“I...” My fingertips burn at the subtle hesitation. Dante Vialle never fucking hesitates. “I’ll strangle you myself,” I tell her, curling my hands into fists.
“Thank you.” She exhales sharply, her eyes closing in relief. The emotion deflates her, and she falls back against the headrest of the couch. “Thank you... Thank you.”
Her gratitude stings. I’ve signed up to be her murderer, and she looks ready to kiss my fucking feet.
“It’ll be my pleasure.” I put as much fucking violence and hate that I can into the words; they become a cutting whip that glances off her skin with barely a nick to show for it.
“Thank you.”
“Make a list of what you need,” I tell her, turning to face the door.
“N-need?”
“Make sure you add condoms.” I leave her there and enter the bathroom. I piss, gritting my teeth as irritation seeps into my veins.
There’s a buzzing at the back of my skull, harder and harder to ignore the longer I breathe the same air as Stacatto’s whore. I stand before the toilet for minutes. When I wash my hands, a fucking stranger glares at me from the mirror’s surface—some bastard who promised to murder a woman in exchange for a sex tape. Parish will be avenged, all right. I hiss and flick my wet hands in the air, watching drops of water distort my reflection.
When I return to the living room, the bitch is still on the couch.
“I’ll need new un-underwear, I guess,” she says softly. “And c-condoms. And...” She recites her list blankly while her eyes focus on the far wall. “I’ll need...video—” She licks her lips as if the word is too dirty to leave there. “Tapes. S-so I c-can...”
Oh.I nod sharply. She wants to study a porno in action and see what it takes. Again, I don’t know whether to be impressed by the cold, calculating way she’s planned her fiancé’s humiliation or just...disgusted. The man sure did a number on her. The princess knows what’s expected to make her show look real. She’s unafraid. I can see the determination in her gaze from here. It burns like fire, smoldering and quiet.
“And,” she starts, meeting my gaze, “the man...he’ll... I’m a virgin.”
I feel myself frown, and I turn away before she can discern the shock I’m too fucking stupid to hide. A virgin. My eyes find her again and seek that ring out. Vincent’s Stacatto’s virginal little fiancée is willing to dance with the wolves just to keep some part of her out of his reach. It’s sick. It’s twisted.
It’ll make for a good fucking show.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Daniela
Lucifer doesn’t talk much.He leaves me again but returns before I can really notice the silence his absence creates. Under one arm, he’s carrying a laptop—the same one that displayed the video of that girl.
He places it on the coffee table and lifts the lid. There’s a crack jutting through the center of the screen, but the man plugs it in anyway, and it comes on without difficulty. When he circles around to place his hands on the laptop’s keys, I shift over, making room on the couch, but he remains standing. I can’t see what he does or what icons he clicks, but when he steps back to stand beside the couch, there is a website dominating the screen.Girls! Girls! Girls!proclaims the blazing headline that flashes across the header. A small video window floats amid a sea of obscene pictures of nude women in various poses. When Lucifer hits play, the scene opens with a shot of a busty blonde watering the lawn. Spotting the handsome gardener across the yard, she decides to take her skimpy bottoms off. Then...
God.I grit my teeth and dig my nails into my palms. I don’tlook away—I won’t. I shut a part of myself off, and then I take notes. I observe every obscene gesture. Every position and every forced moan. It all seems so fake. The two “leads” spend more time staring at the camera than they do each other. One would think that I wouldn’t need the extra research after all of the “performances” Vinny’s put on for me, but at least these women aren’t writhing in pain and biting their palms to silence their cries. They smile widely. They “ooh” and “aah.” They don’t flinch when the man slaps them on the ass and tells them to take it like a “good, dirty slut.” They manhandle him right back, palming his cock until he winces before attempting to shove it down their throats.
I don’t find any joy in it. No pleasure. When the video ends, Lucifer steps forward to hunt for another, and I find myself watching him more than I do the screen—a selection entitledThe Laddie and the Sexy Tramp.
Does this arouse him, Lucifer? His posture reveals nothing. He stands straight. He doesn’t flex his hips when he’s erect the way Vinny does—if he even is...
After that video ends, he finds another. And yet another. By the tenth clip, my mind swims with vulgar phrases. I’ve seen a cock go into more places on the human body than I’m comfortable with. Silly, nonsensical questions form before I can help it.Anal or vaginal? Missionary or doggy style? Which one would piss Vinny off more?
I’m so caught up on the logistics that I don’t even notice when the laptop screen finally goes black. Lucifer’s been watching me, though I’m not sure for how long. His expression is almost easy to read for once. He thinks I’m disgusted.
I’m determined. “When will it happen?” I ask.
He shrugs. “When—”
There’s a knock on the door. I jump at the sound, but Lucifer’s already across the room.
“Who is it?” he demands in a tone that makes something inside me quake.
“Arno.”
The door opens, revealing the red-haired man.
