I ask The Order to send you the full report about what happened in Memphis?” Since they’ve kept this under wraps, I was only allowed to see it when the boy was transferred from their custody to ours, but they didn’t let me keep a copy. 

Plutarch bristles under his beard. We all know he hates serving The Order, and asking them for anything humiliates us even more. Few of us like it, really. They’re spoiled bastards, and even though they’re well-trained, highly efficient and uncannily capable of making money, they lack the discipline and higher purpose of the Iron Cleric. In Plutarch’s mind, it’s a shame that the world’s true elite—us—is forced to serve their inferior kind. That he, a man more powerful than the Pope himself, has to answer to Clive Ferran. Of all the Triumvirate, he’s the one Plutarch despises most.

“We need complete info on the boy.” He returns to his desk and settles back down into his chair. “Get rid of the others.”

I bow down from my waist, offering him the shaved crown of my head along with the symbol of eternal loyalty he carved into it. 

A few hours after I’ve retreated from the Ebony Hall, The Order’s report has found its way into Reverend Plutarch’s hands, and I’ve gotten my reward, namely the freedom to train the boy—and to break him in all the ways I want. 

The little psycho glares at me with bloodlust as I hold the whip. Maybe imagining how he’d kill me. 

Turns out he adjusts his methods according to what he thinks the victim deserves. Those fuckers? He’d used a very specific cocktail of drugs to make them do each other like bitches in heat, then to rend each other like frenzied wolves. The coffee shop staff basically found rags of flesh, a man’s squashed hand still twitching. 

How Item Twenty-Seven was able to achieve all that at only twelve years of age?

The town drug lords had used him as a ‘delivery boy’ for years, during which time he’d hovered around every important meeting like a ghost. He’d watched the dealers play poker in hidden basements, and discovered the locations of their underground labs. He wormed his way into the trust of their scientists, most of whom worked with a gun at their heads. Most of them were illegals who’d been lured into the country with the promise of academia and research work, but had then been forced to work for cartels.

Soon, Item Twenty-Seven learned how to combine different kinds of hallucinogens.  He wasn’t even ten at the time, and he couldn’t even speak properly. It was the illegals who’d taught him to read and write, because he’d never been to school. It would be stupid of me to even try and deny his unusual intelligence, but I can remind him where he’s got it from.

“Your brainpower is how your genetics dealt with your crackwhore mother’s addiction. Believe it or not, you won the life lottery. You could have been born dead, an addict or with brain damage.” I drag the whip across the black stone floor, drawing a circle of his own blood around him. Despite the pain, he’s glaring at me like that alone could make me drop dead.

I hunker down in front of him. 

“Tell me, what death would you give me?” I give him the black-toothed grin that usually terrifies the boys, but it obviously doesn’t have the same effect on Item Twenty-Seven. “Would you have me OD behind a dumpster like you had those asswipes?” I lean in closer, rolling on the naked balls of my feet. “Or would you do to me what you did to that thing in the pit?”

The glint in his eye is all the answer I need.

“Ah.” I get back up. “Of course. A far more impressive feat, I’ll give you that.” I take a few moments to study him. “Far more satisfying, too, am I right?”

Instead of holding my stare he keeps his eyes ahead. A form of defiance.

“You truly are special, you know,” I say. “Making a deadly sin look so beautiful.” Then quieter, driving the fear up his spine, “beautiful, but still unforgivable. Unless, of course, you repent.”

I walk behind him, and raise the whip. His body tenses, and I stop. I lower the whip and drag it gently down between two trenches it has already carved into his flesh.

“Tell me—did you watch them go at each other?”

Silence. 

Leather whips through the air. When it lands, it cuts.

Everything in him clenches, down to the thin muscles between his protruding ribs. 

“Speak, or the next one is going to break your feeble little bones.”

“Yes,” he forces out through gritted teeth.

Finally, some progress.

“And did you like it?” 

 He won’t reply, so I bring it down on him again, the lash splitting air and his skin. 

“I liked the pit more.” The words rush out of his mouth along with a spray of spittle.

“I bet you did. But let’s go back to your original crime. Which part delighted you most? The orgy?” I hunker down behind him to spell it out in his ear. “Four grown men, fucking each other in the ass between those dumpsters? Or the squashing of each other’s hands and dicks in an animal frenzy afterwards?”

He takes a deep breath, his ribcage expanding. Next thing I know, his body relaxes, and the whole room seems to dim. The light is already minimal, the walls stripped bare, the cavernous space carrying the sound of grates dragging and falling shut. 

I stand and step back to make some distance. Just enough to take in the sight of his spinal cord sticking out like the bony spikes of a dinosaur’s fetus, his skinny ribs, the strips of blood already coagulating at the edges of his lash wounds. 

“The fucking didn’t last long.”  

“Come again?” This can’t be right. He shouldn’t be able to speak like his spirit dissociated from anything I could do to his flesh, not yet. 

A small laugh shakes his bony, bloody ribcage. It obviously hurts, but he doesn’t seem to give a shit.  

“You learn things about people when they beat you up for sport. Especially so when they use you as a soccer ball as a toddler. Needs, drives and pleasures that don’t appear in their eyes until they’re locked in a room with someone weaker.” He pauses, his spine rising along with his breathing, the silence seeming to pour out from under him like black blood. 

What a sight. I could lose track of time immersing myself into the unique suffering that seeps into the field of energy between us. 

“Soon, you learn how to spot people like them even in the light of day. You learn even quicker how to switch on their killer instinct. For these kinds of men, fucking is just a precursor of violence.”

“Good, my child,” I encourage him in a soft voice that carries through the room. “Confession is the gateway to redemption. Walk through it, and you’re halfway saved.”

His body shakes. I’m not sure whether he’s laughing or crying, not even when he speaks. 

“If men like them can be redeemed, then I don’t want it.”

“Not men like them,” I lie. “But boys like you.”

 He laughs.  

“If your God can forgive me, then he’s a monster, too.”

My tone goes even softer, the whip hanging from my hand like a guilty vestige, while his wounds glisten in the dark. 

“There is always a lesson within suffering,” I muse, slowly lowering myself behind him, placing the whip on the ground. “We come into this world to experience the entire spectrum of being human. Pain is a large part of that.”

“A disproportionate part,” he adds, his voice smaller now. Carefully, I raise my hand, and touch his damp hair. 

“You’re a smart kid, you know that?”

“Not smart enough to see the lesson.” He turns his head, just a little, leaning into my hand. I cup his head, and gently stroke his temple with my thumb. It’s cold, and wet, his pulse barely perceptible. 

“What is the lesson?” he asks, his voice ghostly. When he turns his face, I don’t see trust in his eyes—but I do see a genuine search for wisdom.

“When you learned how to spot bad men, you also learned how to protect yourself from them.” 

He shakes his head, his eyes not leaving mine. “Not that. Never that. There is no protection.”

“Even spotting them from a distance is a good way to keep oneself safe from them.”

I swipe the loose strands of hair from his face and hook them around his ear to get a clearer view of him. I lean in closer, trying to scrutinize his eyes. A faint smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, like an invitation. I get closer, and time snaps. 

The little animal is as fast as a devil. 

I instinctively slap my hand over my ear, but don’t even know what hit me until I feel the warm liquid trickling between my fingers. Then the pain hits.

“You little shit!” Goddamn it, I sound like a strangled witch. I shoot up to my feet, but stumble on my own heels and slip right back onto my ass, tangling in my own robe. 

“Fuck this, and fuck you, you little dog!” I’m Forging Father of the Iron Cleric for fuck’s sakes, I don’t get done dirty like this, not by the greatest crooks, let alone little boys. 

I rake the whip off the floor, straightening up so fast that I lose balance. For a moment I think it’s from the loss of blood, but you don’t lose that much from an ear some little whacko just bit off. 

I look down at him, contemplating dropping the whip and stabbing him to death.

How pathetic he should look hunched into a ball on the floor, hugging his knees, his skinny, lash-streaked back protruding from the ripped sides of his shirt. 

Except he doesn’t.

If anything, he resembles a possessed little creature with those grinning bloody teeth, face pale from the starvation we put him through and the loss of blood, that I’m afraid things will get worse if I kill him.  

As if he might come back to haunt me.

Afraid.

That word sticks to my mind.

I can’t remember the last time I was afraid. I killed dozens of times before, and not a damn soul came back to haunt me. They all swear to, despair raging through their pores, spittle flying out of their mouths, but they never make good on those promises. If I know one thing for sure, it’s that no one ever comes back from the Afterlife.

Yet something deep and ancient stirs in the pit of my stomach, telling me that this one just might. There’s something about his will, his rage and his gravity that feels strong enough to shape reality itself. 

The pain turns red hot as the little shit’s mouth pulls into a grin, a piece of my ear sticking out from between his bloody teeth. He spits it out viciously, the flesh slapping the stone floor. Then he just keeps staring at me with a fucking death wish.

Fuck, I want to hurt him. The sheer nerve on him. I grip the whip’s handle hard, ready to bring it down on him with a vengeance. 

But, just as I lift it, Lavinius storms in, his robe in disarray from the haste. He braces himself against the iron doorframe, catching his breath. Gulping in air, he gives me a wild look. 

“Sextus, careful!” His beady eyes dart from me to the boy and back again. “This—this can’t… It can’t go wrong.”

Wrong.

The way things have gone wrong before. 

The way I discovered that no one ever comes back to haunt the living, and why Plutarch didn’t want to put me in charge of this brat in the first place, but he was forced to in the end, because I had discovered his special talent, using my means, after The Order sent him in.  

The others think I don’t know, but tongues wag even at the monastery—of all the Forging Fathers, I’m the wild card. My ways have been on the agenda during many a meeting between Pontiffs.

I freeze with the whip in my hand, staring into Lavinius’ eyes. They’re dripping with warning and, of course, with the anguish that I might strike anyway. 

And he’s not wrong. 

Plutarch himself wouldn’t be able to stop me from teaching this little shit a lesson. Item Twenty-Seven might’ve been the bigger dog in the pit, but not here. In the cavernous dungeons under Forge Mountain, I’m breaker and executioner. Plutarch might be Reverend Father, a position he won after he forced me to my knees in the sparring ring decades ago, and carved the clerical symbol into my skull with a hot blade, but that was just a stroke of luck. Pitius had slipped poison into my porridge the night before to weaken me so he would have a chance, and Plutarch took advantage.

But all of them are very much aware that, of the seven of us, I was always the strongest. The one always ready—and able—to do what it takes to deal with little demons made flesh like this one. 

I speak the last one out loud to make it clear for Lavinius I’m not willing to bend, but he shakes his head, not taking his eyes off of mine. 

“Not this time, Sextus. The Order—”

“The Order,” I cut him off, “sent him. They’re perfectly aware that, once they do that, they have no more influence over the formation of—”

“This one is special.”

“All their recruits are. Every time they send one in, it means something, but it doesn’t compel us to keep them.” Not alive, anyway.

“That’s because The Order trust our judgment.” His eyes flick to the boy again. It takes a lot for The Order to deem someone worthy of becoming an Iron Cleric, and they only send in ‘talent’ extremely rarely. Still, we reserve the right to ‘fail’ recruits at our discretion. 

“But things are different with this one,” Lavinius insists, adjusting his tone to the low, pacifying frequency you use with volatile psychos. “The Reverend Father informed them about the starvation test you subjected him to, and its results.” 

I stick out my chin. “Oh, he did, did he? How interesting. Considering how he disapproves of my methods and how reluctantly he grants rewards.”

Lavinius looks at me a certain way. “We both know why he does that.”

“And we both know that you agree with him.”

“We all agree with him.” He looks down at the boy again, who’s been listening quietly, keeping very still. Seems he already understands the language we speak among ourselves, and maybe it shouldn’t surprise me. For a sharp mind like his, it’s peanuts. 

“But this isn’t about the Reverend Father, or the others,” Lavinius continues. “It’s about the boy. The Order has already decided that he is to become a Cleric. It’s not a request, it’s an imposition. They won’t have him leave this place like—” another quick look at the boy. That’s the thing about Lavinius, he cares too much about their feelings. It’s why he should have remained an operative, and never become a Forging Father. “—like the others did.”

My lips split as they pull into a grin. “Like the other boys from the pit.”

Item Twenty-Seven stirs. Mission accomplished. I look down at him, and even though he doesn’t return the attention, I can see that protruding pale jaw ticking.

Suddenly, the blood trickling from my ear down my neck is worth it. To think that, in decades of service, no one has gotten me like this, not even the most skilled assassins. Talent indeed. The Order sure was onto something. Too bad he seems to share Lavinius’ weakness—he cares about others. That is so easily exploitable. Look at me exploiting it right now, causing him pain in a way a whip never could.

I reluctantly return my attention to Lavinius. 

“Why?” I demand. An explanation is the least I deserve.

Lavinius hesitates. 

Annoyed as fuck, I crack the whip, leather biting down across Item Twenty-Seven’s back. His chest snaps forward, his bloodless skin stretching over his skeletal ribs. 

I laugh out loud, daring Lavinius to insist that I stop. Curious how far he’ll go. Will he throw himself down at my feet to beg? Because if one of us crosses the line and goes against The Order’s instructions, it won’t be only the perpetrator that suffers. It’ll be all of us, including him, Pitius, Morgon, Laurus, and even Plutarch. 

But all he does is issue a quiet, if charged warning. 

“Sextus…”

I crack the whip again, and this time flesh splits to the bone. It rips a cry from the little devil, but he manages to muffle it behind gritted teeth. 

Hard little bastard. 

“Stop,” Lavinius issues a second warning, and I snap.

“Or what? What can they do to us, Lavinius? We create their fucking weapons. We make the Iron Cleric! Men the Pope bows to, and world leaders cower away from. Men more influential than entire armies, deadly as human walking nukes. As for us,” I thump my finger against my chest, “we forge them! We’re the toughest bastards that ever existed. The Order wouldn’t fucking exist without us.”

“That’s exactly the thing. They’re done depending on the Forging Fathers, and they’re taking it to the next level.” He points to the boy. “Look at the little beast. The whipping, the physical torture? It doesn’t form him, like the others, much less punish him. Rather, it grounds him in his own body.” He finds my eyes again. “Containing what he’s capable of.”

My whip-holding hand starts to slacken as I begin to understand.

“They’re recruiting a different kind of brute,” I conclude, my voice fading. 

We’ve all heard rumors, but I never thought they might be true. Not even The Order would go that far. 

Lavinius holds my stare and, finally, I see it wasn’t pity he felt for Item Twenty-Seven. “I’m afraid it’s more than that. I hope I’m wrong. But it would make sense of what they want us to name him.”

I narrow my eyes as if that can help strip the whole situation down to the truth.

“And what is that?”

His mien darkens before he even says it. “Priest.”

***

Bestie. BESTIE.
Next week = more Priest. Sharper edges, bigger shadows, and stuff that’s gonna live rent-free in your head.

Also, because one obsession is never enough?? My revamped K-pop vampire serial is about to hit. Picture neon lights, sinful smiles, and idols who will literally bite the hand that feeds them.

We are entering full Dark, Delicious Romance Universe mode. Hydrate. Cancel plans. It’s about to get feral.

Exclusive Sneak Peek of Unholy Intentions on Patreon

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn bestselling dark romance, books with trigger warnings, books with trigger warnings, booktok, contemporary romance, Dark and Dangerous, Fiction Entertainment, forced proximity romance, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, romantic suspense, spicy romance, stalker romance, steamy romance, touch her and you die, women's fiction, you're mine romanceLeave a comment

If Wicked Rich Boy and Ruthless Alphas left you craving more, I’ve got something very special just for you.

Introducing… my Patreon! ✨ patreon.com/anacalin
I’m sharing exclusive weekly scenes from my work-in-progress, Unholy Intentions, and it’s going to be intensely hot!

What’s Unholy Intentions About?
Meet Cleric Ward, a modern-day warrior priest from the Ruthless Alphas world, who’s more likely to crush hearts than save them. He’s tasked with protecting Hailey Saintpatrick, the daughter of a powerful tycoon, from a dangerous stalker. The only catch? The stalker’s identity is a mystery, and only Ward has the elite skills to find him. Meanwhile, he needs to keep Hailey safe. But can he protect her from himself? 😈

This story will pull you into a whirlwind of danger, desire, and delicious tension. And you can read it all as it is written—scene by steamy scene—only on my Patreon!

Sneak Peek from Chapter One
I wouldn’t be a true Dark Romance author if I didn’t tease you with a little sample, right? 😏 Here’s a snippet from Unholy Intentions:

“Cleric Ward, Sir!” The guardians salute as my steps echo down the hallway of the Loveless palace. I nod in response. As their Brother Superior, I don’t have to reciprocate the greeting, but I always do. Our caste is rarely on the receiving end of courtesy—or the giving one, for that matter. Small tokens of civility from their superiors are important to the men.

The doors of the Loveless study swing open to receive me. The Cleric is never made to wait, even when we are the ones summoned. When the grand chair swivels around, revealing Kelly’s face instead of her husband’s, Marius, I halt in place. 

“Oh come on, Priest,” she says in a studied husky voice, “at least pretend you’re glad to see me.”

“The Order didn’t employ me for my acting skills, Mrs. Loveless.”

She purses her plump red lips. “Mrs. Loveless. So we’re back to protocol.” She brushes invisible lint off her red suit jacket. “That’s too bad, Cleric Ward. I rather liked it when we were on a first-name basis.” 

I square my shoulders and lift my chin, staring over her head like the military clergyman I am. 

“Awaiting your orders.” My voice comes out clipped. I won’t give her another chance to sit me down and climb on my lap. Sure enough, a seat is the next thing she offers by wordlessly gesturing to a cherry-cushioned, royal-looking chair angled toward her desk.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Okay, straight to business then,” she says.

She runs a hand through her hair, ruffling her wavy blonde strands casually as if she didn’t have some poor maid sweat to death styling them this morning. But nothing about Kelly’s flawless appearance is natural, and nothing about her persona is kind or accommodating. Her staff is permanently on-edge, their forced smiles imbued with terror. It’s not like they can just up and quit their job if they’ve had it. The only way anyone has ever left the Loveless family’s employment was in a body bag.

She opens a drawer, retrieves something, and slaps it on the glossy surface of her desk. I arch an eyebrow.

“A paper file?” 

“I know the Cleric is big on tech, but this is a delicate matter.” 

“All of the Order’s assignments are delicate. Besides, let me remind you the Cleric’s systems can’t be hacked, and we have—”

“You have the biggest tech brains working for you, I know, we all do, but this assignment, well…It’s special.” She flips the file open and turns it around so I can take a look. 

My eyes fall on the picture of a woman. Young, probably in her early twenties, a melancholy in her eyes that slows me down in my perusal. A mysterious kind of longing drips out of large hazel eyes, her naturally rosy lips slightly parted, like the camera caught her off guard.  

My eyebrows dip as I imagine a d*** shoved between her sweetly-shaped lips, robbing them of their innocence, fingers tangling in those rings of honey-brown, just-woke-up hair. My c*** jolts in my pants, and it’s all I can do not to grab it. My back snaps even straighter – what the fuck was that?

“Who is she?” I keep my voice straight and my features schooled because I can, but it’s been ages since my c*** reacted to a woman at first sight, let alone one in a fucking picture. I’m more guilty of the sin of pride than I’ve ever been of the sin of lust. Especially pride at how resilient I am to the opposite sex, no matter how skilled the temptress, and Kelly Loveless is living proof of that. 

“Her name is Hailey Saintpatrick,” Kelly informs me. “And she is your new client. Or, rather, her father is.” She flips to the next page of the file. Another picture, this time depicting a very large man in a very expensive suit. He sports a thick beard, a scowl, and his nose is bashed in. A former boxer. He’s way past his prime in this picture, but his clothes, the mansion in the background, and the famous faces surrounding him, scream a shameless amount of money and influence. 

“Bobby ‘Robster’ Saintpatrick. You’ve probably heard of him.”

“Can’t say I have.” 

“For a world-class fighter, you know impressively little about martial arts,” Kelly bites.

 “I know a lot about martial arts. Just not the kinds that make pretty boys famous.”

***

If you want unlimited access to all the scenes as they unfold, join my Patreon today! You’ll get new, exclusive content every week, and you’ll be supporting a noble cause in the process. The funds I raise through Patreon will go toward producing audiobooks for both my Ruthless Alphas and Dirty Billionaires series, so you’ll get to hear these sinful alphas in all their deep-voiced, bad-boy glory. 🎧🔥

Cruel Boy Toy – First Chapter – NEW BOOK ALERT

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn best of booktok, bestselling dark romance, billionaire romance, books with trigger warnings, booktok, bully romance, contemporary romance, Dark and Dangerous, dark college romance, enemies to lovers romance, forced proximity romance, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, romantic suspense, spicy romance, stalker romance, steamy romance, tiktokbooks, touch her and you die, women's fiction, you're mine romanceLeave a comment

Blurb:

He’s stalking me with one thing in mind—revenge.

Micah Royales is a Heathen King. A ruthless elite above billionaires, politicians, and the law.

He’s also a student at the college where I teach.

Convinced that I’m having an affair with his stepfather and greatest enemy, Micah sets out to use me against him and tear me apart in the process. He destroys my reputation in front of my students by making it look like he’s my boy toy. Yet it turns out this methodical destruction isn’t even my biggest problem.

Being wanted by the nefarious weapon that is Micah Royles is.

His obsessive attention becomes a prison, trapping me in a chaos of perverted sensuality. Fighting his corruption is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I need to get out of this affair before it’s too late. Before my ultimate secret comes to light, turning Micah’s passion into hatred. Once he finds out what I’ve been hiding from him all this time, he’ll make sure there’s nothing left of me but a ravaged shell, discarded at the devil’s feet.

Because there’s no forgiveness in Micah’s world.

There’s only vicious retribution.

NOTE. This is a dark romance! There will be triggers such as dub-con, knife and gun play as well as the hero going sycho on his rivals and going over the top toxic on the heroine. Please check the trigger warnings at the beginning of this book. If Rina Kent (God of Malice, God of Pain), Shantel Tessier (The Ritual, The Sinner) and HD Carlton (Haunting Adeline) are your jam, then go ahead and read this because it will be right up your alley. But if you’re more into a sweet, does-it-all-right hero, steer clear.

CHAPTER I

Micah

I run my thumb over the steering wheel while waiting for Eva Brannan to exit the hotel lobby. She’s been meeting that piece of shit Romano at the Vanguard Plaza for weeks now. Who would have thought that my dirty bastard of a stepfather would end up fucking a philosophy professor instead of a top-tier escort?

Not that the cold beauty Eva Brannan looks anything like the average professor. Still, she doesn’t look like a whore either, yet I have a dozen pictures to prove that she is one: Her in Romano’s arms in the hotel lobby. The two of them at the hotel cafe, his hand resting on her knee under the table. Him whispering in her ear while she’s got a fake smile plastered on her face, staring with cold blue eyes out the cafe window.

I squeeze the wheel so tightly that it’s a miracle it doesn’t fucking snap in my grip.

If the asshole thinks he can enjoy his money with the leggy blonde while Sade and I fight cartels and illegal arms dealers for him, he’s dead wrong. Especially since he’s been upping his game lately, trying to get us killed.

Now I know why.

He needs us out of the way faster so he can get rid of Mother, too. He’s desperate to regain his freedom, probably to marry Eva Brannan. He’s been keeping our mother in a secret mental institution ever since Sade and I were toddlers, but the bastard can’t have her killed while big bro and I still breathe. All of her inheritance would go to us. So, he needs us cold in the grave first to remain her only next of kin. And now that he’s head over heels for the philosophy professor, he needs to speed shit up. His being our commander in the Heathen Kings’ hierarchy isn’t helping our cause either, since we have to go on the missions he commands us to go on, and we can’t kill the fucker. His murder would cause a bloodbath with the Elders.

So I’m doing this the smart way—and it’s going to fucking hurt.

I imagine Romano drooling all over Eva right fucking now, and my cock hardens. She’s a fine piece of ass, I’ll give her that, but one that deserves to be punished as savagely as him. She’s been posing as the somber professor for two years on campus, commanding

respect as she pranced in her high heels down the hallways. Very fucking different from the version of her who meets Romano at the Vanguard. In the university hallways, her blonde-silver hair is always flawlessly swept back, her body hidden behind forbidding black suits, while with him, she could be taken for a high-class hooker. Her hair is always a cascade of silk, her make-up showcases her high cheekbones, and her lips seem made for sucking cock, thick with lip gloss.

I’ve been imagining my dick balls-deep in that mouth from the moment I saw the first picture of her meeting Romano. Granted, I fantasized about her before too, while fucking ass in the dark corners of the uni hallways, but I didn’t actually intend to act on it. I imagined corrupting her, tearing down her principles and staining her honor, making her beg for fuckery that she’d never known she wanted, but it turns out there’s no honor to speak of. She’s a gold digger with no scruples.

Not that I have any scruples of my own, so I guess that makes us even. And it makes her fair game. My plans for her turn nastier by the minute.

She emerges from the hotel, and I squeeze the steering wheel tighter. Today, she’s wearing a wool dress that showcases her toned legs, her silver hair blowing in the wintry breeze. I give her a head start before I get out of the car and expertly tail her, knowing that Romano won’t leave the hotel anytime soon. He always stays a while after she leaves, probably to reduce the risk of their affair being discovered.

I follow her a few blocks to a cozy little neighborhood not far from the hotel. This town is a haven for the wealthiest and most influential people in the US, and those people pay a small country’s GDP for the protection of the Heathen Kings, so we keep it clean and crime-free for them—except for the organized crime that we run ourselves, of course.

The pretty professor lives on a safe little street with picturesque brownstones. The lodging was part of her contract with the university and, from my research these past few weeks, a long way from the gang-war-infested neighborhood where she grew up. Her dad left her junkie mom when Eva was fifteen and remarried a few months later. Now, Graham Brannan runs a successful tech company, lives in New Jersey with his much younger wife and two daughters, and he paid for Eva’s education. They’re not close, so he must have done it out of guilt and a sense of duty. I doubt there was any love involved, but what do I know about parental love? I was born out of a fucking gang-bang.

Eva stops at the grocery store around the corner, allowing me to reach her apartment

building ahead of her. Pushing my shades up, I jimmy the lock and let myself in. A minute later, I’m merging with the shadows behind the stairs on her landing.

Then I wait.

***

Eva

My knees tremble as I walk up the stairs to the first floor. If it weren’t for the bag of groceries occupying my hands, I’d be rubbing myself all over to eliminate the crawling feeling on my skin.

Duke Romano Royales enjoys doing this to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure it turns him on when women despise him but are forced to do his bidding anyway—as I am now. And the worst part is that I can’t talk to anyone about it. He has me in a damn chokehold.

Balancing the groceries between my knee and my chin, I try to put the key in the lock. But then something slams into the wall next to me, and I drop both the bag and my keys before I whip around.

“Jesus Freaking Christ” is poised to bolt out of my mouth, but the words freeze the moment I recognize the face looming above mine.

I blink a few times, trying to clear my vision. This can’t be right.

“Micah?” I whisper, sure that I’m seeing things.

The Heathen Kings’ daredevil is very much a star on campus, and there’s absolutely no logical reason why he should be standing outside my apartment door right now.

Or none that I can think of.

He inches closer, his hand leaning against the doorframe.

“Hello, Professor,” he says in a gravelly baritone that I’m sure has made every female on campus masturbate at least once. I’ve heard whispers about it. His eyes travel down my body like he’s assessing me.

“What the hell, Micah?” I try to push him away, but he won’t move an inch. On the contrary, he steps closer, forcing my back to mold the door while his broad chest traps mine like a block of muscle.

“Easy there.” He cocks a pierced, devilish eyebrow over his shades.

“What movie is this?” I shriek, barely breathing. “Mr. Royales, you’re assaulting a

professor at her front door, in case you haven’t noticed.” My mind spins in circles. This isn’t making any sense.

“Come on, Ms. Brannan, you can’t be this surprised. Not when you’re having an affair with my stepdaddy. You surely didn’t think you could keep that a secret for long, did you? You’re too smart for that, especially since big bro and I are Kings, too. We find shit out.”

My breathing quickens, and I’m getting lightheaded.

This is fucking bad.

The Heathen Kings don’t just rule this town, they rule the entire country from the shadows, and they didn’t amass that kind of power by playing nice. Their organization controls everything that matters in the US, from weapons to pharma, and Micah Royales is their blade, the ruthless slitter of throats. He’s got an army of bikers obeying his orders, providing protection for the highest bidder, and that’s just a hobby to Micah. Everyone in town is scared of him, and now I’ve landed on his shit list. Things can’t get any worse than landing on the radar of this hot villain.

Not that I would ever look at a student like that. Or the way he’s looking at me now while removing his shades and slipping them into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

My breath catches at the full sight of his chiseled face, young and brutal, his eyes dark as gunpowder. There’s a maliciousness in them that few people can hold because it’s almost inhuman. It’s a level of devilry that goes beyond the capabilities of ordinary people.

And now all of it is focused on me, all of the lethality he acquired while having to survive training in actual war zones.

“What is it, Professor?” he says when I only manage to open and close my mouth like a fish out of water. “Did the cat eat your tongue?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” I breathe, aware of how stupid it sounds as soon as the words come out.

Micah clicks his tongue, his eyes assessing me, looking like nothing of what he sees surprises him. As if he expected I was the kind of bitch who would screw his stepdad all along. Not that I’m actually screwing Romano. Things are more complicated than that.

“Invite me in, and let’s talk about it.”

“No.” The word flies out of my mouth quicker than I can think. But I can’t risk being alone with death incarnate.

“Well, then.” His ironclad body pushes into my chest. I stiffen, his scent of leather and

dark chocolate caging me in. “Then I suppose we must have this conversation here.”

Doesn’t chocolate contain phenylethylamine, which is like a drug? His scent must contain it, too, because my mind can’t spawn a single coherent thought.

“There’s no conversation to be had. If you want answers, you’re gonna have to ask your stepdaddy.”

I try to shove him away again, but Micah only traps me harder. His fingers graze their way up my inner thigh over my pantyhose, then past my garters. I’d fall over if I weren’t trapped against the door, my brain desperate to reboot.

“What the hell are you doing?” I blurt out, squirming between him and the door.

“Figuring out the answers for myself,” he says as his hand moves up, his body making it impossible for me to escape. “Since you’re refusing to have a civilized conversation.”

I open my mouth to blurt out that I changed my mind, that I’ll let him in, but he pushes his body so hard into mine that it squeezes the air out of my lungs.

“On second thought, I think I prefer doing it like this.” His voice is a low growl. “I get my answers, and you learn your lesson.”

His fingers reach the apex of my thighs and run over my panties. I gasp, choking on my own saliva when the pads of his fingers skim past the side of the lace, feathering over the lips of my pussy.

He finds me freaking wet because no woman with blood in her veins would resist a situation like this, as fucked up as it is. The blend of danger and outrageousness is unique. Until the outrageousness outweighs everything else.

“Stop this madness immediately,” I squeak, slapping his wrist, but his hand won’t budge. On the contrary, it clamps down on me, cupping my pussy so hard that it knocks me harder against the door.

“Did he leave his cum in you?” His voice is calm, yet filled with danger. “Or did he come in your mouth today?” He lifts his other hand and runs his thumb over my lips. The back of my head hits the door as I try to jerk away from him and find nowhere to go.

I brace myself to utter a bitter retort, but he uses the moment to slip his thumb into my mouth.

“Choose your words carefully, or I’m going to make sure you choke on them,” he threatens, cupping my jaw with the rest of his hand while pushing his thumb deeper until his brass ring reaches my lips. I think about those ringed fingers balling into fists, pummeling

down into the faces of the Kings’ enemies when they send him on a mission. Justine, my best friend and the girlfriend of Micah’s brother, Sade, has some chilling stories to tell about that.

Not that I wasn’t prepared for those stories. I was briefed about the Heathen Kings as soon as I started at Norton King’s college almost two years ago, but damn, I wasn’t prepared for this.

Micah rubs the heel of his palm against my clit over the lace, which is now soaked, his thumb pressing down on my tongue with the clear intention of making me gag.

“Where did he come today, professor? Jerk your hips forward if it was your cunt, or bite down on my thumb if it was your mouth.”

I don’t do either, still stunned and trying to make sense of what’s happening. But then Micah flashes me a bad-boy smile, and the fight dies down inside me.

I attempt to push a plea out of my mouth and get him to go inside the apartment so we can talk, but I choke on his thumb. His finger slips through the side of my panties, running between the lips of my pussy. I haven’t had sex in six months, ever since Santi and I broke up, so I’m not precisely smooth down there, but Micah seems pleasantly surprised. It earns me a satisfied groan.

“Daddy likes a hairy pussy, does he?” He laughs like he just caught me kneeling behind a dumpster with a dick in my mouth. “What a lucky coincidence that I do, too. Did he unload his cum in here, or is this all your own juice?”

I struggle against the cage he formed between his impossibly hard body and the door when Santi Rossi appears in the doorway across the landing.

The statistics professor and I met the day we signed our contracts, and because we hit it off so well, we asked to be assigned close apartments, thinking we’d be great friends. One thing led to another. Now I wish that first night of Netflix and chill had never ended in comfort sex, and we’d really stayed only friends. He’s fun to be around, but he’s a compulsive cheater.

Santi stares at us with an open mouth, his hand on the knob. Damn it, he shouldn’t even have been home. He usually spends his weekends with his friends in New York, hooking up with college girls he can’t ethically sleep with here.

Every hope I had of him not recognizing Micah is pulverized when the Heathen King turns to Santi and gives him a wink. I shake my head as much as his grip on my face will let

me, not even wanting to imagine what this must look like to Santi. Me with my garters showing, trapped against the door by a biker who’s got a hand up my pussy and his thumb in my mouth. Not to mention that said biker is a King and a student on campus. Not technically my student, but he could take my classes anytime if he chose to add some ethical philosophy to his studies of weapon engineering.

So he could become my student, which means we’re completely off limits for each other.

Taking advantage of Micah’s attention resting on the open-mouthed Santi, I drag my face to the side and escape his hold on my jaw, freeing my mouth.

“Micah, stop this!” I try to push him again and fail.

“Oh, I’m sure you can explain to Professor Rossi here how this isn’t what it seems. Just like you were explaining to me earlier about what happened at the Vanguard. You could tell him that you being crammed against the door is just—”

“Come inside,” I shriek, swiveling around and bending down for my keys.

I don’t need to see him to know that he’s still smirking at Santi while I fumble on the floor for them. Something hard pushes against my buttocks when I turn the key in the lock, and the air whooshes out of me.

Micah has a raging erection, and I’m about to be alone with him in my apartment.

But the urgent matter right now is getting out of Santi’s eyes.

I grab Micah’s forearm and pull him inside before I slam the door, leaving a stunned Santi behind, as well as my scattered groceries.

“Are you crazy?” I shriek out. “That was Santi Rossi!” I point to the now firmly closed door. “He’s a professor of statistics at Norton King’s, and he’s my colleague. Who just fucking saw us!”

“And what’s he going to do about it?” He cocks that devilish, pierced eyebrow. “Tell?” A laugh vibrates in his chest, filled with both scorn and power. “I reckon he values his balls too much to risk that.”

“It might give me trouble I don’t deserve. That thing with your stepfather—” I throw my keys on the small table by the door and run a hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together. “It isn’t what you think. It’s not an affair, it’s more complicated than that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

The Heathen King paces my living room, grabbing my silk camisole off the back of the armchair and lifting it up to his face. He breathes in deeply, his eyes snapping up at me over the hand in which he holds it. My back snaps straight at eye contact, and I can’t make another sound until he slowly lowers the camisole. “Explain it to me then.”

I bite down into my lower lip because I can’t tell him the truth even though I’m so not fucking his stepfather. But lying to him isn’t an option either, he’d see right through me. The Heathen Kings have experience with the worst kind of criminals, and they have extensive training interrogating them. Also, they have ways of getting the truth out of people that would give the Spanish Inquisition a run for their money.

“It’s not what it seems,” I repeat, unable to find something else to say.

Micah throws his head back, his chest vibrating with laughter.

“Sure it’s not.” He drops the camisole back onto the armchair and walks over, fully aware of how I shrink in on myself with every step he takes. I watch him approach, his features barely visible in the stark winter light flooding my living room from the window behind him. It surrounds him like a cold aura, his shape merely the outline of an icy god.

I’ve had to put up with many cock-sure students since I started on campus, and I’ve developed thick skin. I even held my ground in front of a King once—even though he was one who didn’t deserve the title. But now I find myself closing my arms around me and stepping back from Micah Royales.

“Explain. It. To. Me. In detail,” he orders.

I rub my arms, shifting from one foot to the other like a flustered girl in front of the school bully.

“Listen, this is going to sound crazy, but I need you to trust me, okay? The only thing I can tell you right now is that it’s pure business.”

Micah clicks his tongue, the look in his eyes morphing into contempt as he drags it down my frame.

“I can imagine what kind of business it is if it looks like this.” He retrieves his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and swipes a few times before holding it in my face.

What I see is a picture of Romano and me in the hotel cafe window, his face pushed into my hair while he’s whispering in my ear. I’m smiling because he told me to, the bastard. He knew whoever caught us would think this was an affair. It suits him far better than anyone finding out the truth.

The truth that would explode like a nuke in my face if it ever got out.

No explanation comes to mind as I stare blankly at the pictures that Micah swipes through. Romano’s arms around me in the hotel lobby, or him leaning too close to me at a restaurant table. Sure, it’s easy to speculate we fucked in one of the rooms upstairs before we came down for a meal.

But we never shared a hotel room with each other.

Not because Romano didn’t want to. He sure as hell did and still does. In fact, he promised that our business wouldn’t be over until I spread my legs for him at least once.

I keep shaking my head, incapable of uttering a single word. Nothing but the truth would convince Micah this isn’t what it seems, but the truth isn’t on the fucking menu. And if I lie, and claim that I am, in fact, having an affair with Romano, he’ll have his bikers fuck me until I pass out.

I’d be nothing but a worthless whore to him, and he’d make sure that when I come back to my senses, I have the cum of a dozen men all over me. It’s no secret that he likes to gang-bang women with his bikers, even though the women are always willing participants. There’s a whole group of students on campus that actually bid money for the privilege. Outrageous but true.

So I do the only thing that comes to mind, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I stick out my chin and stare defiantly into his face.

“You know what, I don’t owe you an explanation. If you want one, you’ll have to ask Romano.” I stare him up and down, trying to feign the same contempt he’s showing me. “I’m disappointed, to be frank. I didn’t expect a Heathen King to come demanding answers from the weaker part of what he believes is a traitorous duo.”

“The weaker part?” He steps into me, causing me to retreat and stumble over the reading lamp next to the couch. His hand flashes behind me and catches it before it falls to the floor. “I don’t see weakness when I look at you, Professor. I see cunning and ambition. I see balls bigger than those of most men I know.” He pauses at the way I gasp. Against all odds, I think that’s the most beautiful thing any man has ever said to me. But the elation is short-lived. “Now, I also see greed. I see a cold and calculating temptress.” He leans in, breathing my scent in as if he were sampling me.

“I will make an exception for you, Professor, and I won’t use you with the rest of my men. But make no mistake—I will be your worst nightmare. By the time I’m done with you,

you will be thoroughly ruined.” He bares his teeth like an animal intending to toy with his prey before rending it. “By the time this is over, I’ll be the only thing on your cold, calculating mind. I’ll be the master you’ll be forced to serve like an obedient little slut, unless you tell me exactly what’s going on between you and that piece of shit who calls himself my father.”

He smirks, and I choke on my own breath. “Also, you’ll break up with him. By phone or text, I don’t care, as long as you don’t meet him again. If you see him face to face one more time, you’ll regret it.”

Setting the lamp behind me back on its feet, he slowly walks away. When he reaches the door, I have a full view of the Heathen Kings’ throat-slitter sliding his shades back on and shoving a toothpick in his mouth.

“You have two days to make it happen, and come clean.” He gives me a roguish grin before he leaves my apartment, his scent of leather and dark chocolate lingering behind.

The air leaves my lungs in a loud exhale that I didn’t even realize I was holding, and I collapse on the couch like a sack of potatoes.

“What the hell was that?” I say out loud, raking my hands through my hair before I land a few slaps on my cheeks.

I can’t believe this just happened.

Micah caught me with Romano.

Then he fingered me outside my door.

“I’m fucked.” The realization of what just happened washes over my brain. “I’m so fucking fucked.”

My soaked panties turn cold against my needy pussy.

All Kings are dangerous, but Micah is the most naturally vicious of them all. He’s been through stuff that would put lesser men in the psych ward, and he’s so unhinged that even his brother Sade watches himself around him, careful not to cause a fuse to snap. I got the general idea of his past in the dean’s office when I started out at Norton King’s, much of which I considered to be legend rather than truth until Justine’s relationship with Micah’s brother Sade brought me closer to their circle.

And I can testify to the fact that being close to the Kings is a hair-raising experience.

They’ve only been mingling with us mere mortals since Justine and Sade became an item, which was also around the time Romano started to put pressure on me. Considering

what he’s got on me, refusing to see him wasn’t an option. What’s for sure is that none of the other Kings can discover what Romano is actually up to. If they do, he’ll make sure the nuke explodes in my face before he goes down.

But keeping the secret from Micah is now close to impossible.

Damn the day the Kings descended from their exclusive lounge in the gallery overlooking the cafeteria to join us.

The girls and I didn’t draw much attention until we mingled with the most feared men on campus, even if professors sitting with students would usually raise some question marks. But I’m only three years older than them, and we look about the same age. Yet when the Kings joined us, things changed drastically. Everybody began staring. So, I made a habit of having something to do around lunchtime to avoid sitting with them, which is why this was also my first direct interaction with Micah.

Not that I haven’t noticed the way he stared at me on campus lately, but I didn’t think much of it because he kept his distance. I figured he was just wondering about me, the way the other Kings did. It’s unusual for someone my age to gain a professorship at one of the most prestigious universities in the country. He must have put it on my connections when he discovered that heiress and top-student Melody Sorbaine and I knew each other before I was appointed the professorship.

But Mel’s influence didn’t help me beyond the fact that it put me on a list of candidates. Then a grueling chain of exams followed, and I got the highest score among a hundred and twenty-seven people.

I earned my position.

But I doubt that Micah’s research got that far. If anything, my friendship with Mel preceding my time at Norton King’s probably fortified his certainty that I’m calculating and manipulative. And that I would twist Romano’s mind into getting rid of his mother and then marrying me.

Scenarios of how Micah will take revenge spin around in my head until I gasp for air, folding in on myself. I need to talk to someone about this, or I’ll lose my mind. But who can I tell about my non-dates with Romano without the person grilling me about the reason behind them?

I’ve never ranked my best friends before. Even though I’ve known Mel the longest, Justine and Annie quickly grew on me, and I would trust them with my life. They’re my ride-

or-die people. But can I ask them to trust me without an explanation? They’d probably take a bullet for me, but they’d need to know why they’re taking it.

Remembering my groceries are still outside like witnesses to a crime, I drag myself toward the door, hoping that I won’t run into Santi. I wouldn’t put it past him to wait until he got a chance to talk to me about what he saw. New York is only a short drive away, it’s not like he needs to fly there, so he could have chosen to leave later.

I turn the knob carefully, preparing to throw the groceries back into the bag as quickly as possible, but that bastard Micah might have stomped all over the grapes just to make me kneel.

Yet I find the groceries already back in their paper bag, neatly waiting for me outside the door. I glance left and right, wondering if he’s still out there. Didn’t he basically threaten to make me regret ever being born? Now he bags my groceries like the cute boy next door? Or did Santi do it before he left? Doubtful, considering our history.

One thing is for sure—I can’t fight my way out of Micah’s claws alone. Whether I like it or not, I’m going to need help.

Keep Reading HERE.

Dirty Arrangement – First Chapter and Meet ‘Cute’

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn bestselling dark romance, billionaire romance, books with trigger warnings, books with trigger warnings, booktok, bully romance, contemporary romance, Dark and Dangerous, enemies to lovers romance, forced proximity romance, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, over the top hero, spicy romance, stalker romance, steamy romance, touch her and you die, you're mine romanceLeave a comment

WARNING. This is a Dark Romance. It may include trope-specific triggers such as but not limited to: mention of abuse, indecent proposal, forced proximity by the hero. Recommended only if you are familiar and comfortable with Dark Romance.

Blurb:

Sirenna

Zayne Thorngren isn’t Lucifer. He’s the whole damn hell. Violence incarnate.

I should stay a million miles away from him but, with the city mafia out to get me, the controversial billionaire is the only one who can protect me.

So, I have no choice but to accept the dirty arrangement he offers. 

An affair that Zayne has full control of, while I’m caught in his web of dark desires.

But the more of my problems he solves, the more I realize he’s not going to let me go. Like, ever. His passion is a prison that I’m not sure I want to escape.

Still, there’s one thing more powerful than Zayne’s possession. His secret, hidden in a past that’s coming to tear us apart. A secret that should send me running away in horror. And yet…  

Zayne

I’m this city’s golden boy, a celebrated pharma lord.

Some call me the real-life Lex Luthor, while others say I’m my very own brand of vicious. 

A member of The Order with no weaknesses. No soft spots. No addictions. 

Except for watching Sirenna Carter.

Imagining dirty, nasty scenarios with her.

So when she comes asking for protection from the city mafia, I demand payment right there, on the couch in my office. It should still my lust and get her out of my system, right?

Wrong.

Because now I’m obsessed. 

Possessed by a need that’s out of this f*cking world.

I will destroy her enemies and put the world at her feet, but can I protect her from the monster lurking beneath my skin? And when my secret starts creeping out from the shadows of my past, will this twisted love be enough to save us? 

***

CHAPTER I

Sirenna

“This is bullshit.” 

I throw myself onto the pillow, my phone landing on the bed next to me, showing death threat number fuckteen. A sound rips through the room before a stark light lands on my face, forcing me to slap a hand over my eyes. My groan morphs into a very unladylike, hung-over cough.

“Rise and shine, princess,” a familiar voice chirps. Fuck me, it’s too early to deal with her.

Mia Rogers–soon to be Lady Santori–is the only person I know who manages to sound accommodating and commanding at the same time. She’s a hustler used to getting her way, but at the same time, she’s charming, and pleasant. Me? I’ve been called a stuck-up bitch more often than by my own name. 

“Damn it, close those motherfuckers, will you?” 

“Like hell I will.” The bed jerks when she drops onto the mattress. I don’t need to look at Mia to know her eyes are running over the empty champagne bottles lying around the hotel room. “I understand that you need time to heal after everything that happened, but you seem to be growing comfortable in your misery. Let me remind you that you can’t afford that. With Joseph missing, you’ve got a whole freaking empire to run, not just this hotel.”

“Not now, Mia, I’ve got a mean hangover.”

“Yeah, you’ve been having a lot of those lately. You need to snap out of it.” She props herself on her elbow next to me, so close now that I can smell her expensive perfume.

“Come on, Sirenna, you’re stronger than this.”

My phone buzzes, and the display lights up. 

I don’t even bother to pick it up. Let Mia do it. See for herself why I’m not leaving this hotel for the next couple of decades. A sigh leaves her lips. You know what, let’s take this up a notch. I unlock the device for her and let her read the texts that came before it. 

“So, shall I order room service?” I taunt as she reads. “You can listen to the voice messages while you enjoy a hearty breakfast. We have excellent croissants here.”

“I…wow,” she mutters, still scrolling, her eyebrows arched up. If those texts are enough to render the tough journalist Mia Rogers speechless, imagine what they’d do to the average person. 

I drag myself out of bed, wrapping the discarded bathrobe around me–not because I need it, since I’m going to step into the shower right away, but because I don’t want Mia asking questions that make me feel more like shit than I already do. I slept in the same tiny red dress I wore last night to the hotel bar, which dress is now crumpled, and my pantyhose are ripped. I wonder how that came to be since I didn’t eventually hook up with anybody. 

I intended to. But no matter how drunk I got, I just couldn’t do it. 

I squint at myself in the vanity mirror, brushing my matted hair away from my face. My eyes are swollen, my make-up smeared around them, my face puffier than usual. I look over at Mia’s reflection. She’s flawless with her shiny black hair pulled into that stylish do, her skin perfectly tan, her eyeshadow making her intelligent blue eyes pop. I used to look as dignified as her once. A lifetime ago, it seems.

Mia tries to hide it, but she’s worried as fuck. Those messages are going to haunt her for a while, too. 

“I don’t know if you’ve seen it, but there’s a shitstorm on Twitter, too,” she announces. “I mean X.”

I let out a hoarse laugh that is devoid of any amusement. “Yeah, the X is all about my ex lately, it would seem.”

“Very funny. The media is all over issues when there’s room for speculation.”

“Are you, too?”

“Of course.” She gives me a slight grin. “You wouldn’t expect any less of me, would you?”

“Of course not. And, what have we got so far?” I throw over my shoulder as I head into the bathroom. I make quick work of getting rid of the dress and the pantyhose before Mia appears behind me and leans against the doorframe.

“It seems Joseph disappeared right after the big party at The Rite,” she says. “From my investigation, you were the last person who saw him that night. I made sure no one involved the police, just like you asked.”

“Thank you. As for being the last person who saw him, I was surrounded by a bunch of guys that Joseph wanted to have gang-bang me that night. Whatever I saw, they did, too,” I reply as I step into the shower. A cold spray comes down, battering my face and back. It makes me gasp sharply, chasing away the memories of that night. Every time I remember, they claw at me like hungry shadows. 

Mia keeps talking, but I can’t hear her over the rush of water until the temperature adjusts, the warmth soothing away the goosebumps.

“Declan talked to all of the guys that were around you that night.” Her tone changes, growing softer. More careful as she walks closer to the shower, rivulets trickling over her face through the glass pane. “Busy as they were with you, they lost track of Joseph.”

I swallow against the bitterness coating my palate. “Could Declan even identify all of them? Most were wearing masks.” But not Joseph or I. He enjoyed letting those guys grind into me, knowing full well who they were debasing. “If you and Declan hadn’t taken over the show, arresting everyone’s attention, he would have let those bastards rape me, and I wouldn’t even know who they were.”

“You can’t go down that rabbit hole, Sirenna,” Mia murmurs, now peeking around the pane of glass between us. “Joseph is one of the most disgusting bastards I know. What he did had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with him. He was punishing you for getting dirt on him and leaking it to the press.”

“He was my husband for five years,” I reply, my fingers curling into the tiles. “You don’t do those kinds of things to people who once meant something to you.” Despite the hot water and the heat steaming the glass pane, I start to shiver. 

“I understand that these things hurt even if we’re braced for them to happen,” she argues carefully. “I, of all people, know that. But you need to steel yourself, because now that Joseph is gone, all of his businesses, including his enemies, are your problem.” She pauses, surely thinking about the texts on my phone. “Especially the enemies.”

“That bastard, he knew what he was getting me into.” All my muscles flex painfully as I watch the water flow towards the drain between my feet. “It’s probably why he did it. He knew that he could no longer stop the shitstorm that was coming at him. He was going down, and there was nothing he could do about it. So he fled and left me to get ripped to pieces in his place.” I laugh, the sound hoarse and bitter. “I can’t think of a better strategy to destroy someone.”

“He might well be dead, Sirenna.”

I scoff. “Oh, he’s not dead. We would have found a body. The kind of people that he deals with, if they wanted him killed, they would have made a show of it. Set an example. They would have butchered him and scattered his remains all over the city–the way they made it clear they would do with me.” And that wasn’t even the worst threat.

“Many want to take over his empire,” Mia says, making herself comfortable on the closed toilet seat as I wash my hair and my body. “He’s a Triad member. One of the links that connects the underworld with the world of top finance. Access to his banks is worth this city’s weight in gold.”

I scrub myself faster, the new reality firing up my nerves. By the time I step out of the shower, I’m on full alert, an anxiety attack looming.

“This is bullshit, Mia. I’ve been saying it since this morning, and it seems I’m gonna be saying it for a long time from now on.”

She doesn’t argue with me. She knows this is dark shit, and she’s fully aware it can swallow me whole. I see it on her face when I wipe the steam off the mirror. It gives me the chills, seeing the fierce Mia Rogers so worried.

“You should come stay with Declan and me for a while,” she says when I’m done blow-drying my hair, and we can finally hear each other again. 

I stare at myself in the mirror, seeking the powerful, effervescent woman I used to be. But the face staring back at me is only vaguely familiar. That woman and this version of me share the same straight nose and uptilted dark eyes, but the intensity those eyes used to have is muted. I never had a plump mouth, my features are rather pinched and severe, but my lips look even thinner now, and my face is almost gaunt.

“That wouldn’t be fair to you and Declan,” I say quietly, resting my hands on the sides of the sink. “You’re preparing for a wedding, you don’t need this kind of heat.”

“I’m sure Declan–”

“I’m sure he would, too,” I cut her off, “because there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to please you. But he could spare the trouble. Trying to protect me would mean facing a war.”

“Sirenna, my future husband is one of the most powerful men in the world,” she reminds me kindly.

“So is Joseph. Keeping me safe will be hell with the city’s nastiest overlords trying to get me. Declan can’t protect me forever, and you know what?” I square my shoulders. I may be a broken woman with a drinking problem, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let these assholes tear me down. “I spent a lot of time trying to bring down Joseph Carter for the nasty shit he was involved in. I failed. But now? I’ve never been in a better position to take down half of this city’s evil rats. I could actually achieve something meaningful here.” My eyebrows dip in the mirror as I inch closer to a tough decision. “Right now, I don’t need a protector. I need an ally.”

Mia’s eyebrows rise slowly. “And you don’t think Declan and Jax would come in handy as allies?”

“This isn’t their fight, Mia. Jax kicks ass on the stock market, Declan runs diamond mines. They have nothing to do with the drugs and pharma mob that Joseph got himself involved with. It would be like having an oil sheik fight a social media mogul. No, I need someone who shares the same fight. Someone who has a personal stake in it.” 

Mia walks behind me, running her hands through my now dry, silky platinum hair. 

“Before you do anything about those guys, we need to find out what happened to Joseph,” she says.

“We don’t have the time to investigate that. Those assholes out there would get in the way. I’m a direct rival to them now, an unprotected one with open flanks. I’d be surprised if I made it to the next street corner without a kidnapping attempt.” I glance out the bathroom door toward the window. The outside world will never be safe for me again unless I do something about it.

“There’s only one person who can help me now.” I release a long, shaky breath, a name on the tip of my tongue. The name that sent icy shudders down Joseph’s spine every time he heard it. “Zayne Thorngren.”

A void sucks away the air when I release it out into the space between Mia and me.

“Zayne Thorngren?” she repeats, her voice quiet. “You mean the Lex Luthor of the real world?” 

“Yes. The Lex Luthor of the real world.” 

“Sirenna, Zayne Thorngren has been Joseph’s greatest enemy for years.”

“My point exactly.” 

Mia places herself in front of me, hands on her hips.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow your logic. If anyone is going to take you down on sight, it would be Thorngren. Shouldn’t he be at the top of your list of people to stay away from?”

“He is. Which is why I’m going to see him.” I step by Mia, walking back into the hotel room. I open the wardrobe, my eyes running over the few things I managed to have brought here after The Rite. Not much I can choose from, though. I traded the sharp suits for slutty clothes to hook up with random guys at the hotel bar, but I ended up relying on booze alone to escape reality. 

“I’m gonna need something powerful but sexy.”

“Why would you wear something sexy when you’re going to meet an enemy?” 

“Because Zayne Thorngren is a nerd, probably autistic, who freezes in front of pussy.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met the guy.”

“No, because he’s very private, which only confirms my theory. He’s respected at MIT like a scientific Jesus, so he’s definitely a super brain. Private, secluded, hence socially awkward.” I cock my head to the side as I calculate, my hands still on the open wardrobe doors. “He was at war with Joseph over who gets to control the drugs on the streets, so it’s safe to conclude he’s an evil genius with the balls to get into virtual fist-fights with thugs. He’s also got businesses in the underground that would give Machiavelli a run for his money.”

“Yeah, we were together when we stumbled over some of this stuff,” she murmurs. A tremor runs down my spine, and if Mia’s tone is any indication, she’s feeling the same.

“And you think you can manipulate a guy like that?” she continues. “I mean, awkward nerd or not, it sure won’t be the first time some chick has pulled the sexy trick on him.”

“I don’t expect he’s easy to manipulate. You don’t become the head of the entire pharma industry, with the most powerful lobbyists working in your favor at the White House, if you are. But maybe he can get a little intimidated. I could try to make him feel like he’s sixteen again, a pimpled boy masturbating under the sheets to the cover of Playboy. Context matters.” 

Mia steps next to me, and I drop a hand to let her inspect my wardrobe. 

“Red?” she chirps.

“No, not red. That’s your color, and I always looked better in black.” My eyes narrow as I put together an outfit in my head. “Maybe a leather jacket and black lace pumps. A tiny cream satin dress underneath.” Problem is, I have none of that in my wardrobe.

“Mhm, bold. It’ll look both badass sexy and classy with your hair down and maybe some dark red lipstick. The question is, how do we get to him?”

I shake my head. “Not we. Me. I get to him.”

“But–”

“No buts, Mia. Declan will never forgive me if I get you involved with that kind of thug. I’m gonna have to do this alone.”

“Let me at least give you cover.” She gestures toward the window. “Half the city gangsters are after you and–”

“I’ll be careful about how I leave the hotel. Besides, even if I do get caught, nobody’s gonna kill me, not yet. They need me alive to sign things off or to otherwise use me. I would be facing a mafia capo or two before anyone puts a bullet in my head.” I tap my chin with my index finger as the wheels turn in my head. “I would rather not get kidnapped, though. It would be a nuisance.”

“If you do get to Zayne Thorngren, he might be the one to kidnap you. So, how about you let me help?” She holds out her hands before I can protest. “Let’s just start with some good old shopping, okay? After all, we can’t afford anything less than perfect for the Zayne Thorngren Mission, and you don’t seem to have what you need here anyway.” Then, with a dip of her tone that won’t let me say no, “Let me do this for you at least. I’ve got a car ready outside and a squad of bodyguards with experience in Afghanistan. No one will be kidnapping you on my watch.”

I look down at my purse, discarded on the vanity table, the contents spilling out of it. I pick up one of the black cards. I have access to a lot of Joseph’s money, even if not all of it, until he’s officially declared dead.

“Let’s start by spending the asshole’s money.” Wicked satisfaction seeps into my tone. “It won’t lure him out of his hideout, but maybe it will make him toss and turn in it.” My eyes shoot up to Mia’s, whose grin mirrors mine. 

When she and I first met, we struck a deal. I would help her get intel on another member of the Blood Fist Triad she was investigating, namely Jax Vaughn, and she would help me get dirt on my husband. I assumed the code name Dakota and met her in a coffee shop with a baseball cap pulled low over my eyes. There, I told her my story.

I told her that, when Joseph and I met, I had already built a few successful start-ups, but I was young, and they weren’t a big deal. We met at a charity where I was hunting for business angels for my new project, an independent media outlet that would actually bring truth to the world. I was also one of the podcasting pioneers, and he was my first hot-shot guest. The head of the New York Corp Bank. I couldn’t believe my luck, I was walking on clouds.

Joseph fascinated me. He was an older, well-spoken man from whom I felt I had much to learn. I wasn’t wrong there. But boy, was I wrong about the price I would have to pay. Soon, he held me in a chokehold. Keeping me confined to our villa made it easy for him to cheat with models every other day, and his substance abuse problem gradually got out of hand. It turned him into a violent man. I eventually learned to avoid his wrath and turned to champagne more often than I liked to cope with my dire circumstances.

Yet the more I learned about the filthy bastard, the more I hated him, and there was only so much that booze could do to numb that down. I couldn’t keep my arms crossed anymore. I had to do something about the underage girls he drugged senseless and fucked with his buddies, about the kids he sent out on the streets to sell his drugs, about the way he waved his hand when one of those kids got shot in the head as if it didn’t matter. They were just cannon fodder to him.

So Mia and I partnered up. We made one hell of a team, she and I. 

“I just hope we haven’t become danger junkies,” I tell her with a smile.

She smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Just don’t forget the evil genius part,” she warns. “Remember the stuff we discovered on the streets about Thorngren. That man is Machiavelli made flesh. Even the Blood Fist Triad are wary of him.” And we both know what that means. If he makes the rulers of the underground squeamish, there’s got to be something truly devilish about the man. “I’ll ask Declan to–”

“I told you, I don’t want Declan involved in this. At all. He’s already done enough having the guys from The Rite interrogated.” My voice fades over those last few words.

Mia releases a long exhale, full of patience. “Sirenna, I know why you’ve really been avoiding Declan and Jax. You’re ashamed of the situation Joseph put you in at The Rite. All those guys and–” She stops in time, surely seeing the heat creeping up my cheeks. “But there’s nothing to be ashamed of. They understand better than anyone. Besides, if you feel like shit, how am I supposed to feel? No one actually put their dick inside you that night, while Declan fucked all my holes in front of the entire crowd.”

“And you sound fucking proud about it.” 

“There you go,” she says, running her fingers through my hair as the heat leaves my face. 

“Sometimes all it takes to make a girl feel better is pointing out that someone else should be feeling worse.” 

She laughs. “Always glad to be of service. Now, how do you plan to get to Zayne Thorngren?” She taps her index finger against my temple. “Because I know this brilliant mind already has a plan.”

MEET CUTE

Sirenna

“I trust you can take it from here,” the security guy repeats, keen to get off this floor. He hasn’t even stepped out of the elevator with me, and the look on his face when I glance over my shoulder is quite telling. Before I even get to respond, the doors of the elevator have already closed, leaving me alone in this place.

I look up at the doors, taking a deep breath. Then, slowly, I raise a hand to touch the intricate patterns carved into them, searching for a knob or a latch. Damn, I could swear the material is liquid. It seems to respond to the heat of my palm because the doors open with a smooth hum.

They reveal a space that looks more like the receiving hall of a king than the office of a nerd-slash-businessman. A pattern in the shape of DNA spirals is worked into the marble floor, a large floor-to-ceiling window to one side showing a vast green park that sprawls between this building and the city, skyscrapers visible in the distance. Buttery couches and a low table mark the visitors’ area. Surely only the creme-de-la-creme spend time here, people of Declan’s and Jax’s caliber.

My mouth is still open as my eyes drag to the large, sleek desk that presides from the far side of the room. A pretty-faced man in what appears to be the outfit of a clergyman leans against the desk, not looking very surprised to see me. If anything, it seems like he expected me, but somehow I know he isn’t Zayne Thorngren. 

But when another man emerges from an adjacent room, drinks in both hands, I know instantly that this is him. And he’s nothing like I expected.

His face hits me like a hammer to my gut, leaving me breathless. 

Zayne Thorngren has such beautiful blue eyes that, for a moment, my heart stutters. The tone of his skin makes me instantly think about licking it, and his jaw should be on an advertising billboard for “unattainable standards of male beauty”. His hair is so black it reveals blue highlights when he passes in front of the window, but it’s his lips I can’t look away from by the time he’s eaten up the distance between us. 

God sure as fuck went to town when he made this man. His lips are perfectly sculpted, and I can see how tasting them could feel like a privilege. I can think of no better way to describe him other than “Fuck this”, “You’ve got to be shitting me”, and “I’m fucking done here”.

“Mrs. Sirenna Carter,” he greets in a voice like liquid sin. “How wonderful that you made it in time. I’d made a bet with Priest here about how long it would take for you to crawl out of the hotel you’ve been hiding in, and reach out for my help.” 

Oh, wow. That was sobering. I’m not sure whether to feel offended or grateful for the bucket of ice he just dropped on me, but I’m instantly back to my senses.

He reaches me a drink, his smile not leaving his face for a single moment. “Five minutes later, and I would have had to pay up.”

My eyes flit between him and the clergyman. “Had you instructed your security to let me through, I would have been here sooner. Saved you the palpitations.”

“Oh, and deny myself the show? Oh no, Mrs. Carter. Watching that famously brilliant mind of yours in action was too much of a delight. Premium entertainment.” He winks, and those insanely blue eyes arrest my attention completely.

I absentmindedly take the drink from his hand. He looks down at it, one eyebrow arching up, giving him the look of a young devil. “I know you prefer champagne, but I figured you might need something stronger for the talk we’re about to have.”

“Sounds like you already know why I’m here.”

That smile again. It could disarm a fucking army.

“Of course, Mrs. Carter. If I didn’t know when people were planning to manipulate me, I wouldn’t be where I am. Please, have a seat.”

He motions toward one of the buttery, cream-colored sofas by the large window, light flooding in around it. His movement is fluid, his black sweater stretching over his strong arms and chest. The man is built like a freaking Michelangelo sculpture, an effect which the full black, casual outfit enhances. I lick my lips, trying to divert my thoughts from how he might look naked. It’s just  that finding a man so intensely attractive is a big deal for me. I didn’t think anyone could ever catch my attention like this again, and it feels surprisingly uplifting to know I’m not dead inside after all.

Besides, there’s something beyond his looks that keeps me staring. A strange familiarity, which is crazy because if I’d met this man before I sure as hell would have remembered.

I head over to the sofa, sharply aware of my posture and the way that I walk. I’m wearing a long, thin leather trench coat instead of the jacket I initially planned to wear because I didn’t want all of his employees to see the sexy outfit underneath. But the moment I sit down, crossing my legs, the sides of the coat fall to reveal my thighs, the lace pumps on my feet enhancing the effect. Zayne’s shoulders seem to tense, but it might be just in my head, because I want to affect him. But I can’t show him that, so my eyes fly over to the clergyman. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Carter,” Zayne says, following my gaze. “Priest doesn’t really work for Jesus. He works with me. No need to feel guilty about tempting him.”

He casually takes a seat perpendicular to me on the L-shaped sofa, facing the widow. There is enough distance between us to keep me comfortable, but also to make conversation less confrontational than if we’d be sitting face to face. It’s also a way for him to judge my composure. Face to face, I’d have no choice but to stare him full in the face, have my fill of those handsome features without making a fool of myself. The same cannot be said about this angle. If I stare it’s because I can’t help it. 

The same goes for Zayne, only that he doesn’t seem intimidated by the idea at all. He rests an arm over the back of the sofa, crossing one ankle elegantly over his knee and staring at me without a care in the world. Definitely not something you’d do with someone who affects you. Surely, if he felt the slightest hint of familiarity, of recognition, he would say something–wouldn’t he? I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the strange sensation, and trying to keep myself together. It’s not easy, especially with the scent that now envelops me like a crisp morning breeze tinged with citrus. It’s the scent of a man that will shatter everything in the way of his goals. World domination comes to mind as I meet that blue stare.

“So, I suppose this is about your husband having gone MIA,” he opens the discussion as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Nothing like the socially awkward nerd I imagined him to be. This isn’t the formerly pimpled teenager I thought I could intimidate, but a fucking Adonis who saw ten moves ahead of me. 

“Sad story, but I can’t say I’m very much touched by it,” he continues. “As you surely know, your husband and I are far from buddies. I am curious about one thing, though. How affected are you by his disappearance? Because if your hooking up with guys in the hotel bar is any indication, not much.”

I choke on my sip of scotch. “How do you–”

“I make a habit of keeping tabs on people who might become trouble.”

“Those hookups never went all the way.” Now why the hell did I have to point that out? It’s none of this bastard’s business. I clear my throat, putting on a straight face. “But the question is–how the fuck do you know what happened at my hotel?”

“Maybe I was a guest there.” He twirls the glass in his hand as he speaks. The corner of my mouth lifts, satisfied that I recognize at least one of his strategies. He hasn’t taken a single sip of his drink since we sat down, while I’ve taken three, if only to justify the color in my cheeks. 

Besides, by the look of him, the guy really isn’t a drinker. He’s too athletic for that, yet he doesn’t look like the steroid-fed gym junkie either. The power of his body, his exquisite build, they come from excelling at a sport. Something that enlarges the shoulders and trims the waist, that muscles the thighs and makes the ass look like it’s made of concrete. It takes effort not to ask what the hell he did to look like this.

“No, you weren’t. I would know, since the hotel is mine.” And I would sure as fuck have remembered him.

His grin widens. “I have eyes and ears in all the places that matter. It’s as if I were there in person.”

My lips thin. That must be how he knew about the bar hookups–through his spies. And I only realize that now, taken as I’ve been with his looks. After all, security lets everyone into the hotel bar if they aren’t carrying a weapon or wires–we scan them at the entrance. He must also know that none of those pick-ups ever ended with a fuck. That I always landed drunk and alone in my bed, having cried my eyes out on the shoulder of some stranger frustrated that he didn’t get laid that night. Fuck, I don’t know what’s more pathetic, him knowing the truth, or him believing I’m a slut with a drinking problem.

I tilt my head to the side, mirroring him.

“Since you know it all, why am I here?”

He drags his eyes away from me for the first time, directing them to the window. The way those blue irises catch the light is out of this fucking world.

“Let’s see, there are three possible reasons at the top of my list. First, you were curious to put a face to my name, but that’s wishful thinking on my part, yes?” He gives me a beat to respond, but the moment I open my mouth, he cuts me off. “Second, you’d like me to help you find out what happened to your husband. But that doesn’t hold either, does it? In the end, you don’t give a damn about him. You never did.” Is it just me, or was there just a little bit of venom in that last statement? “Third–and most pertinent, if you ask me–is that you’re swamped with death threats. With Joseph missing, all kinds of nasty people are trying to take over his empire. With you being a woman, the competition thinks you’re easy to take down. So you decided you needed help. And who better to partner with, if not with the man your husband feared most–and who he was in direct competition with.”

He turns his face to me, while I try to keep a poker mask on. 

“You know, I used to wonder what you and Joseph had in common,” I say calmly. “I mean, he runs a large drug network and you control much of the pharma industry, but that’s where the similarities end–or are supposed to, with him being in essence just a thug, and you a refined genius.” I pause for a beat. “But then, while I was busy digging up dirt on my still-husband, I came across some interesting things.” I rest the glass of scotch on my knee, my eyes pinning him down like daggers as I speak out the next words. “You seek to replace the common drugs on the streets with your own highly engineered ones. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

He holds my stare as silence falls over his large office. I become increasingly aware of Priest still hanging out by the desk, of his attention fixed on us. I wonder what his job is with Zayne, because I doubt he’s either his spiritual father or his bodyguard. There’s something menacing about the pretty boy that puts him on an equal footing with Zayne.

“Are you trying to intimidate me with the knowledge you have about my dealings, Mrs. Carter?” Zayne eventually says. His voice is still a silky  caress, but one that could morph into a whip at any second. His eyes slide down my frame. “And here I was, thinking you would use some of your feminine charms in order to coax me into becoming your ally.”

“Now that you mention it, I might as well.” My voice lowers a few tones, becoming more husky and inviting. All my senses scream that I’m doing something terribly stupid right now, but I can’t help it.

I undo the buttons of my coat, flipping the sides open to reveal the skimpy black satin dress. It might be just in my head, a trick that my racing pulse is playing on me, but I think his throat tensed a little.

“Shall I take this as an offer, Mrs. Carter?”

“First of all, I’d appreciate it if you stopped calling me that. Considering all the information you already have on me, I would expect that you already know I planned on leaving Joseph before his disappearance.”

He tsks, twirling the glass in his hand a little faster, even though the rest of him remains calm.

“Indeed. One could argue that you had good reasons to disappear him yourself. After all, you’re a resourceful woman. You just talked yourself past security that even the greatest con artists would have trouble breaching. Getting rid of an unwanted husband shouldn’t be hard for someone of your skill and competence.”

The compliment sends heat to my cheeks, but I manage to mask my reaction.

“I suppose one could make that argument. But not you. You know better. After all, you kept track even of my failed hookup attempts. You’re a know-it-all god of sorts.”

The twinkle in his eye sends my heart jolting into my throat. 

“Fair enough. So, for the sake of clarity, I’m going to ask you again.” He uncrosses his legs and leans forward. When his eyes move down my body again, they’re no longer just mildly curious or intrigued. It seems like he’s x-raying me, shamelessly exploring what I might look like naked. “Is this an offer?”

My entire body heats up, control slipping out of my hands. Now how the fuck do I reply to that?

***

STAY TUNED for the release coming soon! Dirty Arrangement is going live on Amazon on the 19.01.2024 – just a little over a week from now! Interested in more sneak peeks from my books, or maybe in a bit of Zayne’s POV from this one? Leave a comment and let me know.

Masked Man Scene – Wicked Rich Boy Excerpt

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn bestselling dark romance, billionaire romance, books with trigger warnings, booktok, bully romance, contemporary romance, Dark and Dangerous, dark college romance, forced proximity romance, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, over the top hero, spicy romance, stalker romance, touch her and you die, you're mine romanceLeave a comment

One thing you should never do on campus – get on the radar of the Heathen Kings, as much as you crave a piece of them.

They’re golden campus boys by day and warlords by night.

Cruel rulers of the world.

Set to marry virgin heiresses and use lesser mortals, like me, for their dirty pleasures.

Sade Royales? He’s a mouthwatering bastard with a sadistic streak that’s always fascinated me–safely, from afar.

But now I’ve done something that’s drawn his attention, and my life will never be the same.

Now, he’s out to haunt me.

Use me for his perverted desires.

Judging by his reputation, he’ll discard me afterward and take pictures of the mess.

Yet when the police come sniffing about the disappearance of my ex-boyfriend, he steps in for me. He swears to protect me. But there’s a deeper plot behind his actions, and soon I start discovering my place in Sade’s wicked plans. One thing is for sure – if he’s going to hell, he’s taking me with him. The question is, do I even want to fight it?

NOTE: This is a dark romance. It contains dub-con, degradation, and a twisted, dark love. Proceed at your peril.

***

MASKED MAN SCENE

The good news is that I’m not insane.

The bad news is that I have a stalker on my tracks.

The masked man is real, and he can do things that would give a ghost a run for its money. Like breaking through closed doors and dissolving into thin fucking air.

I run breathlessly down the stairs, only the moonlight guiding me. I should scream, draw the guards’ attention, but what if that psycho kills whoever happens in his path? I can’t be sure whose face hides behind the mask, but I’m positive he’s one of the Kings or the wannabes they initiate and train as their acolytes. They have the sickest skills, and they’re pretty freaking low on morals. 

Dogg Wilson alone, whose unwavering gaze from the car the other night still haunts me, can do some serious shit. If I hadn’t been so obsessed with working Sade out of my system, I would have spent my last few nights tossing and turning about Dogg’s intentions. 

My chest burns with every inhale I take by the time I reach the bottom of the stairs. The double doors leading out onto the front patio are just across the hall, at the end of a dark hallway. A shadow crosses in front of the glass panes, framed by the outline of combat gear–one of the guards. I can hear muffled laughs, him talking into his phone, oblivious to the fact that there’s an intruder inside the house.

I throw myself in the direction of the light. I’ll tell him about the masked man, and beg him not to look for him but just go, get us all out of here. I may not survive the dark forest surrounding this house alone, and the guards surely wouldn’t survive the masked man, but together we stand a chance. I can almost reach out and grab the door knob, a whimper trembling on my lips, when a shadow whips through my field of vision.

“Jesus Christ,” I shriek. It was so close, the movement ruffled my hair.

Sweat breaks out all over me, the empty house chilling me to the bone. 

No, I can’t stop now, not when I’m so close to salvation.

But when I take the next step, something pierces my naked foot. I yelp, stepping away and looking down. In the faint light filtering from the outside, I make out the drops of blood dotting the wooden floor–my blood, from the thorns that broke through my skin. There are multiple roses scattered at my feet. Under them lies another one of my crumpled poems, words written across it in dripping red.

You can run, but you can’t hide, pretty poet.

Just as I pull in a deep breath to shout, a large presence spreads out behind me like a splash of ink. I feel him before his breath touches my ear, and his deep voice reaches me.

“Scream, and their blood will be on your hands.”

Definitely one of the Kings. 

Even though his voice is distorted, as if Mr. Hyde had replaced whoever he is during the day, there’s a deadly edge specific to the way they all speak. Maybe I’d recognize him by the shape of his body, his height or the color of his eyes but, for that, I’d need to turn around. 

An exhale trembles on my lips before I take another breath, hoping to recognize him by his scent. I’m good with scents. Roses and smoke. Sade is clean linen and fall spice, Micah is leather and dark chocolate, Carlton all ocean and dew, but this one? 

“Trying to recognize me by my scent, pretty poet?” A low, quiet laugh. “A good stalker knows how to mask everything about himself, including his scent. Haven’t you read that in your books?”

A body as hard as concrete brushes my shoulder blades. He’s large, broad, crushing. My brain starts frantically calculating possibilities. No doubt he’ll make good on his promise and hurt the guards if they intervene. Those men don’t expect anything to go wrong tonight when the house is presumably empty. They’ll be caught off guard. They have families waiting for them at home, and if a father doesn’t make it back to his kids, it’ll be on me. 

I’m trapped. 

Nausea flares up from my stomach, and I hunch over, gripping my waist and retching over the roses and poems scattered at my feet. Maybe it will disgust him, and he’ll abandon his pursuit. But the universe isn’t feeling merciful tonight. Nothing comes out, and the masked man chuckles again, sleek like a lake where corpses lie.

“You have a strong sense of responsibility. Be a good girl, and no one will get hurt tonight.”

“No one?”  I manage breathlessly.

“No one,” comes the flat answer. 

I slowly come back up to a standing position, my eyes fixed on the light ahead. It’s so close, it’s painful. I could just lunge across the hall and grab the doorknob. But the masked man has me in a chokehold without even touching me.

I lick my parched lips. “You’re enjoying this, huh? Making someone much smaller than you fear for their life?”

“Why would you fear for your life? I brought flowers.”

“You also brought letters written in blood.”

He’s now closer, inhaling the scent of my hair. My fingers dig into my arms. It’s all the protection I have against him. Useless, pointless, but I need the illusion. 

“They’re freshly written, inspired by your poems,” he murmurs in my ear. My blood drains from my limbs. The poems in which I called Sade by name. 

Verses without much depth, but of piercing sincerity. I thought that I would be safe to explore those feelings within the safety of these walls, unlike at the mansion or on campus.

“Why don’t you take off the mask now?” I manage. “I mean, it’s clear you’re one of the Kings. Or that they sent you.”

A chuckle, so close that I’m sure he must have somehow gotten inside my head just like he broke into the house. Like a freaking ghost.

“How do you know I’m even wearing a mask?”

“I know you’re the same man who broke into Mel’s bathroom the first night I was here.” I pause, wishing I remembered the glimpse I got of him in more detail. “I know it in my bones.”

“See, we are bound on such deep levels.”

“How did you even pull that off, the first night?”

“Magician’s secret.”

“Who are you?” My words leave on a trembling breath.

“Who do you suspect that I am?”

“Please don’t play with me.”

“I just enjoy seeing you do the guesswork.”

“I’d prefer it if you saved me the torture.”

“Yes, I imagine it would be hard to choose. Considering how many men Dean’s videos fired up for you. Dogg Wilson, for example. He’s been obsessed with you since that night at the party, when you ground yourself against two men.”

I swallow hard at the threat in his voice. It bothers him. Still, what he saw that night inspired him to track me down here and set up this entire nightmare. 

“Or Carlton Wilde?” he continues. “He was pretty loud about how much he enjoyed what he saw in that group chat.”

The knot in my throat feels like a jagged pill. Carlton is a big guy, the muscle on whom the Kings’ society at Norton King’s relies to do their dirty work when someone needs a painful lesson. Some people whisper he’s their hitman. It’s definitely not out of the question that he could be the one standing behind me. 

But if it’s Sade–

My mind freezes before I fully acknowledge that possibility. It would mean that he saw into my mind tonight when he read my verses and knows all about the dirty, preposterous, boundless perversities I want him to do to me. I shudder, even though I’m wrapped in a cocoon of unbearable heat coming from his presence, making it a struggle to breathe. 

“What do you want? Why are you here?” I croak.

A gloved hand slithers around my neck from behind. 

“You didn’t go back home that night. You have no idea what that did to me.” His fingers press into the sides of my neck, enough to obstruct the flow of blood through my jugular. “I should have monitored you every step of the way. The torturous hours before I tracked you down, thinking that you might have–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he means. Despite the fact that I’m going lightheaded, I understand the psycho was worried I might have caused myself irreparable harm. But does that mean my life is precious to him, and he won’t attempt to take it himself? The energy coming from him is dark and barely contained, and there’s a killer in the vibrations of his voice. His fingers curl into my flesh, possessive like a claw.

He pulls me back into his large body that feels rock-solid against my back. Yet his energy is a swirling black hole, ready to suck me in. 

“Relax, princess,” he purrs while that gloved hand claims more of my air supply, forcing me to abandon my weight against his body. “You’re in better company than you imagine. I’m a fellow poet myself, you see, and I wrote something for you. I’m curious what you think.”

He reaches into a pocket to produce another piece of my scribbling and holds it in front of my eyes. I should be relieved it’s not a knife he’s holding, but the red writing across it, trumping my own lines as if it owns them, fills me with terror. If I had a sliver of a doubt it was blood, it dissipates into thin air. My pounding pulse must tell the masked man exactly how I’m feeling because a laugh rumbles against my back. The bastard is amused.

“You can rejoice, pretty poet. The words are written in the blood of a man who deeply grieved you. Come on, read them out loud for me. But careful. Not loud enough to draw attention.” His mouth is now touching my ear, I can feel his hot breath through the mask. “We wouldn’t want to get the guards in trouble now, would we?”

My eyes fall to the words, tiny rivulets of red darkening the parchment-like paper. I didn’t even realize he led me back towards the stairs while we talked. We are now close to the windows on the back side of the house. There are no lamp posts here, just hedges and rose bushes all the way to the wrought iron fence that separates the property from the black forest beyond.

I try to make sense of the words in the moonlight, but my brain just won’t work with me. The masked man hums in understanding.

“All right, let me help you then. I’ll start by reading your own lines first.”

“No!” It’s a knee-jerk reaction. The prospect of hearing the explicit things I wrote about Sade, from this guy’s mouth, makes my blood curdle. I’d rather face his twisted desires than the realization that he knows my own. I put my attention on the red words. 

“Then you read my own verses to me, little poet.” His voice is almost dreamy as he says it. This bastard takes serious pleasure from tormenting me.

My tongue flicks over my parched lips, my throat constricting, not wanting to produce the words. I force myself through it. 

“Stepping on petals of sin, A death rider brought to ruin, Locks you in his soul–an iron maiden, And makes of you his hellish haven.” The dark walls swallow my strained voice. My throat bobs under his gloved hand, so large that it completely covers my neck from base to chin. There’s so much strength in those fingers that a single squeeze would kill me. 

“Doesn’t it sound romantic?” he says. 

“I see only despair,” I whisper, staring at our verses’ twisted embrace like it’s a work of art. 

He breathes in, his dark presence wrapping around me like a cocoon, his hand tighter around my throat. 

“It’s a violation, you know,” I manage, my voice a ghostly whisper. “Reading someone’s poetry without their permission is the same as reading their diary.”

“Ah, princess, you surely understand by now that I’m not someone who is easily held back by morals. For example, that beautiful red color of the verses I wrote for you. Like I said, it’s acquired from a man that grieved you.” His mouth touches my cheek through the mask, and I shut my eyes tightly as if that could keep the information at bay. But his whispers trickle into my brain. “One of the men who exposed you at that party. Who tainted your dignity and took away from you everything you believed you were.”

“Everything I believed I was,” I retort, my voice as low as his, “or who you wanted me to be?”

He keeps quiet, only that broad chest moving behind me. Unfazed, waiting for me to continue. 

“Maybe I was never the innocent girl the world saw. There was always more to me than just a poet’s soul.”

“Hmmm,” he rumbles softly. “A poet’s soul as captivating as those big hazel eyes. I knew your soul before I even spoke to you. Oh, how it hurt to watch you betray your muse like that.”

My head spins as if I were tipsy. An effect of his steady grip on my throat. 

“You see, Justine, it’s not that I expected your being to be reduced to the poet. I just didn’t expect you to cheat on your dreams. To give yourself to anyone other than your muse.”

Sade. His name fills my head. It’s him, oh, dear Lord, it’s him.

“Did you think about me, little poet?” he murmurs, confirming my suspicion. “While Posh Boy pounded your p***y and you held on to that headboard, did you imagine it was me doing it?”

“Jesus Chris, Sade, why are you doing this?” I croak.

He releases my throat, and I instinctively pull in a deep breath. The oxygen hits too hard, making me reel on my feet and eventually find balance against his hard body. He removes a leather glove, and I recognize the back of his hand. The heads of snakes with jaws opened towards every one of his knuckles. 

Fucking Flying Dutchman, it is him. And he knows exactly what I’ve been fantasizing about all this time. He flexes his fingers, reddish bruises stretching over that fist that can punch its way through walls.

“You shouldn’t have chosen him over me, Justine. Now, we are both going to hell.” He turns his palm to face me. I gasp.

Blood is smeared over the large plane of his hand, crusted over deep, mean cuts. A sharp feeling shoots straight between my legs. 

“What the hell?” The words whoosh out of my chest.

“I told you–I wrote the words in blood.” His voice goes even lower. “My blood.”

I’m speechless, staring at what he did to himself. Those cuts will leave scars, his hand is almost maimed.

“Do you want to see what else I wrote for you in my own blood, pretty poet? The kind of feelings that you ignite in me?”

God knows the answer is yes. I want to know everything about every feeling he might have for me, but I don’t dare ask, still fearing that this might be a trap.

Holding the piece of paper with one hand, he produces a Zippo with the other and lights up a flame. He holds it at the corner of the paper until the flame catches, leaving a trail of crumpling black in its wake.

“There’s no purification like verse and fire,” he muses. “When the pain gets unbearable, they do more for us than a hundred hours of therapy. They bring healing. Give respite. They banish the demons that haunt us, even if only for a little while.”

“You are the only demon that haunts me,” I whisper, the flame playing in my eyes, hypnotizing me. 

He’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of burning paper filling the hollow darkness around us. The fire reaches his fingers, and my stomach tightens, waiting for him to let it drop. He doesn’t, just watching the flames licking their way dangerously close to his fingers.

“You may have given your virginity to another man, but make no mistake, Justine Pracht. You’re mine. You encourage another guy’s advances again, and there will be casualties.” 

Still holding the burning paper in one hand, he lets the other one slip down my body, snaking over the red silk robe toward the apex of my thighs. I look down, watching that large hand with those tattooed snakes slithering down my robe that shines ruby red in the flames. The moonlight flickers, and my head whips up. A shadow just crossed in front of the window, and now another. Shit, the flames must have drawn their attention.

“The guards,” I whisper breathlessly, my heart beating harder. I’m not sure whether I’m reacting to the prospect of being caught or of the masked man stopping what he’s doing to deal with the nuisance.

“You better hope they don’t come in here, pretty poet, or you may have to write their obituaries next. I’m sure you’d make eloquent work of it.” His hand slides lower, but at least he lets the paper drop and taps out the fire with his foot. 

I resist his touch, even if my thighs are squirming. 

“Please, don’t,” I whisper, my eyelids fluttering as I keep my eyes on the window.

Sade doesn’t reply. He just waits, his hand now hovering just above my womb. I can feel the wetness seeping into my panties, this fucked up situation turning on the wanton inside me like there’s no tomorrow. But I can’t. 

There’s a truth here I can’t ignore–If I do this, I’ll lose myself to him. It’s the point of no return. If I let Sade Royales f**l me with his d**k, he will take my soul like a real-life demon. The energy surrounding him, dark like spreading ink, is ravenous for my soul, ready to fill the entire canvas of it, and that treacherous canvas is dying to soak it in. 

And then? It’s not like Sade Royales and I actually have a future. 

“We can’t do this, Sade,” I whisper. “So you take this from me, and then what? What happens to me when you marry your virgin heiress and go on with your life?” I shake my head, not even wanting to imagine it. I’d rather not taste something so good only to be denied the flavor for the rest of my days.

But by the way his gloved hand slithers around my throat again, Sade isn’t ready to take no for an answer. 

“You’re asking too much.” My voice trembles, but I manage to bring some spine to my tone. I won’t go down tonight without a fight. If I give in to his wicked lure, I won’t ever recover. “What happened the other night with you and Dean, it changed me. Things will never be the same for me on campus, even if your attention gives me some sort of protection.”

“Some sort of protection?” 

“Okay, real protection. But I’m still a sl*t in everyone’s eyes.” I pause, swallowing at the uncomfortable pressure he puts on my throat. “Including yours.”

His grip turns into a leathery caress that could become deadly any second. 

“I see you’ve already decided what everyone’s thinking. Including me. But if you’re honest, can you blame me? You let a man run his money through your account and his d**k through your p***y and your mouth. You let him film you while at it, too. You are a sl*t.”

I laugh, the sound disturbing. “After all the poet soul talk, this is what you give me?”

“This is what you’ll have of me. Also, despite the fancy way you put it, you are trying to ditch me.” The hand on my throat turns harder while the one on my front dips, parting the sides of my robe. I’d protest, but his squeeze now makes it impossible. My naked feet thrash to gain a footing, but I don’t stand a chance as he drags me back towards the stairs, the floor slippery under my feet. 

“I’m going to finger you with the same hand from which I drew blood, Justine, just so you understand that you belong to me.” His voice gains a different inflection. If sex demons existed, I’m sure this is what they’d sound like. “Then, I’ll have my way with you in front of a mirror, so you get a perfect view of yourself being used like the dirty little w***e you like to be. If that’s what you’re into, that’s what I’m gonna give you. Ah, look at this p***y, dripping wet already. Does it turn you on, the prospect of being forced to fulfill a masked man’s fantasies? To be used for his perversions?” He drags me up the stairs, the mask scraping my cheek as his lips touch me through it. “Does it even matter who is behind the mask when it comes to that particular fantasy?”

I thrash harder, but my feet just skid on the ground, my entire body weight sustained by his grip on my throat, his other hand deep in my panties. My eyes bulge, my hands clawing at his black-clad wrist, but it’s like fighting the fucking Terminator. We’re almost at the top of the stairs when he loosens his grip a little, just as his naked hand pushes two fingers into my p***y, making it hurt. 

“On second thought, how about we film it, too? That way you’ll have something you’ll actually enjoy watching later on. I’ll be keeping my mask on, too. Imagine how wet you’ll get every time you remember.”

I should ask him whether he’ll be in bed with his wife while I do that, spitting poison at him. Instead, I croak, “I wonder how many guys in your group chat will be doing just the same.”

His grip gives out a little more, as if my words hit him in the gut. 

It’s now or never. 

I bend forward, and crash an elbow into his exposed side. But it’s not like in the movies. I hit a wall of muscles, causing my captor nothing but a moment of amused wonder. As if he can’t believe what I just decided to do, and the stupidity of said decision. 

I spin around, facing the huge masked shadow for the first time before I sprint through the hall. He doesn’t follow, nothing but his dark laugh chasing me. As if he’s giving me some leeway only to increase his own fun, to make this more exciting. 

“My pretty poet likes adrenaline,” his voice sounds down the hall. “By all means, as long as it pleases you, but it’s good to know when to give up. Remember, you can run, but you can’t hide.” 

Reaching the next flight of stairs, I grip onto the banister to haul myself up, my thighs burning. 

“I must say, your words hurt me.” He’s closer now. A force of evil speaking from the walls, reaching for my sanity. “You thinking that I would share footage of you with anyone. Haven’t I made it clear that I wanted you entirely for myself? I want your beautiful mind, your precious soul, and I want your soaked p***y.” 

I pant, the end of the next flight of stairs hovering within sight. It’s so dark up there that I can hardly make out the outline of the last step. 

He laughs, and it’s a punishing sound, because he’s gaining on me by the second. “You want to be ill-used on the stairs, I see. It will be my pleasure to comply.” 

I’m dying to look back, gauge how long until he catches up, but I force myself not to. I have to stay focused on the task, which is reaching the attic door. There, I’ll pull a string so that the trap door falls open. If I can get in fast enough, and pull the string back up with me before I shut the door, he won’t be able to get me anymore. There’s only one small round window to the outside in that room, and there’s no way he can get in through it, no matter how sick his skills are. There, I wouldn’t have to scream and alert the guards. I just have to keep hidden until morning, and–

“The faster you understand you’re not getting rid of me, the better.” His voice is so close now, it’s in the very air I breathe. I gasp as a large hand wraps around my ankle, yanking me down so I fall with my front on the stairs. He drags me back mercilessly–his punishment for my trying to run away. The bastard wasn’t kidding. He is hurt. 

A hand covers my mouth, muffling my cry.

“Now, now, we don’t want to alert the guards, remember?” he murmurs. I can feel the weight of his body hovering over me, his fingers grazing the back of my thigh. 

“You know this scenario well,” he says. “It was a nightmare you had. One from which you woke up aroused.” He tsks, his fingers bypassing my lace panties and grazing the lips of my p***y. 

I claw at the stairs in front of me, using all of my strength to try and drag myself up from under him. 

“Ah, look at how much this p***y wants me.” Satisfaction is unmistakable in his voice. He allows some of his weight to press onto my back, trapping me against the stairs. Enough that I can still breathe through my nose over his leather-clad fingers, but also enough to rob me of the strength to keep fighting. 

At least having to work for air takes my focus away from how my body betrayed me. He’s going to render me a mess, ready to serve him. 

I cry out into his hand, and reach up with curled fingers, desperate to save myself from succumbing to him like to a disease. He presses that impossibly large chest harder on me, rendering any further attempt futile. 

“Now what was the first thing the masked man did to you in your nightmare?” He chuckles in my ear, the sound almost spectral, creating a sweet pool of terror in my womb. “I know there was a part where he caught you on the stairs, knocked you down and ripped off your panties while you thrashed under him. He rammed a large c**k into your pussy, a hand on your mouth so you couldn’t scream. You woke up ashamed and disgusted with how hard you came on his c**k.”

My eyelids flutter shut. His words cause me more than just shame or disgust. The voice he uses is inhuman and blood-curdling, the voice of a god forged in war. One seeking solace from the horrors he witnessed, endured and was forced to perpetrate. I always had a knack for the deeper frequencies in people’s voices, and his voice tells a story that envelops my brain in a fog of feelings that are beyond the human experience.

“But I won’t do that to you, little poet,” he murmurs. 

I remain still under his weight. The scent of roses and smoke now mingles with the scent of clean linen, as if the Hyde were now merging back with his human form. “Still, you’ll end up begging me to use you.”

***

Keep reading HERE.

Tell me your favorite Dark Romance line, and I’ll tell you who you are

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn bestselling dark romance, billionaire romance, books with trigger warnings, bully romance, dark romance, jealous and possessive hero, jealous possessive hero, Love Issues, over the top hero, over the top hero, Personality tests, Psych Secrets, Psychology, spicy romance, stalker romance, steamy romance, touch her and you die, women's fiction, you're mine romance5 Comments

Alright secsi witches, time for a new personality test for readers! (Especially ROMANCE READERS) Tell me your favorite Dark Romance quote, and I’ll tell you who you are. You know the drill but, in case you don’t, here it is: Read the lines below and decide which one speaks to you within a few seconds. Which one sits right? Only after the decision fell, read the interpretations below. Have fun!

  1. You’re mine
  2. Who did this to you?
  3. Touch her and you die
  4. Good girl
  1. You’re mine – you’re a person who has had to earn pretty much everything in life, from money to your loved ones’ attention and affection; to you, relationships can be hard work; you are often expected to be in control; expressing your emotional needs may have been labeled as frivolous by important others in the past; deep down, you have a need to be loved without having to earn the love; typical for independent women; you need a partner that you can admire and that you can rely on;  someone who will allow you to “rest”, relinquish control, and still be safe; you’re someone who feels most valuable when being desired beyond rhyme or reason, to the point where it doesn’t even make sense to common sense; the more anchored and dependable you are in real life, the more scandalous to modernity your deepest desires; you yearn to be loved for what you are, not for what you do; you may fantasize about a partner who watches you while you sleep; great need for a feeling of belonging, but that one wa obvious, right? Values a partner finds in you: you’re intense, dedicated, can be clingy, insecure, can become toxic;
  2. Who did this to you? – the stronger a front you put to the world, the deeper the underlying fear you had to experience in the past; the fear may well still be there, you just learned to love it, like with chronic pain; you may harbor and unconscious need for revenge, especially against someone from your close family circle; may feel guilty for some of your more violent impulses and tendencies; duplicity in emotions; trauma – an event that you may not consciously remember; need to reconnect to parts of yourself from which you dissociated; feeling of loneliness; you vet a person’s dedication to you based on their willingness to take risks for you; you would remain forever loyal to someone like this, even if they are toxic, because you believe this is so good, there’s no way you can find better; beware, it’s just a distorted mirror image of what has been taken away from you. The person that you want your partner to be? That’s the part of you that you lost. 
  3. Touch her and you die – there are few things more seductive than a male willing to take on another male for his love; this willingness of the male to make it clear to the world just how valuable you are to him is a great evolutionary sign of commitment; in a world where it is praise-worthy for males not to value and respect females, and the more they can use and discard the merrier, where many men are ashamed to be in love, someone who puts their feelings on display in such a violent way is someone to take seriously; you are emotionally and sexually stimulated by the archetype of the protector–but you probably already knew that; the more interesting part is that you often play the role of the protector yourself for the people you love; you may have put yourself in dangerous situations in the past to protect your mother or a younger sibling; you may have witnessed a close family member being abused; a feeling of powerlessness pervaded your childhood; what you need is a sense of recovering your power; the paradox in all this is that you’re probably the strongest person you know; nothing can knock you down; what a partner finds in you – you would worship at the feet of someone who makes you feel protected; you’d put them on a pedestal, put your rose-colored glasses on, and see them in a way that will make them feel great about themselves; that may be your superpower;
  4. Good girl – relationships must give you a feeling of reward; you live to please your partner; you have the nurturing kind of love that many people find highly seductive; you must be careful though because it also makes you a preferred target for predators; you’re a giver, so you attract takers; you tend to interpret an emotionally unavailable man as a serious man, which often gets you engaged in fruitless chasing; you may put your emotional needs on the last place, or even silence them for the benefit of others; you may do things that you are later not proud of in order to gain a lover’s attention and praise; you may even step on your moral standards and principles; you’re so forgiving, it’s almost angelic; a spiritual person; empathetic; has a direct line to loved ones’ emotions; may have the gift of foresight.

Enjoyed this? Check out Personality Tests for Readers for plenty more and FOLLOW to be notified with every new test. Until then, enjoy the Dark Romances you find on the site! Let these dark and dangerous book boyfriends love you well 🙂 

Frat Boy Billionaire – Chapter I

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn Dark and Dangerous, dark romance, enemies to lovers romance, forced proximity romance, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, Read Online, romantic suspense, stalker romance6 Comments

Hello people,

As promised, here is the first chapter of my upcoming novella, Frat Boy Billionaire, that will hit the Zon in ten days. Here is what this story is about:

A one-night stand turns into a twisted game that follows you forever–along with the man that can’t let go.

Mia

When campus starboy Declan Santori caught me snapping naked pictures of him, he demanded payback. A one night stand at his frat house that he would be allowed to film and keep as leverage against me. 

But a taste is not enough. He wants more.

And I do as well. I want him to do those twisted things to me again, use me for his pleasure and make me beg for it too. 

He’s like a sickness spreading out through me, one I have to get away from or die trying. Especially when it turns out that my dark Romeo is far more than just a super hot frat boy that every girl wants. There’s a far darker secret in his closet…

NOTE. Coarse language edited.

CHAPTER I – The Bitten Apple

Seven years ago

Mia

It’s not like I’ve been trying to stay away from Declan Santori, asshole extraordinaire and hottest frat boy on campus. On the contrary. I’ve been slinking down the hall to the boys’ locker room after training for weeks, their banter and gross jokes turning louder the closer I got. 

If anything, I’ve been trying to catch glimpses of him naked. After all, the campus UFC champion is one of a kind. Someone to snap pictures of to pleasure yourself to later.

Steam billows out of the boys’ showers, and I wait behind the locker room door, as I usually do. Frat boys that train for the UFC college octagon do it in a separate building that their fat earnings from betting pay for, making it easy for me to slip in on evenings like this. No one can catch me now that everybody is getting ready for the party at their frat house. The girls must be giggling at the dorms by now, clinking glasses of champagne while they pull on fishnets and leather corsets, talking about whose d*** might end up down their throats tonight. Eager to up their body count by adding the most eligible frat boys on campus.

Envy turns me livid.

They’re gonna get f*cked by my crush, and I won’t.

Because I didn’t get invited, of course. 

Back in high school, I dreamed about being one of the hot girls in college. I’d promised myself things would be different from junior high, that I wouldn’t be invisible anymore, and I was willing to put in the work for it. But then my dentist announced I’d have to wear braces for another year. The freaking first-impression year. So my dreams shattered.

I peek in from around the door, phone camera ready, snapping picture after picture. Declan always uses the shower closest to the exit, so I know exactly how to angle the device, while keeping a hawk’s eye on the display for adjustments. All I get at first are blurry side-pics, as always, but before long I start getting exactly what I need. I snap pictures greedily, sinking my braced teeth into my lower lip, feeling like a creep. 

But then I stop, my head tilting to the side. 

Something’s wrong. 

Something’s different about his hair, even though it’s wet, and there’s no telling the color. The man’s shoulders aren’t as broad nor as powerful as Declan’s, the V tapering down to his waist not as steep. I narrowly avoid hissing out a cuss when I glimpse the sides of a tattoo reaching around the guy’s waist.

No, this isn’t him. Declan Santori doesn’t have any tattoos because his elite family doesn’t allow it. They are the closest thing to royalty in the state, inking their bodies is out of the question. A piercing–a dumbbell going through his nipple–is the only thing marring his perfect body. So who is that man? I work my wrist, changing the camera’s angle quickly to look for Declan, but he doesn’t seem to be in there. Which is strange. I know for a fact he trained in the octagon this evening, I saw him walk out of there with his guys, all sweaty and loud and perfect. 

I’ve grown used to the adrenaline pumping through my veins when I spy on him, but it skyrockets now. All my senses know that something is terribly wrong here, but the moment I spin around to leave, I knock into a rock-hard chest. I stumble backwards, and I’d probably land on my ass if it weren’t for the wall behind me.

The realization knocks me in the chest like a hammer. 

I just got caught.

My brain spins and my ears buzz, my mind refusing to process the identity of the man in front of me. For moments, I fail to recognize the broad shoulders, like a swimmer’s, or the lean, athletic body with well-defined sinews snaking down into the towel wrapped around his hips. I’m choking on my own saliva as I look up at his face, at those intense slitted eyes that seem to burn holes through my skull. Slowly, my eyes run along the finely-cut edges of his cheekbones and jaw, moving up to the black, scruffy-spiked hair that makes him look like an anime character. A mouthwatering one, smelling of a fighter’s hormones, lemongrass and cinnamon. A scent I would recognize anywhere, and one that forces me to acknowledge what just happened.

As much as I wish this were an alternative reality that I’ll snap out of at any moment, it’s not. Declan Santori actually caught me spying on him. 

I suppose I could try and deny that I’m here for him, but he catches my wrist and snatches the phone from my hand.  The camera is already on, so he doesn’t need my password to access my photo gallery. Heat shoots up to the tips of my ears. I try to side-step him, run away before I choke on my own shame, but his hand turns into iron around my wrist. 

“So, Timothy was right,” he purrs in that calm baritone that has been haunting my dreams for months. “You have been spying on us.” Those slitted eyes flash from the pictures to my face. “On me.”

“She’s always been a lusty one,” Timothy Meyer says with a sneer, appearing behind Declan and propping himself against the doorframe. He’s the guy who’d taken Declan’s place in the shower, his body not as taut, his shoulders small, the tattoo under his belly button making a bad contrast with his cheese-white skin. Not even the towel around his hips makes anywhere close to the same impression. “You wouldn’t think it from the look of her.”

The worst part is that the bastard is right. Puberty hit me like a truck, my hormones morphing into tiny evil villains. But it’s not like just any guy could trigger them. Timothy Meyer should know. He tried his best to get into my pants back in high school, and failed, which is why he’s doing this to me now. Still, the truth is I rarely set my sights on a guy, but when I do, I’m relentless, and my lust becomes a problem. I’ve been trying to get a grip on it by hitting the gym too hard, and ended up skinny as shit, with no curves to entice guys like Declan. Pair my skinny frame with my braces and glasses, and not even cat-shaped blue eyes and shiny black hair can save me.   

“A cunning little spy,” Declan says, eyeing me up and down with keen interest. It gives me pause, and I stop breathing. He cocks an eyebrow. “A horny one.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t object to you finger-f*cking her right here, against that wall,” Timothy encourages with a lewd glint in his small eyes that are too widely set apart. He grabs his c*ck through the towel. “I wouldn’t mind watching. We can even take turns.”

“I’m not here because I’m into you, you stupid assholes,” I blurt out. My blood surges, my breathing ragged as Declan’s scent fills my nostrils. He’s close, too close. 

His lips curling up into that dashing smile of his, Declan leans his head to the side. “No? Then why would you have naked pictures of me on your phone?”

“I can assure you it’s not because I sigh in bed at night for you.” A blatant lie.

That smile remains in place while his hand squeezes my wrist, and his body traps me against the wall. My breathing hitches. We’re now chest to chest, the water on his skin seeping into my oversized black metalhead t-shirt. I can feel the fabric cooling against my body. 

“Let me guess,” he purrs. “You were going to upload those pictures. Or spread them around campus, in an attempt to–what?” He laughs, the sound rippling through my veins like a dark promise. “Bully me?” His voice drops, as seductive as the lure of a vampire. “Is that it? You were trying to bully me, Mia Rogers?”

“Y-you know my name?” I stutter. 

His voice drops a few tones, pleasant and dangerous like a cool blade pressed to heated skin. 

“Of course I do. Your stalking isn’t as subtle as you think. I can feel your eyes on me in class, in the hallways.”

“All eyes are on you in class and in the hallways, not just mine,” escapes my mouth, and I don’t regret it. I even manage to hold his stare, the most penetrating one I’ve ever seen. This is a good cover, and Imma use it. “You’ve broken many hearts and ruined many reputations, Declan Santori. It was about time someone ruined yours.”

Those eyes, black as tar, keep probing mine before he bursts into laughter, a low sound that vibrates against my ribcage. 

“And you thought spreading pictures of my d*ck was gonna do that?”

My lips press into a hard line as I try my best to hold my ground. 

“I hand out d*ck pics like candy, little spy,” he hums, “and they’re received as such. I might slide one into your DMs, too.” He winks. “If you’re nice.”

I swallow hard, my eyes hanging on his. If I managed to save some face until now, there’s no way he doesn’t see the lust in it now.  He presses his body into mine, his c’ck hard against me. I gasp at the length of it. That thing would fill me up like a freaking missile. 

“In fact, I have a better idea.” His voice is a low, dangerous invitation. “Come to the frat house party later, and I promise you’ll be the only girl I f*ck tonight.” He holds up my phone and winks. “I might even let you film it. Then you can go about destroying my reputation all you want.”

The air between us is scorching hot as we hold each other’s stare. My heart slams like crazy into my chest, reverberating into his, but at least I can blame it on the shock and adrenaline. 

He places my phone back into my hand, wraps my fingers around it, and lets go. “Of course, you don’t have to come.” Those dark eyes turn into simmering coals. “But if you do show up, little spy, I’ll know why you’re there.”

He backs away, and it’s all I can do not to slump down by the wall. I can’t let myself collapse in front of him, and even less in front of that bastard Timothy, who’s still cupping his c*ck, stroking it limply. His mouth twists in disappointment that he won’t be watching me get finger-f*cked by the wall, and maybe be the next to do it. 

There’s a wicked look in his eyes that tells me he hasn’t given up on that prospect yet, and he won’t anytime soon.

***

This book is going to be out soon! Subscribe to my newsletter, and be the first to know when it does. Let me know your thoughts on this first chapter in a comment, I’m always happy to read them 🙂

His Twisted Fantasy – Excerpt – Obsession

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn Dark and Dangerous, dark romance, enemies to lovers romance, forced proximity romance, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, stalker romance18 Comments

His Twisted Fantasy is going to hit the Zon in fourteen days! Here is anorher sneak peek. Check out the first chapter here, and another sneak peek here. Leave a comment and let me know what you think 🙂

Warning! Boxing scenes ahead! There is violence!

Jax’s POV

This is why I never train with anyone but Declan Santori, The Bull. He can take my punches, swift and vicious and damaging, without ending up whining on the octagon floor like a beaten pimp. He’s a pro, a UFC champion back in his fraternity days in college, and a legend of underground fighting, too. He can’t say no to an illegal fight, hence his mask and nick-name, The Bull. No one can ever know his true identity.

A famous billionaire that never misses a red carpet, he’s many a city girl’s wet dream. I don’t think he’d ever settle for one girl though because, like me, he’s a fucked up bastard, with fucked-up secrets. But he was a promising boy when he came to me for help years ago, and I just couldn’t let him go to waste.

I couldn’t let him fall down the same dark pit that had turned me into a monster.

So I covered up his screw-up, and he’s been a loyal puppy ever since, albeit one with grit, and dignity. Fearless and dangerous, The Bull doesn’t need to suck up to me, not anymore. Unlike all other men I know, he doesn’t offer his adoration because he’s secretly afraid of me. On the contrary, if anyone stands a chance against me on pretty much all levels, then him.

Sweat dripping down my back, I throw punches so hard that one of his mitts flies off.

“Whoa, not feelin’ very friendly today, are we?” 

I heave, my fists still up. I’m not wearing gloves, just the wraps, wanting to feel the impact of the blows full force. But now that I’ve thrown some punches, I know that what I need today is to be the punching bag.

“Hit me,” I growl. “Hard, in my face or my stomach, I don’t give a fuck, just make it hurt.”

The Bull hesitates, like he always does.  

“Dude…”

“Just do it, Declan.”

He knows better than to hesitate a second time. Dropping his mitts, his right fist hits me straight in the gut. It would send a large man bending from his waist and spitting his guts out, but all the years of training, all the fights to the death in prison, have taught my body to withstand much more than normal men. My muscles clench, and the blow bounces off of me like a fucking ball.

“Harder,” I push through my teeth, gritting them until my jaw hurts. 

Declan hits again, and I buck forward, my abs turning into a wall of concrete. He shoots another blow, and another, so fast that his fists whip the air. My fists strain against the chafing bandages. Before I know it, I respond to his blows, and we dance in a full-fledged fight in the octagon, a stark light from above falling in the middle of it. We keep to the circle of light, the way we did back in the octagon where we met seven years ago.

The only draw in my life. And in his.

Right now, I need the violence that only he can give me. Something to knock out the beastly lust inside that threatens to consume me. If anyone can make the lights go out, then Declan.

The last few blows send us both outside the cone of light, bouncing against the octagon net walls, heaving. We have another go at each other, another flurry of blows that scrambles both of our brains. Another groaning pause sees us bouncing from net walls, struggling to find balance on our feet again.

“What the hell is wrong with you, dude?” Declan hisses among labored breaths, his large chest heaving, Unlike me, the former frat boy doesn’t have any tattoos. It’s a thing of the elites, not to mar their own bodies. But on the inside, his soul is a scarred wreck.

“And don’t even try to tell me it’s nothing because I’m gonna beat the shit of you until you talk.”

“No.” My chest vibrates. “You’re going to try.”

He does. He launches himself at me with a war cry, his arms bouncing off my guard as I block his punches. He does finally land a jab to my jaw, and I groan at the pain that splits my head–loving it, embracing it. Snarling, I stick out my tongue like an enraged gladiator, ready for more. The Bull throws his next hammer-like punch to my face, knowing exactly what I want. What I need. Had he gone for the body, my muscles would have reacted by instinct and turned to concrete, shielding me from any real damage.

But as long as I keep my hands down, nothing can pad my face against the onslaught of violence.

I revel in his blows, my mind focusing on the cracks and splinters and lightning that cut through my head. I grin like a madman, leaning into his pummeling until Declan suddenly stops. 

“What are you doing?” I snarl. “Keep going.”

“Like hell I will. What the fuck dude, why are you doing this to yourself?” The sight of him swims in front of my blurry eyes, his fists unclenching at his sides. There’s blood on one of his bandages, which means the slick wetness above my eyebrow is from split skin.

“What you askin’ stupid questions for? This isn’t the first time we’re doing this. Go on.” 

He shakes his head and steps back, running a hand through his soaked hair. “This is different, man. Seriously different. I’ve never seen you like this before, and honestly, it scares me.”

I fall back against the octagon wall, trickling down to the floor, exhaustion sliding through me. I rest my forearms on my knees, eyes closed to take in the feeling. At least for a few minutes, the beast will be quiet, stunned by the blows, reeling as it tries to regain some focus. Ah, there’s that feeling, of having gotten what I deserved.

“Start talking,” he presses.

“Or what?” I retort, my head leaned back against the octagon wall, my eyes closed.

“Or else.”

A small laugh escapes me. Here it is, Declan’s unique way of cracking me open. I start unwrapping my bandages, focusing on the smooth movement as I speak. 

“It’s, I–” What the hell do I say? I’ve never talked about women with a guy, simply because I was never interested in one. 

Luckily, Declan has this uncanny ability to sense stuff.

“It’s a chick, right?”

My eyes fly up, meeting his eerily black irises. A grin curls up his lips. 

“Well, well, well, the great Jax Vaughn has fallen for a girl. Who knew he even could.”

“It’s not like that,” I grunt.

“By the way you just tried to have it beaten out of you?” He clicks his tongue, pointing a finger at me. “It’s totally like that.”

“What would you know?” I grumble, ripping a piece of my bandage, folding it, and dabbing at the cut above my eyebrow.

Declan’s face tightens. Damn it. It’s been so long since we talked about it that it slipped my mind. 

“I’m sorry.” I’m a bastard. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it’s just–” I refold the bandage and press it harder to my brow, until it forces me to hiss. “I haven’t fallen for her, this is something else.”

“Oh, but there’s no way you can tell, is there?” Declan says. “You’ve never been into someone before. You have nothing to compare it to.” 

I throw a stray glove at him with my free hand. It happens swiftly, his hand raising a split second too late, and the glove hits him in the face.

“The fuck man,” he protests, hurling it back at me across the octagon. I catch it in the air, and drop it next to me. “It’s not my fault a woman is finally getting to you. I’m just trying to help here. I’m not even sure how, but I know beating the shit out of you isn’t a long-term solution.”

“Why not? I’m not a glamorous character in public life, like you, I don’t need to pamper my face.”

“No, but it still is a pity to see you roughed up. You’re a pretty boy, you know. Besides, what will that girl of yours say if you turn up looking like Kitschko run over by Muhammad Ali?”

“She’s slipped under my skin, man.” The words just slide out of my mouth. I rub the folded bandage into my wound, gritting my teeth. “I’m capable of doing the most horrible things for her.”

Declan stares at me keenly. “But not to her.”

“Never,” I react quickly, out of my gut. “But to anyone that tries to take her away from me. Like her ex, he kept texting her the other day, and I just lost it. I considered getting him in a dark alley and breaking every bone in his body. And that’s not even the worst part.”

“What is then?”

“She’s only been there for one night and one morning, and I already told her about Dominic.”

His face freezes. He knows what this means. “How about what happened in prison?”

I shake my head, wet strands whipping against my forehead. “Not yet.” And not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t face the disgust that would have twisted her features. She must never know what I did. 

“I don’t know dude,” Declan says, rubbing the five o’clock shadow on his square jaw. “On the one hand it sounds great. You’re a hard boulder to crack, and being able to talk to someone like that, it’s priceless. Not something one wants to lose.”

“But something one definitely should let go of when they’re a–”

“Don’t say it,” he cuts me off. 

“It’s what I am.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to be–” He’s careful about the use of the word, but he goes for it in the end, “you know, happy.”

“Happy.” I spit out the word. “That’s not in the cards for me. The prison shrink said as much when he declared me a menace to society after what happened. I’m incapable of good feelings. I destroy everything I touch.”

“You know damn well that’s bullshit.” Declan is usually a controlled guy, but there’s no missing the anger lacing his tone now. “You come from a shitty background, where everyone predicted you’d become an addict and a goon. Hell knew all the other boys down your lane did. Instead, you never touched drugs, got your first job at sixteen, brought all your money home to your mother, and even enjoyed the pure slavery they subjected you to on those construction sites because it gave you purpose. If there ever was a good man, Jax, then you. You made something great of yourself even in those terrible circumstances, just imagine what you could have accomplished if you were born to a couple of posh narcissists like my folks.”

I scoff bitterly, wishing I could believe that I am a good man, at least in essence. But Declan is biased because I helped him when he was at his lowest. 

“Even if I were a good man, prison changed all that. In a sense, I never came back out.” I slap the bloody folded bandage on the floor. 

“I can’t fall for her, Declan,” I say, my voice the closest thing to a whisper. “I would squeeze the life out of her, cage her in, and go mad with jealousy every time she stared with melancholy out the window, suspecting she might be thinking of some other guy. The only person I can tolerate around her is her friend Mia.  And don’t even get me started on the effort it cost me to agree to those few dancing classes a week that she gives.”

When Declan fails to latch onto that, I look up from the floor. If I were to define melancholy, it would be the look on his face right now. 

“Everything all right?” I probe.

“Yeah, it’s just–” He stares into nothing, his mouth hard. “That name.”

I soften my voice, speaking carefully. “Was it her name?”

He nods, his throat working as if he just swallowed a word he couldn’t say out loud. 

A good friend would probe deeper. But a brother knows better. 

“You know, if you ever feel like talking about her, I’m here.”

Declan bursts into laughter, coming back to himself, and throwing a mitt at me. “If I ever felt like talking about the woman that destroyed my life, it wouldn’t be with an emotionally crippled bastard who’s just tasting merciless passion for the first time. But as the more experienced of us I can tell you, Jax–the experience will hurt. There’s no avoiding that. Yet every second of it will be worth it, and you’ll crave more.”

His Twisted Fantasy – Excerpt

On By Ana C. BlacklaceIn dark romance, enemies to lovers romance, forced proximity romance, jealous possessive hero, over the top hero, stalker romance7 Comments

Pic source.

As you’ve been surely expecting, I’ve been feverishly working on my upcoming book, His Twisted Fantasy, under my new pen name, Ana C. Blacklace. It’s a dark billioniare romance (emphasis on DARK, so steer away if that’s not your cup of tea), with an over-the-top, obsessed hero who will stop at nothing to get the woman that he wants. Because I’m dying to share this book with you, and I can’t wait until I’m done writing it, here is a new excerpt. Please keep in mind this is a first draft, and it still needs some editing. Lemme know what you think in a comment. Warning, strong language ahead!

NOTE: This is NOT the first chapter. You can read the first chapter HERE, and the excerpts that I will keep posting as I write do not follow in order. This scene happens in chapter III, for example, some time after Adalia and Jax met. Enjoy! Especially if you need some inspiration for a Valentine’s Day full of spice, and over-the-top, stalkerish chasing that is only ever safe in fiction.

Have yourself a blast 🙂

Title: His Twisted Fantasy

Main characters: Adalia and Jax

Jax‘s POV

The rain patters against my windshield, a pair of incoming headlights fogging my view of Adalia’s window. My leather gloves squeak against the wheel as I grip it harder. I wonder what goes through her mind as she sits with her friend at the kitchen table, her forehead resting in her hand, knowing she’s only got herself to blame for the girl having lost her internship at HQ. 

She should have known better than to reject me.

While her room-mate speaks, Adalia shakes her head, pouring them both more wine from the bottle standing between them on the table. I promised her I’d find her motivation to do what she professed she’d never do, and there it is–the people she loves. Maybe she won’t fight for her own dreams, but she won’t put the dreams and livelihoods of those she loves in jeopardy. She’ll give herself to me, in exchange for my leaving them alone.

I keep my eyes trained on her face through the rainwater trickling down my windshield, congratulating myself for not having sent her the contract after the first time we met. Adalia Ross isn’t a woman to have for a one night stand. It’s gonna take more to quench my appetite for her.

Her face turns to the window, her expression ghostly. There’s no way she can see me sitting in an anonymous black car parked across the street, but maybe she can sense the beast watching her from the night. Her friend is still talking to her, gesticulating amply, but Adalia just stares lost out into the rain. She comes to her feet slowly, her hands going to the sides of the window. For a moment, I worry she might close the drapes. Instead, she leans against the window frame, peering outside while her room-mate keeps talking.

My cock stirs in my pants, and I have to grab the bastard with one hand, my leather glove creaking. My eyes flash into slits as I zoom in on those dreamy blue eyes, remembering their long, curved lashes. The harder I stare, the more I wonder if that’s what attracted me to her from the start. If it was her selflessness, her capacity for love and dedication, her self-sacrificing nature that affected me on a visceral level, even before she proved them to me. Ah, how good it will feel to corrupt her. To ruin her. To break her apart and then piece her back together into my own Frankenstein’s monster. 

Making her completely mine.

The day I met her I was certain she’d thrown herself to her knees to grab my attention, to turn me on, to have a shot at personal contact with me. Now I know that wasn’t the case, but fuck, I wish it had been. A week later here I am, chasing a woman for the first time in my life, even if there won’t be any chocolates or flowers. I won’t be turning up in a limo at her curb, because I’m not a knight in shining armor. I’m a ruthless bastard that will ravish her.

My cock turns to steel in my pants as I imagine her finally bending to me. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll have her on her knees. Soon, her pussy will be clenching around my cock while I drive it deeper inside of her than any man has ever been. 

She stirs at the window, as if she sensed my thoughts. A second later, a shadow simmers against the orange light coming out of the hall as it pushes the door to enter her building. She reacted when she saw him from the window, so she must be expecting him. Tall and lean, he moves confidently, like he knows what he’s doing, but something about it seems overdone. 

His style could probably fool men who hadn’t spent half their lives in prison, men who aren’t used to stalking people from a distance, and observing everything around them, watching for any element that could become a threat.  But my observation skills and deadliness are what kept me alive all those years in prison. Being able to assess an opponent within the first seconds of seeing him was vital in the prison octagon, where I first made a name for myself among heaps of money–illegal fights, to the death. It was either me or the other guy. The way this one moves, he’s not even a wolf in a sheep’s clothing. He’s a hyena trying to fake the elegance of a dignified predator.

The leather gloves stretch over my knuckles, and I growl deep in my chest, wanting to bite his head off.

Especially when my hunch turns out to be spot on. 

Mia Rogers stands up from the table only to return with the visitor. Adalia turns to greet him, and the bastard throws off his coat, putting his gym-trained arms around her. Next to his princely presence, I’m a boulder. My jaw clenches as I wonder if this is what she likes, if he is what she’s into. Neat hair, beard so well-tended I wonder why the fuck he grows one at all, considering beard stands for raw, beastly masculinity. For something straight out of the caves, which he obviously isn’t, and which I take pains to hide being by always sporting a cleanly shaven jaw.

Except now, because I haven’t shaved in days, focused on the one thing I’ve wanted in years–her.

I wonder how she’d react if I crushed him right in front of her, squeezing the pretense out of him. If I proved to her just how useless city rats like him are against the likes of me. If protection is what she’s looking for in his arms, she’s gonna find out soon enough what a lame excuse for a man he is.

I hitch out my phone, zoom in, and snap a picture of him. It’s good to have state-of-the-art technology at your fingertips at all times, the kind normal people don’t even imagine exists yet. After an investigation of a few minutes and a few firewall breach hacks, I have all the info I need. He’s Camden Murray, stock broker, well-known ladies’ man in New York, and Adalia’s ex who she supposedly broke up with. I hiss at my phone and put it away. Later, I’ll dig up the last vid on PornHub he watched, what time he took his last dump, and all the dick pics he sent to other women while dating Adalia. I’m gonna break his image in her eyes, as well as every bone in his body. But right now, I need to watch every move he makes around her.