Page 33 of Taint My Soul

This is exactly the conversation I’ve avoided so many times.

I’m focusing on building the empire. I’m doing what’s best for the family.

In this moment, this is what’s important to the syndicate.

A marriage.

“Who do you have in mind?” My jaw tightens with unsaid words. If father knew who I truly am, if he found out that I hadn’t killed the weak man in me, he’d carve me apart not just with his words, but with everything he has.

“She’s the only daughter and heir of the Royal Empire. The leading fashion company in this country. They are billionaires, son.” He chuckles behind the phone.

Every form of alliance for my father is a bid for power-play. A bid to expand the influence he has in the underworld. In this situation, I am not his son; I’m a tool for this bid. A Pawn dressed up as a King. And I have no choice but to give him exactly what he wants.

No more running. Just following the path already set in stone for you. That has always been the original plan.

Being brave. Being brutal. Being a man.

“Yes, Father. I would love to meet up with her.” I say.

“Great. Family Breakfast. This Thursday. Be prompt.”

That’s just less than three days from now.

“I will be there.” I hum the response with practiced ease.

“Okay, son.” He says before he hangs up.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MASON

The door creaks behind me, and tension sparks like a live wire in the room. I’m sitting on the bed, waiting for him. For a second, I thought he wouldn’t make it, that I wouldn’t have to experience the horror of having him take and take from me without giving anything back. But he’s here now. My breath drags slowly and unsteadily, and a spark flickers across his expression, gone in a blink.

I don’t say a word.

I don’t move.

Because I don’t know what to do in this scenario.

Here and the office are completely different.

Here, he controls me. He takes what he wants from me because we have a legally binding contract. A contract I was forced to sign.

When he puts his jacket on the chaise lounge, he winces and stares at his open palm.

He’s bleeding.

I inhale sharply, unable to take my eyes off the cut in his hand as something in me breaks open.

“You are hurt,” I whisper.

“It’s just a cut.” He grunts without meeting my gaze. I move toward him, uncertain if I should even approach or touch him.

My fingers feel his skin and dance close to the laceration. Right now, I’m touching him because I want to. Not out of some fucking duty I owe to the Godfather. His breathing loses its steady rhythm, chest rising harder with each breath. I expect him to pull away, to push back, and remind me that he gives the command and I follow.

Those are the rules.

Simple and easy.