Chapter 7- The Devil

I love it when she fucking begs. 

Didn't know I would.

But when she's not; when she's being her sassy, bratty self, it's a whole new thrill on its own. And that foul mouth of hers? I just can't get it off my mind. I can't get her off my mind. 

Yet I never noticed her before. She used to be just as regular and unremarkable as the rest… until today, that is. It's like she transformed post-coma; became someone new… I know for a fact that this new person she is now is bound to give me sleepless nights. And she will suffer for it, because if I have to simmer in the flare of scorching-hot desire, then she's burning too. I'm definitely taking her to hell with me. Yet I know she wants it. Beyond the empty bravado and the way she tries to conceal her obvious attraction, I see it in her eyes. She wants to burn. 

"What did you say?" I give her one last chance to correct herself- plead, because I like it when she does. I give her an opportunity to think her statement through; tell me she was just kidding.

But she doesn't. "I said you're so weak you need women to defend you," she maintains, her voice firm, yet I can see that every other part of her wants to bolt… especially when I head back her way. She actually tries to. 

But before she has a chance to run, I pin her to the wall with my frame. Quite anticlimactic, given that I don't do anything but stare in her eyes. Those damned angel eyes. Fuck.

The twin, grey pools of searing-hot anger screwed me ten times over when I first saw them. And now they're driving me insane. 

"I don't need women to defend me." My voice is so low I can barely hear it over her harsh breathing. "My female assassins- my dolls- are there so they can go where suspicion won't let my men enter, simply because everyone expects them to be weak. I like to exploit assumptions maximally."

Her brows furrow. "So that's what we are? Call girls to be used in drawing out your targets for assassination?"

I scoff. "'Whore' does not even begin to encompass what exactly you are. You are fucking lethal. Powerful. Women who have mastered the art of seduction to a degree that would leave any man a waste; people who know a thousand different ways to stop a beating heart, erase an annoyance from existence." I pause. "So, no, my dolls are not your average call girl."

Her jaw is firm with distinct rebellion despite the fear that dilates her pupils. "Yet you use us like one."

"Because many of my targets are male, and women have something all men crave."

She is almost afraid to ask. "Which is?"

"This." I take her lips in mine, and a surprised sound rolls out of her mouth, soft, raspy, brief like a short prayer. Her hands instinctively rise between us to rest against my chest- desperate, half-hearted barriers. But when I deepen the kiss, a long moan escapes her, and the barriers drop, weak at her sides. 

My tongue continues to probe hers, dancing along its length, stroking her palate as I mouth-fuck her like I have been starved for years. Heaven knows that her tongue is the stuff fantasies are made of… And she keeps up with my pace, tasting like everything from a rollercoaster ride to a trip to the moon and back; addictive like a fucking drug. Desire floods my veins and boils my blood until I can't think straight anymore. Thirteen is all I feel, the taste of her flooding my senses, my mind, and I realize that I might go crazy after all. But by nothing short of pure divine intervention, I'm sure, I manage to pull back. 

She is breathing so hard she looks like she ran a fucking marathon, and her lips are so swollen they could have as well been stung by a bee. I rub them with my thumb, savouring how fucking perfect they are; how arousing the thought of them on my cock is; how they had opened for me in the most beautiful way. "This," I say. "This is what men want. Submission. And they will fall at the feet of whoever can give it to them."

She stares back at me, annoyed, confused and disoriented, her eyes narrowing like she's just figuring out that I had kissed her just to buttress a point. 

She definitely feels used- it shines in her eyes- but she hides it well- her embarrassment; her outrage. "You haven't fallen at my feet yet."

"You haven't submitted yet, Thirteen," I return. "Not really. I tasted sweet surrender on your lips, but every other part of you fights me like I'm your menace. Submission is done willingly."

She folds her arms across her chest, gaze like two sharp blades. "Well that's too bad. I don't know submission."

"Is that an invitation to teach you? Because in those betraying eyes of yours, I see one," I say, earning a glare from her. "Lucky for you, dominance is all I know."

"Like I'm going to let you dominate me."

"I own you, whether you like it or not," I remind her. "Your life is mine to do what I please with. I will fucking dominate you if I wish."

"You will fucking stick to the terms of the contract and keep your kinks to yourself," she says through her teeth. "You're just my employer, not the boss of me. My life is fucking mine to do what I want with; when I want."

Assertive, angry and laden with vitriol, as usual. Yet all that runs through my mind is: 'My kinks? No, Angel. Soon-to-be our kinks.'

The thought has a sardonic grin tugging the corners of my lips. "A car will be here to take you to base in an hour. I fucking dare you to refuse it. If I don't see you at the Dollhouse tomorrow, someone is definitely going to suffer and I sure as hell know that it won't be me."

Outrage shines in her eyes as the words leave my mouth. Of course she finds it unreasonable. "I'm still recovering from a number of injuries and I just got out of a coma."

"And if you don't want me to send you back there, I had better see your ass at training."

Her eyes narrow in annoyance, the embers burning brightly in them as she snaps. "I was stabbed and shot. I suffered a concussion, and the doctor said I might have PTSD-" 

"Then I advise that you stop running your mouth and start recovering," I reply without pity. 

"Fuck you."

"Be careful what you wish for." I just might take you up on it. 

I head for the door, and her silence follows me like a trail. Outside, I see her doctor arriving. The bespectacled woman smiles at me, hands in her huge, lab coat pockets, but I don't return it. 

"I think your patient is ready to be discharged," I tell the woman. "She's well enough." If Thirteen weren't, then her mouth wouldn't be running like a fucking stream. 

"Did she ask to be discharged?" The woman looks surprised. "I personally don't think she is ready to. I was going to put her on observation for at least a week, especially with her blooming PTSD-"

I don't even wait for the end of her reel. "I'll ask someone to come pick Thirteen up in a hour. Don't get in their way," I say simply and head down the hallway. 

"Yes... sir." 

At least this woman reads the room; she knows what is good for her and her job. Thirteen… just likes to test me. And I will fucking enjoy every moment I spend taming her; teaching her manners. 

As I near the lobby, I pull out my phone to call my Head of Operations- one of very numerous cousins from my father's side of the tree. "Raffa."

"Boss." There is a grin in his voice. "You sound like an addict whose fix was stolen. I see you're being your usual, amiable self."

"Take a four-wheel to Springfield Hospital and get Thirteen to the Dollhouse."

"Holy shit. Thirteen's back from the dead."

Apparently.