Page 10 of Ruin

The darkened ceiling morphs into the damp maze of hallways deep below my late father’s manor. Hidden in hundreds of acres of the English countryside. Surrounded by trees, twenty-five-foot barbed wire fences and a moat that may as well have been tinged red with the copious amount of spilled blood on the property.

I think of the smell, mould, sweat, pain,desperation. Remember the whimpering, chains clanking.

My dick starts to perk up.

I bite down on my bottom lip, curled in, tucked between my teeth, I bite so hard I taste blood, it makes me think ofhim,as always. And then my balls are drawing up so tightly they threaten to explode and my cum bursts into the back of a hot, tight throat,histhroat and I huff a half-laughing sigh of relief.

Thank fuck.

I tug the woman’s head up, releasing my grip from the roots of her hair. Her lips pop off my dick, and she drops back onto her haunches. Lips swollen, saliva glistening on her chin, tanned knees rubbed red, she stares up at me, one tit having fallen out of her strappy bra. I cock my head, staring at her tight, pink nipple, pulled into a sharp point, think about slicing it off.

“Can I do anything else?” she asks quietly, wide eyes glassy.

Fear.

I picture it. Her neck split in two, rivulets of scarlet spilling, gathering and overflowing in the hollow at the base of her throat. Covering those pale pink nipples with claret. My knife burns where it rests against my thigh in my trouser pocket, fingertips fizzing with pins and needles. An itch to scratch. I blink, refocusing my attention on reality just as a single tear tracks its way down her flush cheek.

“Get out,” I order.

She scrabbles to her feet before I even finish speaking, tripping on her stilettos, tit still hanging out of its red lace bra cup. She slaps her hands against the solid wood of the door, falling against it as she reaches it. I hear the click as it’s unlocked from the other side. My eyes lazily rolling in their sockets, gaze fixing on her back. So much smooth skin. Tanned, blemish free. It would split so beautifully.

“Pakhan?” Dima questions lowly, blocking the woman from escaping through the barely cracked doorway.

His blonde head is dipped low, dark brown eyes flicked up on mine. My head lolls back onto the leather chair, I eye him for a moment, flick my gaze back to the trembling woman now clawing at his tattooed forearm. She’s heard the rumours. What I sometimes do to the women who service me. Luckily for her, I only tend to rip apart the ones I fuck.

“Take her.”

I tuck my cock away, balance my glass on the flat arm of the chair, and let my head fall back fully.

The room feels colder now, darker, it’s late, and I’m restless. Everything feels like a chore. I have nowhere to go. Nothing to do. I don’t want to fuck anything. Coming hasn’t even satisfied me.

I blow out a breath. A huff of frustration leaving me. I bring my thumb to the corner of my mouth, swiping it over my bottom lip. Drag my nail down, over the scar in the dip of my chin. I continue staring up at the ceiling, trailing my thumb back and forth across the risen skin, my mind blank when I smell it.

Marijuana.

The good shit.

Slowly, I bring my head up, straightening it on my shoulders. I peer across the dark room, stare at the now billowing voile curtains pulled across the glass double doors. Doors that are open, the scent of smoke wafting in from the balcony.

I’m silent as I push to my feet, thick carpet beneath my laced dress shoes muffling my steps. I don’t bother with zipping my trousers, leaving them gaping open, hanging low on my hips, white shirt untucked, half of my buttons undone.

I make my way through the darkness, the air around me thinning, feeling cooler and cooler the closer I get to the doors. Anticipation spikes in my chest and I force myself to uncurl my clenching fingers. Heart pounding hard in my ears, deafening me to the rush of traffic below, I step out into the winter wind.

Inhaling the sticky scent of weed, I step up behind where he leans over, elbows resting on the metal railing. I stare at his bare back, the curve of his spine, each bone disc pushing out through his pale, tattooed skin. I think of my hammer tapping at them, the sound they would make. The vibration of it rumbling up my forearm.

I want to ruin Charlie Swallow.

“Din’t wanna fuck her?” he rasps a chuckle, voice gruff and croaky.

He doesn’t turn to look at me over his shoulder, the muscles in his back not even flexing with his laugh. He is completely motionless. My jaw cracks, teeth gritting. The urge to grin is overwhelming. Instead, I say nothing, tension heavy in my shoulders. I stare out at the city, lights blurring through the darkness, cars still rushing by regardless of the late hour. Southbrook never sleeps. Neither do we.

“You don’t wanna know why I’m here?” he asks lowly.

Not a man of many words. He is always meticulous with the ones he chooses to speak.

I can picture his face, pale brows dropped low over his eyes, small lines creasing his lips from smoking.

He smokes too much.

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