Corrupted Heart: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance
Corrupted Heart: Chapter 7

It’s impossible to tell time when you’re lying across the back seat of a car with your hands bound and a bag over your head. So it could be either five minutes or an hour before the car comes to a stop, the engine abruptly switching off.

The door by my feet opens and I gasp as huge hands grab me and yank me out of the car. Gravity goes sideways as the man throws me over his huge shoulder. I can feel the rippling muscles rolling against my stomach, and the pulse-quickening tease of air up the back of my skirt.

Wherever we are, it’s quiet. Quieter than a city should sound.

He walks, stops, unlocks a heavy lock, and then swings a door open on rusty, creaking hinges. The door clangs shut behind us, the sound echoing as if we’re in a big cave or something.

He sets me down on my feet, and I stiffen when I feel the sharp, cold metal against my wrists. But all he does is cut the zip tie.

Then, there’s nothing.

The seconds tick by. My breathing is loud in my ears inside the stuffy heat of the bag over my head. Then⁠—

“Take off the bag.”

He sounds further away, even though I swear I never heard him take a single step after he cut off the zip tie. My skin tingles as I reach up, grab the velvet of the bag, and slowly pull it off my head.

Woah.

My mouth falls open, my mind a jumble I drag my eyes up and around.

I’m standing in the middle of a huge, old, crumbling gothic church. A myriad of half-melted candles in metal candelabras sitting in groups on the floor cast flickering light and create haunted shadows on the walls. Old pews—some still upright, others knocked over—are in a vague approximation of the rows they were once in. Rickety scaffolding rises almost to the ceiling on one side of the space, and dim city lights pierce cracked stained-glass windows.

“Blonde doesn’t suit you.”

My eyes suddenly snap to the front of the church, and my pulse jumps.

He’s sitting on a huge throne at the front of the nave, where the pulpit would usually be, a few wide steps up from the main floor. But instead of being gilded and ornate, suitable for a king or the Pope, the seat is as decrepit and crumbling as the rest of the church.

The man, still wearing his neon mask, sits sprawled on this throne, an arm slung over the back of it, his other hand meditatively stroking a finger up and down the side of his neck. Thick, powerful muscles strain against the sleeves of his leather jacket and fill out the white t-shirt beneath it. He doesn’t look like a king, or the Pope. More like a savage conquering warlord sitting in the ruins of the post-apocalyptic city he’s just sacked.

Blonde doesn’t suit you.

His words echo in my head. My hand flies up, and I cringe when I realize that the wig has slipped almost halfway off my head.

“Why, exactly, were you trying to disguise yourself?”

I swallow the thick lump that forms in my throat, my eyes blinking rapidly.

“Asks the man wearing a mask.”

His head slowly tips to the other side, those neon X’s of his eyes piercing into me.

“You requested that I wear this, prinkípissa.”

I freeze.

Prinkípissa.

I’ve heard that word before. Someone’s called me that befo⁠—

Oh God.

The man in the alley.

The huge, built, tall man in the alley that night wearing a neon mask who inspired this whole…

Something clenches in my stomach.

No. There’s no way.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

My voice sounds so small as I stand there in the middle of the cavernous gothic church, the dark lord sprawling on his antichrist throne, watching me through the dead, neon eyes of his mask.

When he doesn’t respond, I swallow and try again.

“The other day. In the alley. Those two men…” My hands clench together in front of me, one finger picking repeatedly at a cuticle. “Was that you? I…”

I’m about to keep going and blather something stupid like “I recognize your voice” or point out that the mask he’s wearing isn’t like the mask I asked him to wear. It’s literally the same neon mask from that night. I stop when something occurs to me.

I’m alone in an abandoned church with someone who might very well be a violent psychopath, and I’m about to remind him that I was witness to him committing a double murder.

“Go on,” he purrs, with almost a hint of humor in his deep, dark tone.

I shake my head. “My friends…” I shiver. “There are people who will be looking for me. They’ll notice I’m⁠—”

“No, they won’t.”

He lifts a phone from the arm of the throne, and I recognize the case. It’s mine.

“You were feeling sick after that last tequila shot. You thought you might throw up, and just felt awful. So you took a cab home. You texted them again when you got home just now, letting them know you’re okay and that you’ll call them in the morning.”

His head tilts to the other side, and I swear that lurid, leering neon smile is curling up at the corners.

“Naomi, by the way, said to feel better, and that the, and I quote, hot but boring Latin guy is talking to Milena about his stock portfolio again,” he growls quietly before setting my phone back down. “So, no. They will not be looking for you after all those shots.”

His finger strokes up and down his neck again, between the mask and the collar of his leather jacket.

“You drink too much, Bianca.”

My blood turns to ice, my heart skipping as my face goes white.

“I—” I shake my head. “That’s not my⁠—”

“Well, it’s not Rachel Dawson, now is it?”

My stomach drops. My breath starts coming in quick, shallow, staccato bursts.

“Real names are supposed to be hidden on the site,” I croak.

“Nothing is hidden from me.”

He suddenly uncurls his huge frame from his throne and stands. He walks slowly down the wide steps, picking his way carefully through the piles of old bricks, mossy wood, and other debris as he advances toward me down the main aisle between the broken-down pews.

Part of me wants to turn and run. But I’m frozen in place, my throat slowly closing up as he approaches. Besides, there’s no way I’d outrun him. He’d catch me, for sure.

And you’d like it, too.

He moves closer and closer until finally he’s standing right in front of me, looking down into my eyes from behind his mask.

“Who are you?” I whisper.

“You know exactly who.”

I choke, whimpering as his hand jerks up very suddenly. His fingers wrap tight around my throat, squeezing just tightly enough to send alarm bells exploding through my head and adrenaline coursing through my veins. He leans close and that same spicy clean scent of him drifts into my senses as his lips hover less than an inch from my left ear.

“I’m the man you begged to chase you, Bianca,” he growls. “The stranger you asked to be surprised by in the dark so that I could fuck you until your knees gave out and my cum dripped from every slutty little hole you have.”

Sweet Jesus.

My whole core spasms. My fingertips tingle, and my face throbs as his lewd words rake fiercely over my skin.

“Now,” he murmurs, his hand still wrapped around my throat and his neon X eyes still stabbing into my soul. “What to do with you…”

My knees shake. Adrenaline, fear, anxiety, and desire pulse and throb through my veins like a heady cocktail of drugs.

“I…what we talked about…” I croak.

He tilts his head to the side, leering down at me.

“You want to play that game?”

I tremble, then nod my head.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He’s silent. The seconds tick by as his head slowly tips side to side.

“No.”

He rasps it out suddenly as his hand drops from my throat. Without another word, he turns and starts to walk back to his throne.

“W-what?” I choke out, shaking.

“I said no,” he growls, pausing to turn and level his masked eyes at me.

My lip worries between my teeth. “Why? Because you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

My lips curl. “You’re scared of my father?”

He barks a sudden, cold, metallic laugh that has me gasping.

“No, prinkípissa. I’m not.”

My eyes narrow on him. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because I see right fucking through you…princess.”

My lips purse. “I’m not a princess⁠—”

“You are. You might as well have fucking woodland creatures dancing and singing all around you, with a talking squirrel for a fucking sidekick,” he snarls. “You’re a princess in the most Disney fucking sense of the word. So go wish upon a star to be anywhere but here with any other man but me.”

He turns and starts to walk away again.

My hands ball to two fists at my sides as I draw in a shaky breath.

“I’m here. You brought me here. So are you going to do it or not?”

He audibly snarls as he whirls on me, the neon of his mask looking demonic as he peers down at me.

“Do what?” he snaps.

“What… What we came here for.”

A low, dark chuckle rumbles from somewhere within the depths of his broad chest.

“And what did you come here for?”

My face turns scarlet as my eyes drop to my feet.

“Well?”

“Y-you know,” I mumble.

“Maybe I’ve forgotten. Maybe I want you to be a good girl and just fucking tell me.”

Heat explodes across my face as I look down at my hands and take a deep breath.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” I blurt.

The church is silent. Slowly, he turns to face me full on. His neon eyes pierce my very soul, and I shudder when he starts to walk toward me. He circles me like a shark in the water, his gaze never leaving mine as he does so.

He walks all the way around me, then stops right in front of my face.

“No.”

I wince. It’s like he’s just struck me. My spirit cracks, falling to the floor at my feet as he slowly starts to walk around me again.

“Because of who my father is?” I whisper.

I tense as I feel him stop right behind me, and I shudder when I feel him lean down close, his lips near my ear again.

“No, prinkípissa,” he snarls quietly. “Because I’d break you if I fucked you the way I like to fuck. And you’d do well to remember that before you try to cross paths with someone like me again.”

He drifts back in front of me, his eyes leering down into my face. Then, without another word, he turns and starts to stroll away, back to his throne.

“Try me.”

The words tumble from my mouth before I can shove them back in.

Slowly, the man stops and half turns, the glow of his neon eyes mingling with the flickering of the candlelight in the stone church.

“What did you say?” he murmurs darkly.

I swallow, drumming up whatever courage I have inside.

“I said try me.”

A second ticks by. Then another.

“You’ve swum out far past your depth, little girl.”

He turns his back on me again and calmly walks up the center of the nave back to his throne.

“Maybe you’ve just lost your nerve.”

I can’t believe I just said that.

He stops cold, his broad shoulders tensing. His head cocks to the side.

“What did you say?”

I swallow nervously.

Just go, I think to myself. Just drop it and get out while you can.

Because he’s right. I am way out of my depth here. There’s having fantasies, and daydreaming about things you’ve seen in dirty videos.

…And then there’s this. And whatever “this” is, we’re a mile past the line of sanity. Honestly, it’s a miracle that I haven’t been murdered and cut into pieces yet.

But my mouth has never been great at knowing when it’s time to call it quits. The tequila shots still coursing through my bloodstream aren’t exactly helping, either.

“I said maybe you’ve lost your nerve. You know, all bark, no bite? Big talk online, but then the whole thing falls apart in real⁠—”

My words choke to a strangled silence when I hear the sharp metallic shnick of a switchblade. The knife clenched in his big, veined hand gleams in the candlelight as his head twists toward me a little more, giving me a glimpse of one neon X.

“For the record, babygirl…”

He turns to face me fully in all his dark, malicious wrath. Fear stabs my heart as he tosses the blade casually from one hand to the other, then back again.

“I did give you a chance to leave.”

One instant, he’s standing thirty feet away holding a knife. The next, he’s bolting toward me.

I scream, whirling and flinging myself at the huge wooden doors on their rusty hinges behind me. I grab the heavy iron ring and pull…

And pull.

And pull.

Holy fuck.

When it finally registers in my terrified brain that the door is locked, I spin away and bolt to the side. A snarl echoes in my ear, and another scream tears from my throat as I feel his thick fingertips brush my arm.

Pure survival instinct and adrenaline explode like napalm through my veins as I fling myself across the church, hurdling a broken-down pew and dodging around a pile of mossy bricks.

The heavy thud of footsteps behind me propels me forward, sprinting around another splintered pew.

Don’t turn around to look behind you.

I feel like I read that in a book once, that turning around slows you down or makes you veer unnecessarily. And if I do either of those, he’ll catch me.

And if he catches me?

Well, clearly, he’s more than roleplaying the scenario I asked for. Honestly, I don’t think he’s roleplaying at all.

I think I may have actually invited a real psychopath to chase me down and fuck me.

I scream as I dodge right, then left, then jump over another pew. I glance to the left, and my heart leaps when I see a side door. Maybe it’s locked just like the others, but I don’t have a choice right now.

This is no longer a game.

This is real.

I choke on my breath, my pulse racing as I dodge right again and bolt for the door. I’m so close, I’m almost there…

…And that’s when he grabs me.

I scream as his hand snatches a handful of my hair and yanks. Pain explodes through my scalp, and I wince when I get tugged hard backward and spun around. I lose my footing, and as my heart lurches into my throat, I feel the monster behind me shove me face-down onto the dirty, rough ground.

“PLEASE!”

I scream as his knee lands on the small of my back, the sheer weight of him keeping me pinned to the ground. He growls, grabbing my hair again and yanking my head back as he leans down close to my ear.

“You know how to end this…”

Something hot explodes in my core. Something dark, dangerous and deviant.

He’s not trying to kill me.

He’s just playing the game.

The adrenaline is still roaring through my veins. But the dull stab of fear in my core has turned into something tingling and throbbing.

Something achy. Something needy.

“But until you have the courage to do that,” he snarls into my ear, “I’m going to show you what happens to little princesses who think they want to play rough with me.”

My eyes bulge as he suddenly jams his hand underneath me and yanks on the front of my top, ripping it. I whimper when he roughly pulls my bra down as well. His big hand engulfs my breast, and I cry out a choked, sobbing moan as he roughly twists and pinches my nipple.

“You think you’re into primal play, babygirl?” he hisses sharply. “Let’s see how long you fucking last.”

I scream as he mauls my other breast, tugging mercilessly at my nipples until they’re sore and aching. Even as my breath comes in choked sobs, a needy heat pulses between my thighs.

The masked psychopath keeps twisting my nipples, his knee and weight still on the small of my back. His other hand drops down, and I jolt when he yanks my skirt up over my ass. He grabs the back of my thong, pulling it tight and causing it to rub against my throbbing center and aching clit. I whimper, biting down hard on my lip as the forbidden pleasure and filthy fucked-up nature of all of this overwhelms me.

The switchblade flicks in his hand. I gasp when I feel the sharp edge of its blade tease first over the curve of my hip and then then the swell of my ass. He pulls my thong tight again, and suddenly, the blade is slicing through it.

He yanks the tattered bits away. I wince as he twists my head around, forcing me to look at him. He brings the sliced thong to his nose through the mask, inhaling as he chuckles a low, dark, psychotic laugh.

“Mmmm, babygirl,” he rasps darkly. “Your pussy smells like fear and candy. I’m going to enjoy devouring you.”

I could say please. Or stop. Or no. I could use the safe word, and this would all come crashing to a halt.

At least, I think it would.

But using that word is the last thing on my mind.

Because I don’t want him to stop.

I haven’t gone as far as I can go yet.

“Now, prinkípissa,” he rasps. “Let’s see how messy your little cunt got being chased like a dirty whore.”

Without warning, he cups my pussy. I choke on a moan, my breath hitching as he drags a thick finger through my lips. His palm suddenly slaps my ass, hard, making me jolt and squeal. He does it again, then again to the other cheek, then back to the first again. He goes back and forth until my ass is stinging and raw and my whines of pleasure are echoing off the walls of the gothic church.

Suddenly, I feel a finger at my entrance.

No, not a finger.

Fingers.

“I—”

My entire body shudders and writhes as he rams two thick fingers deep inside me. Deeper than anything I’ve ever had there. The sheer size of those fingers takes my breath away, and I can feel my feet twisting and scrabbling against the ground as he roughly curls them.

My walls clench around him. My core spasms and quivers as he slides them out and then pounds them right back in.

Wetly.

I’m not just wet, I’m fucking soaked.

The mortifyingly slick, squelching sounds of my pussy fill my ears as the masked stranger roughly fingerfucks me. I cry out when he tugs my hair, or pinches my nipples. He slaps my ass again, hard, as he mauls my aching pussy.

Words fail me. My thoughts are a blur of dark need and haunting desire. All I can do is twist and writhe on the ground, moaning and choking on my breath as he manhandles me and roughly shoves me inexorably toward my breaking point.

His thumb flicks back and forth across my throbbing clit. His two fingers ram into me over and over, curling so deep my shoes fall off when my toes curl against the grimy stone floor.

“Such. A needy. Little. Slut,” he growls, chuckling darkly as he fingers me into oblivion. “Meeting up with a complete stranger and letting him use your slutty little hole on the floor, like the greedy little cum whore you are.”

I gasp sharply when I feel his thumb slip between my cheeks and press against my asshole.

“I bet you’d even beg me to fuck your ass right here and now if it’d mean I’d let you come. You’d let me have you right here on the floor like a whore, fucking your ass raw until you’d taken every fucking drop of my cum, wouldn’t you…slut.”

Something explodes in my core. My eyes squeeze shut as my mouth falls open in a silent scream.

“I know you’re a virgin, babygirl,” he growls low in my ear as the wave builds higher and higher. “Don’t insult me by denying it. I can fucking smell it on you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like it if I used my big, fat cock to split this little cunt open right here for the first time. If I were to make you bleed on my cock as I took you for the first time. I’d tear you apart, babygirl. I’d fucking ruin you for any other man. And you’d fucking thank me for it afterward.”

Something snaps inside me. My tether to reality. My attachment to the real world.

My last grip on my sanity.

I’ve always known I wanted the primal and the brutal. To be chased and caught. To be tied up, or pinned down and used.

But I never knew I had this in me until he started talking like this.

The utter submission. The desire to lose all control and hand it over to him, willingly and eagerly. Because right now, he’s right. If he were to ask—not even ask, if he were to tell me—that he was going to fuck me right here and now, and take my virginity on the dark, grimy floor of this abandoned church?

I’d not just let him.

I’d beg him to.

“Come on. Thank me, babygirl.”

A moan rips from my throat.

“Thank you!” I sob.

“Now, beg me to let you come,” he snarls, roughly fingering my pussy as his thumb presses against my ass. He reaches underneath me and pinches a nipple, his weight sinking onto the small of my back as I start to come undone.

“Fucking beg me, slut.”

“Please!” I choke. “Please let me come!”

“Are you going to be a good little whore for me?”

“YES!”

“My willing, dirty little cock slut?”

“Please! Yes!”

My world goes sideways and upside down as he leans down and bites hard on my earlobe.

“Good girl. Come for me.”

It’s like a bomb going off. It’s like reality leaves the building and yanks the rug out after it. My breath chokes in my lungs. Every muscle in my body violently shakes and spasms, and my core turns to molten lava.

And then I’m coming harder and longer than I ever have before in my life.

The waves crash over me again and again and again. I writhe on the ground, choking and sobbing pathetically as the orgasm shatters me.

Suddenly, his fingers slowly start to slip out of me. He lets go of my nipple, and pulls his hand away.

I’m shaking all over as I curl up into a ball, hugging myself and quivering as I start to cry softly.

Jesus Christ, get it together, psycho.

I’m not hurt. I mean, I’m sore as fuck, everywhere, and especially between my legs. But that’s not why I’m crying. It’s also not because I’m scared, or ashamed, or overwhelmed.

It just feels like this huge emotional drop. Like I’ve tasted this insane high, and now it’s fading away.

The man makes a tsking sound with his teeth as he suddenly stands.

“Fuck,” he growls quietly. “Fuck.”

He sighs heavily above me as I blink back the tears and bring a hand up to wipe my eyes. I stay on the ground as I slowly lift my gaze to him.

“This was a mistake, babygirl.”

I flinch at the words, both physically and emotionally. His head tilts to the side again.

“I warned you, princess,” he growls. “I fucking warned you that you were way out past your fucking depth.”

He exhales again, the neon X’s piercing into me.

“Let’s call that getting off easy,” he mutters. “Now: run home, princess. Go replace a nice prince to play grownup with. You don’t want me. And this kink you think you have is not for you.”

Without another word, he turns and walks into the flickering candlelight of the church, then deeper into the shadows before he finally disappears behind the pulpit.

Then I’m alone.

Slowly, painfully, I get to my feet. There’s no sign of my panties, as if I could even wear them anyway. Sucking in slow, steadying breaths of air, I cling to the carved stone wall behind me, leaning against it, looking up at the haunted spires and leering gargoyles.

He was right.

He did warn me. And I was out past my depth.

But he was also wrong.

This wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t too much. And it didn’t break me, despite his best efforts.

I’m pretty sure it just freed me. Because I don’t want to run scared. I don’t want to go home, tail between my legs. And I certainly don’t want to go “replace a nice prince to play grownup with.”

What I do want, though, is more of what just happened.

Because I’ve never felt more alive in my life.