Page 82 of Vicious Butterfly
As soon as I’m out of the car, I’m accosted by security guards. I’m flanked by two male guards and a tall female guard with a high, black ponytail, who extends her hand. “I’m Jane Takahashi, head of security. It’s nice to meet you, Ryan. We’ll keep you safe.”
“I’m only walking to the damn door,” I mutter.
“Mr. VanCourt said you’d say that. He told me to tell you to get used to it,” she says.
Jane leads me through the brewery, down, down, down, past the murder hockey rink, and down yet more stairs. It’s starting to give dungeon vibes. Tate wouldn’t have a dungeon, would he? Actually, it checks out. And maybe I should be a lot more afraid. Tate has a fucking dungeon lair, he’s obsessed with me, and I told him he can’t have me—chaining me to a dungeon floor would be the logical conclusion for someone like him. But I don’t think that’s what this is.
I hope.
Tate materializes out of the darkness, from another room into this one, and my breath catches. His sleeves are rolled up—that’s becoming a fetish of mine—his dark hair wrecked, wet strands falling over his steel gaze. His brows are narrowed, swooping like majestic and angry wings across his browbone. Sweat runs down his neck. He’s splattered with blood, white button-up stained with it, giving him unhinged artist vibes. His shirt’s undone, tucked in only at the back, his trail of solid abs on display. Something peeks out from chest level. A scar, maybe? I want to push his shirt off him and find out. Find out everything about him.
He spreads his arms as if to saythis is meanddo you want this?
I don’t know whose blood that is, though I bet I could guess. And this small reveal is the tipping point into Tate’s double life. I don’t know what it says about me that Idowant this. I want him. The more fucked up, the better.
I’ll fit right in.
But … I’d only ever be a possession. A prized possession, yes, but still a possession. It’s all Tate’s capable of. What happens when he gets bored?
“Oh, c’mon. You’re not still angry with me, are you?” he says.
“Of course, I am. You didn’t fucking apologize.”
“I know you got my flower. It was very romantic of me.” His eyes shift from dangerous to a softer form of rugged. He takes slow steps closer, like a cat sneaking up on its prey. Only I can see him, every step, and I don’t run. But I do back up until I hit the wall, Tate’s sweaty chest rising and falling as he looms over me. “You can leave us, Jane.”
He never looks at her when he speaks, gaze focused on me as if nothing else exists.
“Yes, sir.”
A door shuts. I’m locked down here with him. The world leagues above us. No one would ever find me. My heart jack rabbits in the confines of its cage, otherwise known as the ribs. And Tate is the cage around the rest of me.
“Every day without you is torture,” he says, voice raspy, filled with desperation. “Let me taste you.”
I turn my head, offering my neck, and his lips press there, trailing up my jaw. I’m powerless, but in a different way than I was with Kline. Every cell in my body begs me to give in as wave after wave of arousal reaches my groin. I hear his breath, all needy and wanting, like the world can burn for all he cares—he has what he wants.
I like that kind of power. It might be the only one I’ll ever have over Tate.
A foot sweeps under my ankle, and strong arms coax my legs around his waist. I squeeze them around his torso for stability, and he spins, carrying me over to … what is this place? I was too focused on him—as usual—to look around. He sets me atop what would be a kitchen island if this were a kitchen, a long slab of marble set on a cabinet of cupboards and drawers, but this isn’t a kitchen.
It’s an arsenal. An armory room.
We’re surrounded by wall after wall of scary-looking firearms and other sharp weapons. It’s a showcase. They’re even backlit,behind panes of glass. Holy shit. It’s enough for an army. Axes, knives, nunchucks…
“Swords?”
“I’ll show you all my pretties later.”
He attempts to distract me with his lips again, but my eye catches on a handgun that seems to stand out from the rest, on top of a wooden pedestal. It has a pearlescent handle; the barrel polished to gleaming perfection. Below is a name plaque.
“Pearl?”
“You’ll meet her later, too,” he says, gripping under my chin, attempting to press his lips to mine.
“Tate,” I say, pulling away. “Am I the equivalent of Pearl to you? Another pretty thing you’ve added to your collection?”
He has the look of a man who’s caught out. “Does it really matter? I take excellent care of Pearl.”
“I’m aperson, Tate.” But he slides those sensual lips of his over the spot on my neck, and maybe I don’t care about being a person anymore. They reach my lips, and that sets me off. A jolt of pleasure, bucking my hips, seeking connection, something to rub my aching cock against.
