Ruthless Vow (Vegas Vicious #2)

19. Nicole

19

Nicole

It’s been a quick evolution of surroundings these last few days. A dungeon. A sparse but functional holding room. A locked guest bedroom in my aunt’s home. And now this.

Leo’s bedroom.

I’ve been here many times before as his assistant, finalizing last minute details as he stood just beyond the smoked glass doors of his walk-in closet, tying his bowtie or sliding on the jacket of his tux before heading out to a charity function or a business dinner. But this is different. This time, I’m here alone, anxious, on edge.

Leo didn’t say a word on the drive here. Not one word. Neither did Luca. The three of us just sat in the car and drove.

Danila hadn’t said a word, either, but he’d been stuffed in the trunk.

When we arrived at the house, Leo had brought me to this room, gently touched my bruised cheek, his dark eyes like ice and fire.

And then he left and went…somewhere else. I suspect he went to deal with Danila.

Maybe he went to deal with my aunt. Leo’s brothers went after her. I don’t know if they captured her or killed her. Maybe she got away. I don’t know anything.

I remember the room I’d woken up in after Leo took me from the cemetery, the room with the cuffs and service cart full of tools and instruments. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s taken Danila there.

Once Leo left me, I’d tried the door to the bedroom. Not a single part of me was surprised that it was locked. Disappointed, yes. Surprised, no.

Nothing has changed. But why would it?

I’d escaped. The woman who’d attempted to murder Leo Russo and put his entire family in jeopardy had escaped.

He’d hunted me. He’d found me. And he’d brought me back to my now-much-more-comfortable prison.

The fact that he’s orchestrated my escape made no difference.

And the sex we’d had before I ran, the incredible sex I’d never even dared dream of hadn’t changed a fucking thing about the big picture.

Leo views me as a threat that needs to be locked up until he decides how to deal with me. And I can’t say I blame him.

I’m a practical girl. I knew all of this going in. I knew this even when he was fucking me. And it’s utterly irrational for me to have thought for even a second that there might be more between us.

Leo Russo isn’t any normal girl’s fantasy man. He’s a nightmare come to life and to expect anything else from him, even now— especially now—would be setting myself up for more painful disappointment.

Logically, I know this. Of course I do.

But illogically, I wish it could be different. And that? That is more than illogical. That is straight-up insane.

“I’m insane,” I say aloud. Leo has driven me batshit crazy with that gigantic, pierced cock of his. And suddenly I’m wondering where he is, how long he’ll be gone, when he’ll be back, not because as his prisoner I am afraid but because I want to see him, be with him, feel his lips on mine, his hands on my body.

Fuck.

I turn and study the room. It suits him. High end luxury with a dangerous edge, a reflection of wealth, power, and carefully curated taste.

The tufted black leather headboard of the California king bed reaches the high ceiling, drawing the eye. The linens are pristine white with a charcoal velvet comforter and an array of overstuffed pillows in shades of gray, turquoise, and blue. The effect is understated and elegant.

Across from the bed is a floor-to-ceiling fireplace of black Portoro marble. $480 per square meter—I know that because I priced it for him.

An abstract painting in dark shades hangs above the fireplace. It’s moody, elegant, a little frightening.

A low-profile dresser sits against the right wall. Two armchairs flank a chrome-and-glass side table. There’s a fully stocked bar in the corner. For a second, I consider helping myself. Then I decide that drunk-as-a-skunk-Nicole might not be the best option to face Leo when he returns.

A wall of windows spans the left side of the room, offering a gorgeous view of the mountains in the distance. The charcoal velvet blackout curtains are open. I move to the window and stare at the city lights. The view really is gorgeous.

I stand there for a very long time, lost in thought, consumed by worry for Sofia and fear that Bianca will make my sister pay for my betrayal.

Flames of rage lick at me. Bianca is the betrayer. She killed my father and blamed it on Leo. She held my sister prisoner. She used me for her own twisted ends.

There’s a light tap at the door and then it opens, revealing Vito’s distinctive features.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

“Glad you’re back,” he says.

I’m not sure how to reply because he actually does sound glad that I’m back.

“Uh, these are all clean. Leo thought you’d want to shower and change.” He puts a pile of clothes on the low, gray velvet bench that runs across the foot of the bed.

“Thank you,” I say.

There’s an awkward second when I think he wants to say something more, but then he just nods and leaves.

When I’m alone again, I realize just how desperately I do want to shower and change. I want to be clean, to leave what happened in the desert far behind me.

In the shower is a selection of shampoos and conditioners, body washes, and loofahs, including the brands I prefer. On the bathroom counter are toiletries. It takes me a second to realize they are my toiletries: electric toothbrush, toothpaste, moisturizer, deodorant. Two boxes of my contact lenses sit stacked on the marble counter.

Confused, I go back into the bedroom and pull open the drawers of the dresser. My stuff fills the two on the top right—underwear, bras, PJs.

I cross to the walk-in closet and find several pairs of my sneakers there, but none of my clothes. Hanging above the sneakers are women’s clothes I’ve never seen before. But they’re my size and still have the tags on. And they’re all similar in style to the clothes Leo had ordered brought to me when I was in the holding cell.

It looks like Leo had someone go to my apartment and pack up the basics, but not any of my hideous dresses. Good choice. I never want to see them again. They belong to the woman my father and aunt wanted me to be.

I head back into the bathroom, unsure why Leo had my things brought here, to his home, his room . Why would he do that?

I eye myself in the mirror, noticing my swollen, bruised cheek. I touch it gingerly, wincing, grateful that I turned my face at the last second. Had Danila hit me full on, he’d have broken my nose, maybe even knocked out a tooth. I shiver at the memory of the terror that I experienced in the desert.

I distract myself by having a long, hot shower. Near the end of it, the sound of a door opening makes me freeze. I shut off the water, and reach for the bathrobe waiting on a hook on the wall. Leo’s bathrobe. Cashmere, soft as a cloud. I dip my chin and inhale. It smells like him.

Still dripping wet, but at least covered, I exit the bathroom to see that my intruder is Mr. Pierced-Cock himself. The expression he wears makes my heart skip a beat. He looks feral, animalistic. His hands are clenched into fists. His knuckles are red, raw, like he’d just beaten someone to death with his bare hands.

His hair is damp, suggesting he’s also showered. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a black polo shirt, the muscles of his arms defined and taut, the width of his shoulders and chest on display.

“Did you capture my aunt?” I ask.

“No. The house she was renting was empty when my brothers arrived. She and her people were gone.”

I sag in despair. My aunt is gone. The only lead to Sofia’s location is gone.

Leo surprises me when he says, “Danila said Bianca is a cruel woman…to everyone, but especially to you.”

I shrug, not sure where this is going. “I can handle cruelty.”

“Bianca’s the one who told you I killed your father,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And she is the one holding your sister prisoner.”

“I know you don’t trust me, Leo,” I say in a rush. “And you don’t have any reason to let me go, not after all of this, but I have to find Sofia. My aunt sent me into the desert to die. She sent me to be murdered on her orders. I don’t know when she’ll turn on my sister. Sofia’s out there somewhere, and I desperately need to find her. You need to let me question Danila. And then you need to let me leave.”

“No,” he says.

The single word is bruisingly heavy. “No?”

“Danila is dead. And I’ve already put people on the job of finding Sofia,” he says.

Shock and gratitude render me speechless.

Leo mistakes my silence for disagreement and says, “You are one person, Nicole. A very smart, savvy, organized, determined person, but still only one person. I am the head of a syndicate with infinite resources at my fingertips. Which of us is more likely to find her?”

“No… It’s just that… do you know where to look? Did Danila tell you anything specific about her location?” I’ve been searching for her for years and never even come close.

“He did. But it’s unlikely she’s still at that location. The second your aunt realized that Danila was in my tender care, she would have had your sister moved.”

He’s right. I slump, feeling defeated.

“Nonetheless, I have sent Dante to check things out. We will find her.”

He sounds so certain.

I nod and glance around, not sure what I’m supposed to do now. Everything in me is screaming to go searching for my sister. But searching where? I need to let Leo’s people do their thing.

His gaze rakes me, lingering for an instant on my cheek. Then he crosses to the bar and pours a glass of whiskey.

I cross my arms, hugging myself, unsure what I’m supposed to say or do. I watch in silence as he walks to the black tufted leather chaise lounge by the window and sits, his gaze locked on my face.

“Come here,” he says, his tone stern, allowing no room for argument.

I walk over and stand in front of him. He takes my hand and pulls me down onto his lap, shifting me so I’m sitting sideways across his thighs, positioned to his satisfaction so he can look into my face. The robe falls open, baring my leg. I reach down to pull it closed, but he stops me with a light touch on my wrist.

“You ran from me,” he says, his expression steely, his tone cold, his palm warm as he strokes my exposed thigh.

It wasn’t a question so I don’t offer an answer. I don’t bother to point out that he left the door of the holding cell unlocked or that I’m pretty certain he wanted me to run. That he set me up. He expected me to lead him straight to my boss. And I did.

“How did you know where to find me?” I ask.

He takes a sip of whiskey. His hand slides a little higher, his fingers curving around the inside of my thigh.

“I put a tracker in your locket.”

I should be enraged. Instead, I’m grateful. Had he not tracked me, I would be dead.

He takes another sip of whiskey then sets the glass down on the side table.

“You withheld information, Nicole. You told me about your sister, but not about your aunt. You put yourself in danger by leaving my protective custody.”

“Protective custody? I was your prisoner.”

His expression becomes even steelier, colder. Why do I find that attractive? Why does the feel of his hand on the naked skin of my thigh make me ache and yearn? Why does the sound of his voice, so stern, make me scared and horny and breathless?

“Protective custody,” he corrects me, his tone colder than a snowstorm, his hand sliding higher still. I squirm and shift on his lap.

He makes a sound of displeasure and slides his hand down my thigh.

My breath hitches as I force myself to be still.

As a reward, he slides his palm along my inner thigh, all the way to the top, and lets it rest there, almost touching my clit.

I stare at the hard line of his mouth, wanting him to kiss me.

Instead, he squeezes my thigh, hard enough to make me gasp.

“You have been very bad, Nicole. And you need to be punished.” He pauses, letting the words wash over me. “I’m going to put you over my knee,” he says. “I’m going to spank your ass. It’s going to hurt. And when I’m satisfied that you will be a good girl, I’m going to fuck you.”

My mouth is dry, my breathing fast and shallow. My pussy is wet, a coil of lust twisting through me.

He won’t force me. I know that. I could stand up. I could move away. I could protest or simply refuse.

I do none of those things because I remember watching Leo spank that woman who’d been face down on his desk. I remember wanting to be the one under his hand.

“Stand up,” he orders.

I do.

“Take off the robe.”

I hesitate for an instant. I have nothing on underneath.

“I will not tell you again, Nicole.”

Mesmerized by the sound of his voice, the icy command, I undo the belt and let the robe slide off my shoulders and drop to the floor. Leo takes his time looking at me. His gaze lingers on the marks he left on my neck. He sips his whiskey as I stand in front of him, naked, while he is fully clothed.

Finally, he sets the glass aside.

“Lie down,” he says, guiding me face down across his lap.

My pulse races as he positions me over his knees. I’m uneasy, afraid, and so turned on I can’t help but squirm against him, my heart racing, my nipples aching for his touch, my pussy throbbing.

“Put your palms flat on the floor.”

Breathing fast and shallow, I obey.

“Put your legs together.” His voice is like whiskey and velvet with a hint of steel.

I do as he orders, and that only makes me hotter because it puts pressure on my clit. He rests his hand on the backs of my thighs and I squirm, wishing he would move it higher, touch me, stroke me. I make a gasping moan.

“Press your toes to the floor,” he says. “Ass in the air.”

I obey and he kneads my ass cheeks as I struggle to find the position that will make him happy. All I want to do is make him happy. His palm rests on my ass, heavy, hot. He squeezes one cheek, then the other.

Then he smacks my ass, a sharp crack of sensation accompanied by a sharp crack of sound. I gasp, unsure how to feel. It hurts a little. But it feels…exciting too. Wild. Erotic.

His cock is hard beneath me, straining against his jeans.

He smacks me again and I wriggle under his hand, tipping my pelvis forward as though to escape the next blow.

With a soft sound of displeasure, he presses down on my low back, which makes my ass stick up. He smacks me again and again and I gasp and mewl, confused and off-kilter from the storm of sensations. Pain. Pleasure. My ass stings. My pussy throbs. My breasts ache.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, dipping his hand between my legs, pushing two fingers inside me while his other hand still presses on the small of my back.

I gasp and whimper as much from the way his words make me feel—I desperately want to be a good girl for him—as from the stroke of his fingers and the shadow of pain that has left my skin sensitive and raw.

“You like this,” he says, his voice rough and dark.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He lifts me and carries me to the bed, lying me on my back. I stare up at him as he pulls his shirt over his head, baring his torso and those incredible tattoos. Then he pulls his belt free, his obsidian eyes locked on mine. My gaze flicks to the belt. Back to his face. He lifts one dark brow.

“Another time,” he murmurs.

I shiver.

He peels off his jeans and black boxers, releasing his cock, huge and hard. He lowers himself atop me, his weight heavy, confining, perfect. And then he kisses me, gently, softly, the kiss unexpected and wonderful because gentle and soft are not in his nature.

The kiss entices me, drugs me, makes my whole body feel both lethargic and intensely alive.

I wrap my arms around him and kiss him back.