Primal Pursuit

My daddy pleaded. Begged. Argued. Cried.

Offered riches.

Favors.

Cried some more.

This motherfucker told him to take it like a man.

But with those events that come and go, I remember vividly the monster who stood near the closet I hid in—catching glimpses of his reflection in the opposite mirror.

Curling, dark blond hair, like aged copper. Cold, remarkably green eyes. Colder mouth.

But the one thing that’s stood out and haunted my dreams over the years? A black rose tattooed on the side of his hand—the one that held the gun.

I fixated on that rose; it filled my head as he ended Penelope Jane Parish’s life that day.

Now I’m Poppy Moore. Deadlier than fucking opium, and I intend to be just as addictive.

As the Dark Sovereign’s assassin, he’s protected by their unlimited power, which is why it took me so long to find him.

Davian is like a ghost. He doesn’t exist. He’s a phantom who leaves death and destruction in his wake. But fate was on my side when I heard about the man with the rose tattoo on his hand, the one who fucks like a beast at the most secretive sex club in Chicago. Goes to show their NDA isn’t worth shit. It can’t silence whispers.

“Anyone not up for the challenge can leave now.” The hostess’ voice snaps me back. “Just a kind reminder that ifyou choose to leave, you will never be allowed back in through those doors. Ever.”

A few beats pass, a few seconds of uncomfortable silence before three women turn and leave, their heels hardly making a sound above the screech of their cowardice. Did they think tonight would be abouttheirpleasure? That getting their pussies tongue-fucked on an altar would be the beginning of a night that’s all abouttheirdesires andtheirneeds? Fucking idiots. These events have nothing to do with the women who attend and everything to do with the sordid depravities of these masked men—or rather, made men of one of the most powerful Mafias in the world. And now they run like scared little kittens at the prospect of pain and humiliation, back to their dull lives of mundane, missionary sex and Egyptian cotton bedding.

I pity them. They will never know how it feels to be high on adrenaline, to feel a pulsing thrill beat against their veins.

The large double-story doors close behind them, and the hostess wastes no time. “You.” She points at the girl standing right beside me. “You’ll go first. When you approach the table, lift your skirt and bend over until your cheek meets the mahogany.”

I watch, amused, as she starts to bunch up the skirt of her red dress between her palms, her feet stepping lightly up to the table. She’s nervous. I can see it in the slight tremble of her hands, the way her delicate throat bobs as she swallows hard.

The second her cheek meets the table, the first Elite walks up. He doesn’t take one of the whips or floggers andopts for the burn of his palm, the first strike hitting the soft rounds of her ass. The woman whimpers, and I lean my head to the side to watch her face contort with pain. Even if he decides to go easy on her with no more than one lash, she won’t last until the third Elite before tapping out.

Lucky for her, this one seems intrigued by her and the pretty pink hue of her flesh, moving closer and gliding a single digit through her ass slit, down before he sinks his finger into her cunt.

A moan escapes her, and I bite my bottom lip, feeling that familiar spasm of desire in my belly.

The Elite whisks her off and up the stairs, and I watch as they disappear, hoping the poor woman doesn’t get more than she bargained for.

The following two contenders put up their best show, taking their lashes, determined to get their wild night with one of these sexed-up maniacs. For the next twenty minutes, I forget why I’m here, transfixed by these men and women, their pain and their pleasure, and I find myself squeezing my thighs together as desire pools.

“Bunny,” the hostess calls, looking straight at me. “You’re next.”

I touch my rabbit mask and breathe as I glance from one Elite to the next, still trying to figure out which one is Davian.

“Today, bunny,” she scolds, and I shoot her a look meant to kill before strutting up to the table, taking the position of a perfect fucking offering. Excitement starts to bubble in my veins as I lift my skirt, the fabric gliding against my oversensitive skin. It’s hard not to be affected by all this, and it’s impossible to ignore the sex in the air.My craving for blood only amplifies the lust that clings to my flesh.

As I lean down, my ass exposed and legs slightly parted, this invisible force draws me to the Elite standing at the far end. From here, the light touches his eyes just right for me to see their cold shade of green. Something ignites inside my stomach, adrenaline surging with a violent wave.

That’s him. Davian fucking Stark.

His eyes are fixed on mine, but he’s utterly still—like the hunter who’s satiated enough not to rip apart anything too slow, but one who wants the chase, one who will go for prey if he thinks it’s worth playing with, tormenting the innocent for his own amusement before going in for the kill. A predator’s idea of fun.

It’s good for him that my plan doesn’t entail killing him tonight. Even if there was a way to sneak in a weapon, the security around this place is ironclad. I’ll be taken down within a heartbeat, and the Dark Sovereign don’t leave survivors. I’d be buried by morning. Oh, but the thought does thrill me. I’d get his cock rock hard before cutting it clean off, and then after he finished squealing and writhing like the murdering coward he is, I’d stand over him and tell him my name. Then I’d fucking shoot him between the eyes.

My hands shake as my body throbs with the thought.