Page 169 of Black Castle

Her nails dig into his back, scoring deep, the sting of his skin breaking beneath her fingers the only act of defiance she has left.

Her heels dig into his ass, forcing him deeper even as she tells herself to fight him, bite him, and end him. She continues to let him use her and ruin her in a way that makes his betrayal taste even more bitter and vicious.

“I hate you!” she whimpers, the words raw as a surge of fury lace the pleasure winding tight in her core. “I hate you so much!”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is dark as he pants, a raspy growl that scrapes over her skin like jagged teeth. “Say that again.” His nails dig into her thigh, pounding harder into her, forcing a whimper that she fails to hide out of her throat. “Say that again, but when you’re not squeezing around my cock, dripping all over the place, and who knows? I might actually believe you.”

A sound escapes her, caught between agony and something far more damning. Because he’s right. He’s always right. And because even now, even after what he just said, her body is clenching around him, her traitorous nerves igniting like wildfire, her blood roaring in her veins.

The pleasure he is fusing into every thrust is unbearable, cruel, a torment in itself. She should feel nothing for this monster but pure, unadulterated loathing. She should want nothing but to hurt him.

She should want him dead.

But instead, she’s unraveling.

“You know what?” he pants, his long fingers tightening around her throat, his hips angling, thrusts brutal and unrelenting. “I put myself in your shoes. And yeah, I’d be pretty damn mad if I hate someone and yet, can’t stop bouncing on their cock. So don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”

A choked, furious gasp rips from her throat but it’s quickly swallowed by his hot mouth that claims her lips, dragging her into another war. Their tongues clash, the kiss is deep and punishing, a battle neither of them will win. Because she’s already lost to him long ago.

And when pleasure crashes through her, tearing her apart at the seams, she knows that she has never, and will probably never hate anyone as much as she hates herself.

~You don’t need to run, French bird. Running makes you prey. And he will never stop hunting you. But picture this, if he’s gone, there will be no more locked doors, no more chains disguised as devotion. I have yet again, given you what you need. Be braver than you have ever been~

The words coil around Vivienne’s mind, tightening like a noose.

‘I have yet again given you what you need.’

Vivienne’s fingers tighten around the bundle of cloth in her palm. It feels heavier than it should—heavier than glass, heavier than liquid. It almost feels as if the arsenic acid inside the bottle carries something far greater than poison.

Her breath shudders as she unravels the fabric, revealing the small bottle glinting dully in the dim light. Her pulse pounds against her ribs.

‘Be braver than you have ever been.’

Brave? She doesn’t feel brave. She feels like a woman teetering on the edge of something vast and irreversible. Because death is irreversible. And she’s about to kill someone.

Her eyes, which have long lost life, flicker to the bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table. The amber liquid catches the glow of the chandelier. She imagines the poison dissolving into it, vanishing like a whisper in the dark. A single sip and it will all be over.

No more cages. No more him.

Something stirs in the deepest part of her, something dark, twisted, and oh-so dangerously seductive.

Her fingers tremble as she looks between the poison and the whiskey. A shaky sigh breaks out of her lips

And slowly, she takes a step.

Chapter Fifty-five

Zev

The air inside the dimly lit chamber is heavy with cigar smoke, the lingering remnant of aged whiskey, and the underlying tension that coils tighter with each passing second.

Shadows dance along the heavy wooden doors, the low hum of murmured conversations in Russian ceasing as a hand slams on the polished surface of the table.

Zev stands before the round table, shoulders squared, his calculated calm masking the storm brewing within him.

Across from him, all the elders and men who will swear they built the Bratva with blood and brutality regard him with cold, expectant stares. Some are leaned back, arms crossed, their expression quite readable. They don’t really try to hide their rage, disappointment, and confusion.

“The ledger.” The speaker’s voice is a jagged edge cutting through stone, his Russian thickened with rage. “What’s going on? Why are we hearing that you haven’t found it?”

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