Page 1 of Road to Ruin
PROLOGUE
RITE AND RITUAL
Blood and cum: my bodily fluids combine together easily in the bottom of the glass tumbler, the liquid a dark crimson mixture when I’m done. The jerking off part was less fun than fucking, I’ll admit, but pressing the blade into my flesh and gathering the blood? That part was organic. The way the sharpened steel cut? The way my body bled? My dick stirs, growing hard again just thinking about it. I can’t think about that now, though. I have to concentrate. This ritual is important, a ritual the men of our family participate in but once in their lifetimes. I refuse to fuck it up.
Genevieve Kendrick sits on the edge of the bed, watching me. She’s nervous, I can tell, and that only adds to the thrill. She’s here of her own volition. She can leave any time she wants, but she won’t. We’ve been going back and forth, playing a cat and mouse game for so long, but she knows the truth just as well as I do: she ran, but she wanted to be caught. She hid, but she wanted to be found. She refused me, but she was always going to surrender herself.
Her long black hair twists in curls over her bare shoulders, almost reaching her hips. Her lips are swollen and red, her skin pale and flawless in the cool, glowing light of the city that floods in through the wide, stain glass windows. The Bastien house is one of the oldest, grandest buildings in the French Quarter of New Orleans. For the past two hundred and fifty-eight years, people have walked by the imposing entrance, choked with Spanish moss and ivy, and wondered at the architecture—the warm pink stone of the high walls that seems to glow when the sunlight hits it at the right time of day, and the chipped and flaking paint around the expansive windows on each of the three stories. They’ve thought to themselves, “Such a beautiful building. Such a remarkable place. How lucky the people inside must be, to live in a home like that.” If only they knew the reality of it. If only they knew that all who abide inside these four walls are fucking cursed.
The house is the only possible location for tonight’s activities, though. No one asks questions when you arrive under the cover of darkness here. No one raises an eyebrow when your guests are screaming out to God at the top of their lungs at three in the morning. Genevieve shifts on the bed, trying to look relaxed, but she’s not fooling anybody, least of all me.
“What are you going to do with that?” she asks, eyeing the small glass flask in my hands. She doesn’t look scared, per se. Maybe just…curious. Wary and curious. I like the look on her.
“Nothing you won’t enjoy,” I reply. “Stand up.”
Her hands clench into loose fists for a second. She gets to her feet, her long, cream colored silk dress swaying like liquid light around her body, hugging her slender frame and swelling over her curves in the most delicious way. She looks like she could be consumed. Drunk or eaten perhaps, a delicacy only a few men in this world could ever possibly afford. I don’t need to pay for luxuries like Genevieve, though. Women like her fall at my feet like I’m some kind of god. All it takes is a rough word, a few carefully chosen commands, the promise of a switch against their bare skin, and they are mine.
She knows about the body in the trunk of my car. She was sitting in the back seat when I met with Farriagamo. She saw him pull a knife on me, and she saw what I did with it when I took it off him. She watched him die, and she watched me drag his limp body from the side of the road and toss it like trash into the trunk of the car. And still…here she sits. Here, she waits for me to make her mine in every sense of the word. This is what it means to be alpha. To have someone completely under your control, no matter how wicked or evil your actions might be.
“Take this.” I hold the knife out to Genevieve. The silver of the blade is still covered in the blood and semen I was just mixing together. She stares at it, fixated on the fiercely sharp tip of the weapon where a bead of blood hangs, threatening to fall.
She has three seconds. Three seconds to take the thing before there will be consequences. I think maybe she sees me make this decision, maybe the expression on my face changes, because she jolts into action, crossing the room and taking the knife from me with shaking hands.
“Now what?” she asks.
“Now you lick it clean.”
Her eyes grow wide, but she’s a smart woman. She knows better than to say anything. To react beyond the quickening of her breath and the dilation of her pupils. Lifting the knife to her mouth, the tip of her tongue darts out between her lips, cautiously, as if she’s preparing herself for what comes next, hesitating. I restart the clock.
Three seconds.
One…
Two…
Her tongue runs up the length of the knife. She closes her eyes, a muffled moan catching in the back of her throat as she tastes me.
“That’s it. Good girl. Lick it clean.” My cock is growing harder by the second. I’m gonna be palming myself soon, stroking the length of my dick, and I’m going to enjoy Genevieve watching me, but for now I’m too wrapped up in her obedience. It’s fucking amazing to see her comply without protest like this. The crimson blood on the pale pink of her tongue is driving me insane. When she’s finished, she hands me back the knife.
“Open your mouth,” I tell her. “Stick out your tongue. Show me.” She shows me her tongue. With her head tipped back, her lips pouty and flecked with blood, I want to rip that fucking dress from her body and slam myself inside of her already. I’m a pleasure delayer, though. I like to torture myself a little bit. Make myself wait. “Go back to the bed. Sit on your hands.”
Once she’s done as I’ve asked her, I walk over to the door and open it. Jerome stands there, back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, waiting patiently just as I knew he would be. His facial features are impassive as he bows his head slightly, taking a step forward. “He’s arrived, sir, as have your brothers. You would like me to escort them to the reception room?”
Excitement shuttles up and down my body, catching me off guard. I’m looking forward to this. I’ve known all my life that I would have to do this at some point, and the very idea of it was nothing short of inconvenient. I suppose I never really considered the woman I’d be claiming before, though. Now that the moment has arrived and it’s Genevieve sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting anxiously like a trapped exotic bird, the situation is far from inconvenient. It’s anything but.
“No. Bring them up here. No sense in wasting time.”
Jerome bows his head even further, averting his eyes. “Of course.” He moves off down the hallway quickly, hands still clasped behind his back. Back inside my room, Genevieve’s eyelids flutter when I turn to her. She does her best to sit still but I can tell she’s getting antsy. “What now?” she asks.
“Now, you wait patiently. Can you do that?”
“If that’s what you want, then yes.”
Holy fuck. The fire in her eyes rages; I can see how hard she has to fight to keep her temper under control. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing. Genevieve is a rare kind of woman. She doesn’t lean on anyone for help. She never holds her hand out to be steadied. It would kill her to be beholden to anyone. I think that’s part of why this whole thing is so fucking perfect. It’s her sacrifice, everything she’s giving up to hand herself over to me. It must be the hardest thing she’s ever had to do, and she’s performing wonderfully.
“It is what I want,” I say. Men don’t play poker with me. I perfected the ability to hide my emotions years ago. The gamblers of New Orleans can never tell if I’m bluffing. No tics. No tells. I give nothing away. Right now, though, I’m finding it hard to keep the pleasure from my face. I wonder if my fiery little Genevieve can see how excited she’s making me. I catch a glimpse of myself in the vast mirror mounted on the wall beside the bed, and I note the slight curve to my mouth. The faint glimmer of amusement in my eyes. It’s subtle. To someone who doesn’t know me very well, I’m sure I still look sinister. Perhaps a little…evil? I’ve never been a fan of that word. I don’t believe in inherent good, or inherent bad. I believe in people trying to hide their vices and putting on a good show, so others will think them perfect. I believe that some of us choose to embrace the darkness a little too tightly, but at the end of the day there are always snatches of light to be found if a person were to look hard enough. Even within me, believe it or not.
“Lie back now,” I command. Genevieve shivers visibly, but she nods, scooting back until her legs are fully resting on the mattress. She lies down flat on her back, her hands laid palm down on the crisp sheets, fingers spread wide like she’s trying to steady herself. I take hold of her by the left ankle, raising her leg until it’s almost level with my eyes, and then I slowly, carefully unfasten the slender golden strap around her ankle that’s holding her stiletto heel on. I slide the shoe from her foot, and then I remove the heel on her right foot, too.
