CAPTURED: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys(154)

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.