Page 35 of Bloody Savage God
As she should.
To her credit she doesn’t ask the obvious, instead, she jabs the knife forward and presses it to my neck, right above my carotid artery.
Not ideal.
“Why did you go to Club Steel?” she asks, and I’m almost relieved she is finally asking the right kind of questions.
“Because I wanted to see you.”
The narrowing of her eyes is the only reaction I get. She’s staying silent, probably hoping I’ll feel the need to fill the void in the conversation. Which I don’t.
“And why is that?” she finally prompts, looking annoyed at my lack of reaction.
I smirk at her, hyper aware of the pain under my nails and the knife at my throat, though somehow those sensations aren’t quite the same when she’s glaring at me like this. “Happens I think you’re fucking hot and I don’t like wasting my time with virginal maidens who don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.”
A small noise escapes Gianna, and if I didn’t know better I might have thought it was a snort.
Except then her knife moves down my body, not quite slicing through my skin but definitely leaving a scrape that trails down all the way to where my junk is in a confused state of semi-arousal.
Gianna comes to the same realization and her eyebrows lift. “You really areMike. This is getting you off.” There is a bit of incredulity in her tone, but also something else. Something more carnal.
I avoid any snarky remarks, given the location of her knife. I once saw someone in a mall wear a shirt that read‘Be nice, neutering is part of my job’with a vet symbol beneath it, and I have a looming suspicion that Gianna wouldn’t be past trying her hand at it, too. Except, I’m not into puppy play.
“Shouldn’t you focus on the other, slightly more relevant, realization that this little reveal should bring with it?” I prompt her.
She lifts her head to stare me down. “You didn’t kill my father.”
All I do is nod. Reminding her that she was going full dominatrix on my balls while her father was murdered might not go over too well.
Gianna
It wasn’t the Russians. That much I’m sure about now. But what the fuck I’m supposed to do withMikeis a whole other matter.
Before my father’s death, the answer would have been easy. Fuck his brains out and then forget it ever happened. Preferably in Club Steel, on neutral territory.
Now?
Well, the Bratva doesn’t consider torturing one of their own a minor offense. To the contrary. They’ve been known to put hits out on anyone who crosses that line with one of their men. Which means I’m screwed. After all, I picked Mikhail up at one of the Bratva bars, leaving behind the guy he was with.
Not subtle.
Unfortunately, that means it’s time for some back-up, and not the internal sort.
Except, something about having Mike—Mikhail—bound in my dungeon, my initial still carved in his chest, is exactly the distraction I need after the emotional roller coaster from the funeral. The realization of why someone might need to embrace pain to achieve release from the pressures they experience is still fresh in my mind. Only for me it’s always been giving pain. Making others hurt and seeing them take the agony I can pass on.
It solves problems. Gets rid of stress. Keeps me safe and sane.
And really, this entire situation is already so fucked up, this won’t tip the scale.
Maybe.
Whatever the case, I deserve a fucking break right now. AndMikeis obviously up for what I plan to dish out.
I use the carpet knife to slice through his pants, feeling elation at his sharp intake of breath. It doesn’t even matter if he’s nervous or aroused. Both are fine now. He is still Russian trash, but he didn’t kill my father, so there is nothing keeping me from using him now.
Pulling aside the shreds of his pants, I see his cock half-erect.
“What, suddenly you’re too weak to get it up?”
