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The Blacksmith Who Hammered Too Hot: Part 15
Huling Na-update:
2025-09-17 08:00:36The dragon’s core burned where the old crystal used to sit, pulsing faintly, stubborn, demanding.
I gripped Lachlan’s hilt, feeling the edge hum against my palm. Half of him was still a sword, but I knew, he wasn’t done. Not until the core was full, not until I had him back in human form.I tightened my grip. “Come on… work with me,” I muttered. Every word was half prayer, half growl. I didn’t care if anyone heard. Didn’t care if I sounded insane.All that mattered was him. My obsession, my fire, everything funneled into getting him back.The first quest was low-level, goblins again, but that didn’t matter. Every strike, every swing of the blade against their skulls, every blood spray, it all pulsed into the core.I felt Lachlan shiver, faint hum of him answering my hands, faint pull in my chest. It wasn’t lust this time. Not really.I crouched, watching the last goblin crumple under Lachlan’s edge. “You feel that, don’t you?”
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Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 7
The basement of Russo Tower buzzed with the hum of wealth and deceit. The auction for the stolen Volkov cars was a glittering charade, the air thick with cigar smoke and the clink of champagne flutes. Natasha Petrova, the Volkovs’ deadly second-in-command, had slipped in like a viper, her lithe frame draped in a crimson dress that clung to every curve. Her target was Raul Mendoza, a Colombian drug lord with a weakness for sharp women and sharper highs. Natasha had worked him for weeks, first a chance meeting at a rival club, then nights of calculated seduction. She’d fucked him senseless in his penthouse, riding his cock with expert rolls of her hips, her moans practiced but convincing, until he was hooked, begging for her touch, spilling secrets with every thrust. Now, he’d smuggled her into the auction as his plus-one, oblivious to her true allegiance.The auctioneer’s gavel cracked, bids climbing into the millions. Custom
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 6
The city’s underworld churned with blood and ambition, and Vincent Russo’s empire, though ironclad, wasn’t the only beast prowling the streets. Across the river, in the industrial sprawl of the city’s eastern docks, the Volkov family held court, a Russian mafia dynasty as ruthless as they were cunning. Led by Dmitri Volkov, a bear of a man with a shaved head, ice-blue eyes, and a penchant for carving his initials into traitors’ flesh, the Volkovs had been gnawing at Russo’s territories for years. Their feud was a slow-burning war, fueled by old betrayals and new greed, and the gunfire that grazed Vincent’s shoulder was no random hit, it bore the Volkovs’ signature.Dmitri Volkov was born in Moscow in 1978, during the Soviet Union’s twilight. His father, Ivan, was a KGB enforcer turned Bratva kingpin, smuggling everything from vodka to AK-47s through the chaos of perestroika. Dmitri grew up in a world of barbed wire and backr
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 5
The door to Chris's private room creaked open later than usual that night, the clock ticking past 2 a.m. Chris, chained to the headboard as always, lifted his head from the pillow, his heart skipping a beat despite himself. Vincent staggered in, his usual predatory grace faltering. Blood stained his white shirt, a dark bloom spreading from his shoulder. He clutched at it, his face pale under the dim lamp light, sweat beading on his forehead. "Fuck," he muttered, slamming the door shut behind him.Chris froze, watching from the bed. Part of him, the part that remembered the initial brutality, the forced indenture, wanted to smirk, to let the bastard suffer. But as Vincent hissed in pain, peeling off his jacket with gritted teeth, something twisted in Chris's chest. Worry? No, it couldn't be. "What happened?" he asked, his voice softer than intended, chains rattling as he sat up."None of your dam
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 4
Chris awoke to the cold bite of steel around his wrists, the chains rattling softly as he shifted on the king-sized bed. The private room was a far cry from the basement dungeon, plush carpets, silk sheets, and a massive en-suite bathroom with marble fixtures, but it was still a cage. The chains were bolted to the headboard, long enough to let him shuffle to the toilet or sink if nature called, but not far enough to reach the locked door. Vincent's doing, of course. The mafia boss had "upgraded" him after that first brutal claiming, muttering something about keeping his new asset comfortable. Comfortable? Chris snorted, tugging at the restraints. They dug into his skin, a constant reminder of his indenture. Five years of running, and now he was Vincent Russo's personal fucktoy.By day, Vincent ruled his empire with an iron fist. Meetings in boardrooms that doubled as war rooms, barking orders to underlings who trembled
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 3
Vincent Russo was forged in the fires of Sicily's ancient vendettas, transplanted to the concrete jungles of New York City when he was just a boy. Born in Palermo in 1985, under a blood moon that the old nonnas whispered was an omen of power and peril, Vincent was the firstborn son of Giovanni Russo, a mid-level caporegime in the Cosa Nostra. Giovanni had clawed his way up from the slums, marrying into minor nobility through Vincent's mother, Isabella, a stunning beauty with raven hair and eyes like polished obsidian, whose family traced back to feudal lords. But nobility meant nothing in the mafia; loyalty and brutality were the true currencies.Vincent's earliest memories were of gunpowder and garlic. At five, he watched from the shadows as his father executed a traitor in their villa's courtyard, a single shot to the head, blood pooling on the terracotta tiles. "This is family, Vincenzo," Giovanni growled, wiping the pist
Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire The Mafia Boss' Favorite Toy: Part 2
Chris Jackson wasn't always a ghost in the shadows, slipping through the cracks of the city's underbelly like smoke. Born in the gritty outskirts of Chicago, he grew up in a crumbling rowhouse that smelled of stale beer and regret. His father, a washed-up boxer named Mallory Jackson, had once dreamed of glory in the ring but settled for breaking jaws in back-alley brawls for the local mob. Mallory's temper was legendary, fists flying over spilled drinks or imagined slights, and Chris bore the scars of it from a young age. Bruised ribs from "tough love," a crooked nose from the night Mallory caught him sneaking out at fourteen. "Life's a fight, kid," Mallory would slur, reeking of whiskey. "Hit first or get buried."Chris's mother, Elena, was the fragile counterpoint, a former dancer who'd traded pirouettes for waiting tables at a dingy strip club. She loved her son fiercely, shielding him from the worst of Mallory's rages, b
