Page 23 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

I smile. “Touché. But there is one very significant difference.”

“And what’s that?” he asks, unable to resist taking the bait.

“Her pussy drips with desire every time I get close to her,” I whisper. “Whereas she wouldn’t even fuck you with a knife to her throat.”

He grits his teeth, but doesn’t say a word.

“As a matter of fact, I just fucked her on the altar,” I remark. “And she moaned for me. Called out my name. Took me deep. Came for me when I told her to.”

“You have no right to her!” he roars, writhing in his rickety chair.

I laugh. “I have every right. That woman is mine.”

“She doesn’t belong to you. She belongs to the Sanctuary.”

I shake my head. “She severed ties with this brainwashing fucking cult the moment she bashed that goddamn swan into your head and set fire to your house. She came to Las Vegas and met me the very same night. You wanna know what happened then?”

I can tell he’s scared about what I’m about to tell him. He shakes his head imperceptibly. More blood drips from his fat lower lip.

“She asked me for help,” I tell him. “And I gave her exactly what she needed. It’s poetic, isn’t it?”

Josiah’s eyes look wild, but he’s reining it in, trying to control his reactions.

“Did you really believe her when she told you that baby was yours?” I growl.

I know I’m flipping a coin here, but I do it anyway, chasing the high of this particular kind of torture.

“The child is mine! Mine!”

“Your rape produced nothing but her hatred for you,” I hiss. “ButIgave her a child.Itied her to me in ways you never could, you fucking pathetic little bitch.” I lean back and rub my hand across my stubbled jaw. “I should thank you, really, for driving her into my arms.”

He babbles incoherently and keeps tugging at his bindings, although he doesn’t get anywhere with it.

“Forgive me,” I say innocently with a wave of my hand, “I’m talking too much about myself. It’s rude. Let’s talk about you.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees.

“You know, my doctor gave me a full report after he tended to your wound. You were unconscious at that point so you didn’t notice. Anyway, point is, you have a tattoo right under your ballsack,” I inform him. “A black swan. Odd choice for a tattoo. Odd location, too.”

He immediately tenses. “I… it’s a personal—”

“I’m going to stop you right there,” I say, holding up my hand. “Consider this a friendly warning: don’t you ever fucking lie to me.”

He disgusts me. He’s not even worthy of my pity or my scorn. He’s cowardice personified. The kind of sick bastard who can rape a young girl after spending two decades grooming her into his perfect little fuck doll.

Under other circumstances, I’d kill him with my bare hands just so I didn’t waste a bullet.

But there are things in that skull of his that matter. So his pathetic life continues—for now.

“Let’s try again,” I say. “What does the black swan mean?”

Josiah is quiet for so long that I actually believe he’s grown a pair and he’s planning on keeping his mouth shut. Wrong on that count, though. He speaks after a while.

“It’s… a… a symbol.”

Bingo.

“A symbol of what?”

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