THE DEVIL AND HIS ASSASSIN

Raven's POV 

I had always fantasized about being tied up by a masked man and fucked into oblivion. 

The aesthetic was crucial; silk restraints, maybe a velvet blindfold, and a whole lot of wicked promises whispered against my skin. It was supposed to be the that curated danger that made my skin pulse race for all the right reasons.

But this? This was a nightmare dressed like a badly executed fantasy.

I was tied up, sure, but the ropes cut into my wrists, biting hard enough to make me wince instead of whimper. The mask hiding his face wasn’t seductive; it was soulless. And the look in his eyes told me he didn’t want to make me scream with pleasure. He wanted to make me scream, period.

He hadn't gagged me, which told me everything I needed to know. He was an audience-driven amateur. He wanted the screams. He wanted the pleading. Every sound I swore I wouldn't make in a million years.

And maybe that’s why I stayed quiet. Because if I was going to die here, I’d be damned if I gave him the satisfaction. I was was going out silent, classy even. But best believe, before I did, I was making this rotten excuse of human bleed.

"Where is my sister?" My voice came out raw, scraped thin by the rage and grief that had lived inside me for a year and a half. I knew she was gone; I wasn’t delusional. I had the receipt, after all—a box carrying her severed head with half-decayed skin slipping from the bone, delivered a year ago.

​What I never got was the rest of her. I'd spent the last twelve months crawling through morgues and ditches, essentially doing this freak's cleanup for him. Every single trail had run cold.

​He laughed. A low, cold sound that slithered through the shadows and settled deep inside me.

​I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. I wanted to spit on him, wanted to claw his face until it wasn’t a face anymore and make him feel the fear and pain she had suffered. But the ropes held me tight, biting into my wrists and forcing me into stillness.

"What did you do to her?" The words ripped out of me before I could stop them. Pointless, maybe, but necessary. 

"What I’m about to do to you." Came the calm reply.

For a moment, everything sank into a suffocating silence. My gut screamed to move, to fight, to kill—but the ropes held me down as terror curled cold and alive in my chest. 

The floor creaked. 

He was moving towards me.

​Before I could suck in a full breath, something icy pressed against my forehead.

​A gun.

He didn’t say a word, just shoved the barrel harder into my skin, bruising me in the process.

Then it slid down.

​The steel traced my temple like a lover’s touch, slow enough to make me twitch. It skimmed the edge of my jaw, then my lips. The barrel pressed between my lips, prying them open just enough for him to feel the tremor I didn’t mean to give him.

The bastard fucking chuckled. 

​"You’re shaking," he muttered. "Didn’t take you for the nervous type."

"I’m not fucking nervous." I forced the words past the steel, my voice steady despite the hammer of my pulse. "The only thing I'm worried about is how much of your pathetic blood is going to stain my clothes when I get free."

That earned me another low laugh that crawled under my skin and set every hair on edge. "Feisty. I like it." The gun dragged lower, past my throat where my pulse hammered down the line of my collarbone, between my breasts... and went lower.

Then it stopped. 

Right at the waistband of my leather skirt.

My stomach clenched, a cold dread pooling in my gut. My hands burned from the ropes digging into my wrists and every assassin instinct in me screamed to snap his fucking neck for even thinking about touching me there.

But my blood was singing something else entirely.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice rougher than I had intended because I needed to hear him say something. Anything.

"What does it feel like I’m doing?" His tone was lazy and mocking. I could practically smell the smirk.

The muzzle slipped under my skirt, the cold metal brushing my thighs. My breath hitched, not entirely from fear and every nerve in my body screamed at me in warning. 

I jerked against the ropes, but they didn’t budge.

​"You like playing with guns?" I hissed. "Let me loose and I’ll show you how the big girls use them, you sick fuck."

"You are a funny little thing," he murmured, almost casually. "You sound so fucking brave but your pulse…" The muzzle tapped twice against my skin like a cruel little knock. "…says otherwise."

I clenched my teeth so hard I tasted blood. "Go ahead. Pull the trigger, you spineless piece of shit. What are you waiting for?"

He pressed the gun harder into my thighs and I hissed at the sudden pain. That earned me a soft hiss from him which sounded more amused than angry. "Careful, sweetheart. I’m trying to decide if I like your mouth better when it’s running… or when it’s full."

He bent close, so close that I could feel his warm breath.

I hated how shallow my breaths became; how every inhale betrayed my attempt to stay composed. I hated that he’d notice.

And then he pushed the gun forward. 

Right where no man should ever point a weapon.

I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the heat pooling below my belly. My entire being screamed at him to stop, and yet… a dark, wicked part of me couldn’t deny the thrill coursing through me.

"You twitch like a fucking rabbit," his voice rasped near my ear. "Are you scared? Or perhaps...excited?"

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging how right he was. The gun's cold steel dragged along my inner thigh, making me shudder and clench my muscles. He rewarded my unintentional obedience by pressing the barrel against my clothed sex with a gentle pressure.

Slowly and maddeningly, he began to rub the gun against me through the thin barrier of my panties. Up and down, a steady rhythm that had my hips rolling involuntarily. Fuck. It felt amazing and infuriating all at once. My head fell back as I succumbed to the sensation as he worked me over until my whole body was tight as a bowstring, teetering on the edge of orgasm.

Somewhere between my moans and his grunts I heard the click of the safety disengaging. My eyes slammed shut, my teeth bit into a moan as I came so hard and then he pulled the trigger.

BANG. 

I shot upright in bed drenched in sweat my heart trying to break out of my chest. My fingers were still clutched for a phantom gun that wasn’t there as I gasped hysterically.

"Holy fuck," I whispered, pressing a trembling hand to my mouth. Just a dream. Just a goddamn dream.

I shifted on the sweat-damp sheets, my skin still thrumming from that... unreal scene.

Jesus. I'd had some wild dreams before, but that one took the fucking cake. Of all the filthy shit my subconscious could conjure up, it had to go and give me a goddamn gun fetish. With my archnemesis, no less. 

My sister's murderer. The man I'd vowed to kill.

I scrubbed a hand down my face, trying to erase the phantom sensations still buzzing under my skin. The cold press of metal, his rasping voice in my ear... 

No. Don't go there.

I’d dreamed about him before. Mostly me gutting him like a fish and tossing the pieces to the pigs. Sometimes I pictured him hanging by his balls from the tallest tree I could find, writhing, screaming, begging, until he met a thoroughly undignified end. But tonight… this dream was different.

And it pissed me the fuck off.

Because somehow, in the middle of all the fear and rage, I’d been… turned on. Not just a little. Enough to make me squirm in my sleep. Which was ridiculous and sick.

​Maybe it was the obsession. Twelve months of planning, hunting, and coming up empty every time. Twelve months of wanting to see the face behind Haley’s death. Maybe it was the crushing frustration finally warping my mind. Or maybe it was just the small, sick thrill of knowing that tonight, I might finally get my shot.

He was the Mafia Lord of  Sokolov Syndicate, the most dangerous Bratva in New York's underworld. He was always surrounded by killers who'd snap me in half. That terror, that total lack of control, must have been what made my blood run hot and made my body betray my brain.

It had to be.

​I would be lying if I said I wasn't  scared. But scared didn’t mean failure. It meant my blood was running, my fight was primed, and I had zero room for error and absolutely nothing left to lose.

​I was going to burn away that humiliating sensation and scrub the memory of his breath from my very soul. I wouldn't let his monstrous cruelty exist in my head or in the real world one second longer.

Not tonight.

​Not until I see the light drain from his eyes. Not until his blood is on my hands. And not until my sister's death is finally avenged.

​He was going to die. 

And I was going to be the one to do it.