Primal Pursuit - Page 146

Davian makes me get up, and there’s a chair I never noticed. He sits and pulls me onto him, one hand stroking over my sex where he carved into me. My stomach flutters and a warmth spreads as he does that, the soreness from the cut adding to the pleasure.

“No, you can’t, Rabbit. You might get close, but I’m out of your league. I could train you, I suppose.”

That last part is so soft and idle I’m not even sure I heard, but I leave it alone. I don’t know what to do with that, or what it means. Not underneath the surface.

“I want you to tell me who hired you.”

“The person I got the money from?”

“Blood money,” I say, spitting the words. “Who hired you?

“Which do you want to know? The person who gave me the money, or the person who wanted the hit carried out?”

I go still. What does that mean? “There’s a difference?”

“Sometimes money is wired. Sometimes it’s cold, hardcash, but I rarely get handed the money in any form from whoever hires me for the hit.”

“Both. I want both.”

“What you want is the name of who wanted your father dead,” he says, putting me down and getting to his feet, right as someone knocks on the door. “Think on that, Rabbit. Because that outfit isn’t one you can take on alone.”

Before I can say a word, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Outside voices filter in. Inside my head, my thoughts chase each other like mad things.

I really am fucked up because I’m clearly addicted to the man who killed my parents. Worse, I think I might love him.

I don’t know if that even changes the fact that he needs to die. But right now, I need to find out who the hell hired him.

Them.

Outfit.

Outfit means ‘them.’ Like… Dark Sovereign? But I dismiss that. I’d never heard of them in our nice house in our nice suburb. Dad did well, but we didn’t live in a mansion. There weren’t millions bouncing around. He worked every day and wasn’t a criminal. He didn’t break legs or anything like that. Just an unassuming number cruncher, and Mom…she was a stay-at-home mom and the perfect housewife. She did yoga and some part-time interior decorating.

They didn’t do anything swish. So, who the hell would want them dead?

Outfit is mafia to me.

Outfit is criminal and clandestine and all the things that weren’t my boring, happy, stable little life.

My aunt and uncle had a flashier house. He had a better job, and my aunt just lived the life of an upper middle-class woman. They weren’t loaded, and weren’t millionaires, either.

My uncle is a creeper, and he touched me. Did vile things to me. Molested me. He never raped me, it didn’t go that far, but I knew it would. He was growing restless while I was…growing.

By the time I was fifteen, he wanted more. I was so desperate for him to not bring his dick near me, I went on my knees and sucked him willingly. I let him go down on me, anything to stop him from raping me.

Anything to appease his evil.

He told me I’d be helping him, and he missed his brother so much and?—

I stop.

Nausea rocks me.

I’m fucked up in ways that Davian would hate me for. I hate me for it.

I ran a few months before sixteen because he wasn’t going to stop. He wasn’t going to ever stop until he had me in every way possible, and I already hated myself for letting him do what he’d done. I don’t think I could have survived that.