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The serum Martin coated her wine glass with put her to sleep for a few hours. And the sedative I injected her with fifteen minutes ago will keep her out until we’re home.
My home, that is. My secret stronghold for the last ten years or so, from which I’ve struck at my enemies from the shadows, setting things in motion to destroy those who would have destroyed me.
Ironically, Elba, the Italian island off the coast of Piombino in southern Tuscany, is the very island where Napoleon was once exiled, when the world and his own government feared his power.
My home is on a small island off Elba, a small piece of the world drifting away into the Tyrrhenian Sea.
It’s where my family died.
There’ve been times when I’ve wondered what drove me to rebuild the seat of my empire in a place overlooking the very graves of those who were taken from me. Nostalgia? Perhaps. An unbroken love for my lost family? Of course.
But also… Anger is a powerful motivator. Rage fuels vengeance like nothing else.
I buried my family the morning after the massacre, digging in the dirt with my bare hands and whatever tools I could salvage from the charred wreckage to give my lost loved ones a simple, modest burial.
But years afterward, when I finally returned, I had the whole site of the former house cleared. The graves I’d dug were long gone by then, lost to regrowth. In their place I planted a small, wooded glade, and surrounded the whole thing with a high fence and a locked gate.
I had my new home built on the other side of the little island, turning the overgrown, crumbling ruins of an old palazzo my sister and I used to climb on as children into a sprawling new mansion.
That’s where we’re heading now. That’s where I’ll keep her.
Bind her.
Ruin her.
I pull my gaze from the window of the private plane back to the redhead slumped in the seat across from me. A lock of fire drapes across her sleeping cheek. My eyes trace the soft curve of her lips, the delicate cleft leading up to a petite, slender nose where her glasses are perched. The flush on her slightly freckled cheeks.
The flutter behind her closed eyes as she dreams, perhaps. The long lashes and the soft, delicate brows.
She’s beautiful.
Instantly, my face sours as the thought enters my brain.
I categorically refuse to acknowledge the beauty of her face, the soft, athletic curves of her slender frame. The swell of the breasts that I know firsthand the feel of, remembering the eager way her pale pink nipples tightened and pebbled under my rough touch.
The slickness between her thighs. The silken feel of her messy little pussy, begging me for more.
I rip my gaze away to stab it out the window at the darkness of the Atlantic.
No. She’s not a potential plaything. She will not be an outlet for my depraved desires and my dark urges.
Even though she’s SUCH a willing partner.
Compliant. Eager.
Hungry.
With a blackness inside that matches my own?—
No.
I haven’t gone to all the trouble of drugging her, kidnapping her and bringing her to my lair across the ocean to fuck her. I’ve done it to destroy her, as she destroyed me. If my dick has other ideas, he can go fuck himself.
I glance back at her sleeping form: at the strap of her dress slipping off one creamy shoulder. At the riot of red falling down one side of her face and onto the opposite shoulder.
At the pebbled points of her nipples through her gown. At the way it rides up her smooth, long legs.
I stand and grab a blanket out of an overhead compartment. Without fanfare, I turn and toss it over her.
