Page 15 of The King of Hearts

I don’t bite him at first. Not because I don’t understand, but because I’m terrified to do it. Even if he did give me permission.

“Savina,” he barks.

I sink my teeth into his fingers. I meant to do it lightly, only a graze of my teeth to give him what he wants, but they dig into hisflesh harshly. He groans, his hot breath sliding across the back of my neck, and oh, fuck, I feel that hard pole against my ass jerk.

“You’ll learn quickly, my vicious little angel, that I like pain,” he says in a dark voice. “It makes my cock hard.”

He pushes his dick against me, as if to prove that point, and jams his fingers so deep down my throat that I cough and sputter.

And then his weight is gone, so fast it’s like it was never there. It takes me a moment to realize this fact. I blink several times like an idiot before I scramble up to my feet, spinning around to face him.

He’s there, a couple of feet away, standing so tall I’m forced to tilt my head back to look at him. I cross my arms over my chest, belatedly remembering I’m only in my camisole and a pair of thongs. I feel exposed and vulnerable, and I hate it.

I have no idea what this man’s plans are for me, and I don’t like standing here with so much of my flesh on display. I feel like I’m presenting him with temptation, and from the very noticeable bulge I felt a moment ago, he’s definitely already tempted.

“Good girl,” he says in a smooth tone, like he’s proud of my acquiescence.

I want to move away from him, but I don’t want to set him off. There’s no telling what he’ll do.

“Whose heart is that?” I ask, my voice shaky.

The answer really doesn’t matter. I just want him to talk instead of simply standing there looking at me. The longer he does that, the more nervous I become, and I need to get those emotions under control to figure out a way to get out of here.

“Patrick Arlington,” the devil in front of me answers.

The name surprises me. I didn’t expect to actually know the person, although maybe that’s naïve on my part. The heart was presented to me as if it were a gift. Gifts are meant to bepersonal. This man claims I’m his, so of course I’d know the owner.

“Why did you kill him?” I’m still scared, but a note of curiosity slithers in beside the fear.

“He signed his death warrant the moment he touched you and spoke to you the way he did.”

I suspected as much. Which means he was there at The Bean Shop earlier today. Something tells me he’s the presence I felt watching me. Is he the one I’ve felt for two years?

“No one touches what’s mine, Savina. No one threatens what’s mine,” he continues. My breath gets stuck in my throat when he moves forward. He’s so close that I feel the warmth of his body, and an oceanic scent hits my senses. “And it goes both ways. You don’t put your hands on another man. Learn that. Live it. Sear it into your fucking soul. Because if you break that rule, you’ll end up with more blood on your hands than you can wash off.”

Jesus.

Maybe this person really is the devil. A psycho devil disguised as a man.

CHAPTER SIX

HER

My obsession with dark romance books has taught me several things about myself. Inconsequential, I learned that my love for reading as a child didn’t lessen as I grew older, my tastes just matured and turned dirtier.

Slightly more interesting is that it opened up a whole new world of artistic talent. My drawings before were serene and innocent, beautiful and full of life and color. Now, more often than not, my art is black, white, and gray. Except when there’s blood involved. That’s always a vivid, bright red.

When I draw a scene from one of my books or sketch something from one of my hazy dreams, the flow of my pencil against paper comes much easier. The details are clearer and more precise, the lines more crisp and straight. Drawing erotic art comes naturally to me.

The biggest thing I learned about myself, the thing that has me still wondering if something is wrong with me, is that… I want to be taken.

I want to be used and abused, and ravaged. I want to feel the pain of those acts. To be manhandled and forced. Have my will taken away. To have my hair pulled as a man forces his cock down my throat. His hand around the column of my neck when I’m disobedient, cutting off my air supply. Have him force me to crawl on my hands and knees like he’s my Master and I his pet. To bite my flesh until crimson flows and watch as he licks up every drop. I want bruises in places they shouldn’t be, from rough hands on my thighs and waist and around my neck and all over my soft breasts.

I want a man who wants me so much that it drives him insane at the thought of not having me. One who would burn the world down for me and slaughter anyone who dared hurt me. I want to consume his thoughts so thoroughly that I’m the only thing he thinks about, the only thing he needs to breathe, the sole reason for his existence.

I want obsession and possession and jealousy to the point of madness and irrational thought.

Up until this moment, I haven’t let those thoughts fully develop in my head, and now that they have, they spook the hell out of me. Like, I’m seriously concerned for my mental health. Should I tell someone I’m having these thoughts? Would they commit me to the psychiatric ward in Hollow’s Medical Center? Would Mom, Dad, and my brothers look at me as if I was crazy? Surely they would at least be concerned.

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