Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (87 page)

He scowled. "Too late to back
out now, woman." Grabbing my hand, he placed it roughly around his thick,
hard
massive
cock. I had no experience to go on, but he would
never
fit inside me. He wouldn’t fit inside any woman.

"Shut up and stroke me."

I opened my mouth, unable to form
words. "It can’t—there’s no way—"

In a lightning fast move, he jerked
his finger from my core, smearing my dampness on my cheek as he pinched me
hard. "You’re out of excuses, Ms. Weaver. You were the one who started
this. You’re the one who rode my fucking finger as if you’d never come before."
His voice dropped to a dark whisper. "So shut up, wrap those little
fingers around my cock and stroke me, otherwise I swear to God I’ll throw you
on your hands and knees and fuck your tight little cunt right here."

My heart lurched; terror pinged in
my blood. There wouldn’t be anything erotic about that. It would hurt. He would
split me in two.

Biting my lip, I cupped the exposed
head, spreading the sticky residue at the top down his hot shaft. Locking eyes
with Jethro, I pushed my hand into his boxers, following his long, long length.

His eyes snapped closed as my timid
fingers latched round him. "Fuuuuck," he groaned. His forehead
smashed against mine, hips pulsating into my hand. "Stop taunting me.
Harder, goddammit."

That was asking for the impossible.
I couldn’t get my fingers to connect around his girth. My grip was useless around
the throbbing heat—the only hot part of him. Holding my breath, I wrapped my
hold as hard as I could.

Jethro grunted. "Squeeze it.
Stop being a fucking tease. Was I teasing you?" His hand suddenly
disappeared up my dress again, his middle finger thrusting so hard and quick
inside me, he sent a galaxy of stars exploding behind my eyes.

Then he glided upward, smearing the
wetness around my clit. My legs tried to scissor closed; all my attention shot
between my legs.

I went rigid. Having him touch me
inside was amazing. Having him rub that small bundle of nerves was
incredible.

"Return the favour, Ms.
Weaver. Make me come. Right here. Right now. And I'll drive you so wild you’ll
beg and never want anyone else."

Coming. The blissful end of sex.
Was that what the sharp sensation was? Growing tighter and tighter in my core?
If it was, I wanted to come.

Badly.

Winding my fingers as tight as
possible around his girth, I squeezed until a jagged pain erupted down my palm.
I didn’t have the strength. I didn’t know what to do. Did I just squeeze and
let him thrust into my hand? What else was I supposed to do?

With a low growl, Jethro stopped
stroking my clit. He turned to granite. "
That’s
your idea of making
me come?"

I swallowed, jerking my hand away,
dropping my eyes. The thrill of being touched and touching faded, rapidly
replaced with despair. "I’m—yes…uh."

"For fuck’s sake."
Rolling his eyes, he removed his hand from between my legs and stepped back.
With a grunt, he yanked his trousers back into place, but not before I caught a
glimpse of just how huge his cock was. It was flawlessly straight, veiny,
silky, so proud and rigid—just like its owner.

It terrified me.

I didn’t need to be a virgin or a
world renowned slut to know there was no way he would fit inside me. No law on
this planet would make me welcome his size.

"Fuck, what was I thinking?
You’re useless. Completely fucking useless." Buckling his belt, he ran his
hands through his hair, smearing the lingering wetness from me through his
silvering strands. "
Huge
disappointment, Ms. Weaver." His cold
glare sent a snowstorm wiping away the bonfire in my belly. "I’m done
playing games, so cut the bullshit. Time to begin the day." His voice gave
no room for interpretation. A cold draft shot down my back.

My brief reprieve from debts and
horrible Hawks was over. I’d been shown something I desperately wanted, but was
denied it because I failed to please him.

"You could teach me…show me
how…" I couldn’t make eye contact with him. Mortification painted my
cheeks for both admitting I was clueless and asking a monster to coach me.

Jethro laughed. "You think
that will save you from what’s coming? Was that your little plan? To make me
fuck you in the hopes I might
feel
something for you?" He shook his
head. "I’m not teaching you anything—especially how to jerk me off. As you
told me once—Google that shit—but it won’t do you any good, because next time…I
won’t need your hand to come."

My breath caught in my throat.

My heart hung heavy and I shivered.
The sun crept behind a cloud, leaving us in haunting shadows.

Jethro stood glaring, the outline
of his erection visible in his jeans. But there was no hint of the lust he’d
suffered, or the passion that blazed between us only seconds before. His
unfeeling eyes burned a hole straight into my soul, condemning me for my past
treasons and present failures. The longer he stared, the more he undermined my
carefully built fortress.

I couldn’t stand the intensity any
longer. The humiliation of standing there unwanted, slightly used, and entirely
frustrated. With shaking hands, I smoothed down my dress and pushed away from
the wall. Without a word, I flicked my hair over my shoulder and skirted around
him. With confident steps, I left him behind, heading toward the manor.

He’ll chase. He’ll hunt.

I expected to land on my face from
a carefully planned strike. I waited for vertigo to steal my quiet assurance
and spiral me to the ground. But nothing happened.

Jethro didn’t pounce, and I didn’t
fall.

I was steady for the first time in
my life. My body behaved.

My world continued even though I’d
been thrown off my axis and into a brand new realm. A realm where sex beckoned
like the Holy Grail and my self-hatred magnified a thousand fold.

My empty stomach threatened to
steal the remaining strength in my limbs, but I kept going, ignoring my body’s
protests, walking like a good little pet to the slaughter.

I didn’t think I was about to enjoy
my penance of being a Weaver.

Balling my hands, I made a promise.
A promise I hoped would grant me strength for the coming days.

They can’t touch me. I’m not
Nila or Threads. I’m done being weak.

My heart swelled as I crested the
hill, staring at Hawksridge Hall in all its glory. In that moment, I shed my
kitten baby-fur and embraced a new pelt. One that filled me with fight. One
that embraced the elongating claws I’d begun to grow.

I was no longer protected by tigers
but forced to become one.

I’m Needle, and I will survive.

CONTROL.

I loved it.

I wielded it.

I
owned
it.

But that little Weaver whore broke
my control, turning me into nothing more than a sex-driven idiot. She’d made me
throw my decorum, calmness, and carefully laid plans out the goddamn window.

Her timid fingers. Her fluttering
breaths. They’d been more of a turn on than the most experienced of lovers. She
was so fucking pure she choked on a halo.

And to fucking ask me to
teach
her?
Granting me power by evolving this virginal creature into anything I damn well
wanted?

It was temptation.

It was not fucking permitted.

She was mine to take from. Mine to
share.

I refused to train her, because in
the end
I
would be the one delivering the killing blow. She wouldn’t
succeed in dragging me into whatever game she played.

I breathed hard, even now
struggling to find my beloved coldness. I needed an icy shower.
I need to
teach her a fucking lesson—that’s what I need.

A knock snapped my head up. I spun
in place, trading the view of the front gardens to glare at my father. The man
who’d taught me how to be the master of my emotions. How to rein in the uncouth
part of ourselves and be ruthless with silence. He’d taught me the most—beaten
me the most—and I was his favourite.

Thank God there were no cameras by
the stables—if he saw how far I fell, his disappointment would bring repercussions.
Big repercussions.

My father popped his head into the
‘Buzzard Room’ named for the hand-stencilled wallpaper of hunting buzzards and
the mounted carcasses of ducks, swans, and small birds.

It was also the room I’d picked for
Nila. This would be her quarters—a room stinking of death and decay.

She’d somehow won the lesson I
wanted to teach her at the kennels. She’d managed to make me trade control for
the promise of sex. It had worked.

It. Would. Not. Work. Again.

I pitied her really. She’d shown me
so much in that brief moment. She was hungry. She was hidden. And she was so
damn vulnerable it made me smile to think of her illusions. She thought she
could outsmart us.

Us?

Diamond merchants, biker royalty,
and proven masters of the Weaver’s fate.

Stupid,
stupid
girl.

I nodded at my father. "Cut."

His grey goatee bristled. "Bring
her into the dining room when she’s ready. Everyone’s gathered." He puffed
on a giant cigar, wearing a tweed waistcoat and trousers complete with a
leather jacket from the Black Diamonds. He looked an enigma of motorcycle world
and English aristocracy.

I nodded again.

He left without a goodbye, and I
moved to sit on the seventeenth century hand-carved brooding chair. A chair
made for men and only men. Complete with ashtray, newspaper stand, and heavy,
dark brocade designed with our family crest.

Ten minutes later, the door to the
ensuite bathroom opened, revealing a freshly showered Nila. Her long black hair
draped like ink staining her naked shoulders. She looked younger, innocent
without the heavy makeup smeared from last night. Her eyes were bigger, like
black unhappy pools whilst her skin glowed a natural dusky tan.

I’d seen her in magazines. I’d run
a fingertip over her snapshot in the fashion columns, but never found her
attractive. She didn’t have breasts. She always stood like a fading shadow next
to her brother and looked too prim and stuck up.

She was nothing to me.

Then why did I almost come while
fingering her?

My mouth watered, remembering the
wildness lurking beneath that up-tight-virgin bluff.

I swallowed, battling the blood
rushing to my dick. The way she rode my hand—fuck.

Then I laughed. Out loud.

Waving at her tiny hands clutching
the towel, I said, "I see your fingers are capable of holding something."
My head cocked. "Do I need to remind you what a disappointment earlier
was?"

She was nothing to me before, and
she would remain nothing to me. And after this afternoon, there would be no way
in hell she’d ever let me touch her again.

Which was perfect, because the next
time wouldn’t be for pleasure. It would be for pain. And permission would take
the fun away.

She froze, locking her knees. The
heavy cloud when she suffered a stupid balance attack swirled in their brown
depths. Sucking in a breath, she said quietly, "No, you don’t. You’ve told
me countless of times. You’ve made me very aware of what you think of me, and
I’m sick of hearing it."

Pushing away the newspaper stand, I
took my time glancing down her body.

She didn’t fidget or blush, which
pissed me off. I wanted her nervous. I wanted her terrified of what was to
come.

I stood up slowly, clicking my
tongue. "Ah, ah, ah, Ms. Weaver. Don’t take that tone with me. You’re the
failure.
You’re
the prisoner. You take what I give you. You do not
assume to have any say or authority. That includes listening to everything I
deem important to tell you." Ghosting to a stop in front of her, I
murmured, "Is that quite understood?"

I flexed my muscles, welcoming back
the soothing chillness of control. I hadn’t liked stepping outside my confines
of civility. Things got messy when silence was disrupted. Things got rushed
when tempers rose and curses flowed.

And I didn’t want to rush her
undoing. I wanted to savour it. Devour it.

Running a fingertip along her damp
shoulder, I smiled at her flinch. "Did you do as I asked and wash your
filth away?"

Her lips pursed, anger glowing in
her eyes. But she swallowed it down, muting the light. "Yes."

"Did you leave your pussy
alone? No trying to finish what I started?"

Her head hung a little lower. "Yes."

My finger followed the contour of
her shoulder, tracing down her arm. She stood silently, hiding the wild
creature from before, depicting quiet sexuality and vulnerability. My mouth
watered again, but it wasn’t with need to shove her against the wall and drive
my dick inside that tight, tight cunt. No, it was because I’d never made
someone with her skin colour bleed. Would her blood be darker? Would it be a
rich chocolate like her eyes?

I knew her family tree. I’d studied
it in preparation. Her bloodlines weren’t pure—there was mixed race in her
past. A blend of Spanish and English. Another reason why Hawks were better. We
were one hundred percent English stock. Unsullied.

Nila looked into my eyes. Her skin
broke out in goosebumps. "Stop whatever you’re doing and let me get
dressed. Where are my clothes?" She clutched the silver towel harder,
hiding everything but her longer than average legs and tiny feet. "I need
to charge my phone. I want my suitcase."

I didn’t bother caring who’d she’d
texted last night to drain her battery. There would be no cavalry coming to her
rescue—of that I was completely sure. "You’ll receive your belongings if
you please us."

"Us?"

Stepping back, I smoothed my shirt,
taking my time in delivering the truth. I hoped she’d move away—run even—after
all, I was a hunter at heart. But she locked her knees again, standing firm on
the thick mahogany carpet.

"Yes. Us." Holding out my
palm, I waited. "Take my hand."

She hesitated, hoisting her towel
higher, her tiny fist jammed against her small breasts.

I looked forward to making her
obey, but then the aloofness I’d briefly witnessed in the kennels came over her
features—blotting out the fire, turning her into an obedient robot.

Slowly she did as I requested,
placing her slightly damp hand in mine.

The moment I had her, I marched
across the bedroom floor. She gasped, jerked into motion, her legs darting to
keep up. Silently, I wrenched open the door and stalked down the huge corridor,
past shields and lances and crossbows, to the end of the bachelor wing where
the Black Diamond brotherhood met once a week in a club meeting called the
Gemstone.

This afternoon, it wasn’t business
being discussed. It was Nila.

This was her welcome luncheon.

A tradition unbroken for hundreds
of years. An esteemed event that all our brethren knew and immensely enjoyed.

The day they all sample a
Weaver.

Slamming my palm against the double
doors, I jerked Nila into the room. She wheeled to a stop, her face losing its
colour in favour of snowy white. I searched her features for fear. I hunted for
terror, but I only witnessed blank resignation.

Turning away from her, I focused on
what she couldn’t look away from.

Men.

Twenty-seven to be exact. Some
smooth faced and young, others bearded and old. Some rich and well-spoken,
others destitute and filthy. But they all had something in common. They
belonged to the Diamonds and were our most trusted employees. Flaw, Fracture,
and Cushion weren’t present, nor were they fully fledged members—their task was
to watch Vaughn and Archibald Weaver from doing anything…reckless.

Nila struggled, trying to take her
hand back. I clamped my fingers around her, not giving an inch. "Don’t be
rude, Ms. Weaver. Say hello and be courteous. This is, after all, your welcome
lunch."

She jolted, shying backward,
testing my hold.

My father sat at the end of the
extremely long table. The room was huge. Decorated with gold-spun drapery and
massive oil paintings of my ancestors, it glittered with crystal chandeliers
and silverware.

The paintings were of male Hawks
only. The women of my family tree were designated to another room. Still
celebrated, but not nearly as important. 

Each artwork showed a man of
distinguished wealth and intolerable power. I’d studied them in great length
this past month, preparing for Nila’s arrival. My favourite was Samuel Hawk.
The third man to extract a debt.

I looked just like him.

Snapping his fingers, my father
called the small murmurs of masculine voices to attention. Pointing at Nila
trembling beside me, he said, "Brothers, this woman will be our guest for
the foreseeable future, and in honour of her company, we have something special
planned."

The men grinned, reclining in their
chairs, ready for the show to begin. The hiss and crackle of the log fire added
a cheery background noise as well as welcome heat to the cavernous room.

Nodding at me, he said, "Jet,
if you would be so kind as to make sure our guest is appropriately attired."

Pleasure.

This might be tradition, but it was
also payback for what she’d made me become earlier today. This was sweet
retribution.

Dropping Nila's hand, I moved
toward the large side table that held crockery, wine glasses, and decanters.
The food that’d been prepared by the full kitchen in the other wing of the house
waited on the matching sideboard across the room. There were countless dishes,
at least seven courses, but no wait staff to present it.

I smiled.

That was where Ms. Weaver came in.
Along with…other duties.

Gathering the items that were meant
for Nila, I returned to her side. She hadn’t moved, but not from obedience. Two
large men in leather cuts blocked her way out. The moment I came back, she
looked pleadingly into my eyes.

"I can’t—Jethro, don’t make
me." She swallowed. "Not so many. I can’t do—"

Snatching her arm, I spun her to
the corner of the room, away from hungry onlookers. "You dare say no? Do
you
want
this to be over?"

She nodded rapidly. "Yes. More
than anything yes."

"Fine. It’s over. But you’re
sentenced to watch your father and brother be slaughtered, along with the
decimation of your family’s business and assets. It will be obliterated. Gone.
Is that what you’re willing to pay?"