Gypsy Brothers: The Complete Series (42 page)

He leans down and fishes something out of his jeans. Crawling up onto the bed, he straddles me, his hardness pressing painfully against my thigh.

He wraps that something around my upper arm, and I look down, seeing it’s a silk tie. Probably the same one he wore to the funeral, I think to myself. That makes me feel marginally better. Until I remember his plan for me, to breed me until I replace his dead sons.

Now I feel like shit again.

He produces a syringe from thin air and inserts it into my vein, pulling back so that my blood flows into the syringe, mixing with the clear fluid to form a dangerous red-tinged cloud of nirvana. I can feel myself tensing, waiting for that hit, and despair slams into me when I realize how addictive this shit is. I’m already looking forward to it, looking past the needle completely, not even caring if it might kill me. I’m already one step away from being addicted to this shit.

And I don’t even care. I just want him to hurry up and push the fucking plunger down and let me have my fix.

Jesus. I’m even thinking like a junkie with junkie words. My mother would be so proud.

I glance at the syringe, hanging out of my arm, as Dornan moves his hand away and down between my legs. “What, you’re not excited to see me?” he says, sneering as his hand obviously detects no wetness.

I move my other hand toward the syringe, brazenly attempting to grab it in order to inject the good stuff and at least make this a little more bearable, but Dornan slaps me away as though I’m a kid with my hand in the cookie jar.

“It’s quid pro quo, baby,” he says, spitting on his palm and rubbing his saliva between my legs, making my stomach roil. “Something for something.”

“I know what quid pro quo means,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

He laughs, pushing into me forcefully. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. I’m not ready, and it burns.

“You’re especially tight today,” he says, moving roughly, quickening his pace. “I like it.”

I roll my eyes. “I think it’s called dry,” I reply sharply. “As in, not turned on at all. You disgust me.”

He smirks, slamming into me harder, making me cry out. “You sure about that?”

I stare at the ceiling. Sad and worn out and numb. “Yep.”

“Well, I intend to get off,” he says, ripping the leather cut open and squeezing my breasts.

“I know,” I respond slowly, as if he’s an idiot. He responds by wrapping his fingers around my neck and squeezing tight.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers suddenly, moving faster. “You are mine, you know that, right?”

I frown, looking at him in shock and revulsion, gasping for a breath.

“I own you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Say it and you get your reward.”

He puts his hand below the syringe, still full and sparkling as it hangs out of my arm. It isn’t really sparkling, but in my head, it is. Yes.

“I’m yours,” I say blankly, licking my lips as I watch his fingers move.

“Good girl,” he says.

I swallow thickly, groaning as he pushes down the plunger on the syringe, flooding my body with something better than the best orgasm anybody could ever have. Better than the best fucking sunshiny day. Better than first love and forehead kisses and rainbows.

Better than anything.

Bliss.

“Tell me again who owns you.” His voice is suddenly far away, and he pries one of my eyes open, forcing me to look at him as I ride the high inside my marshmallow veins.

“Say it,” he demands, louder this time.

I giggle, the drugs making their way through my limbs so heavy and soft. It’s like I’m a feather floating in the ether.

“I fucking hate you,” I whisper, giggling hysterically as he digs his fingers into my flesh, roaring as he comes, as he fills me with his hate. “You’ll never own me, you piece of shit.”

A moment later, when he’s finished, he backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.

It just makes me laugh harder, though.

I think I’m going mad.

But I don’t care anymore.

SIXTEEN

The next morning, I’m sporting a bruised cheekbone and a spectacular gouge mark in my arm from the needle of heroin that Dornan dug in not very carefully. I’m woken by the door flying open, and I push myself up to a sitting position in time to see Dornan standing in the doorway with a cunning smirk, balancing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in one hand.

He looks like he’s going to storm in and kill me, which isn’t very reassuring. I shift backward on the bed, a sudden gush between my legs reminding me of what happened last night before he left.
Eww.

I look down to see I’m still naked except for his leather cut, and a rolling wave of nausea slams into me. I put my hand over my mouth, swinging my legs off the bed and scrambling to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I lose last night’s dinner.

Gasping for breath, I look to see Dornan standing in the doorway to the bathroom. “Take a shower,” he says briskly. “Five minutes.”

I glare at him, shrugging out of his cut and tossing it on the ground before I step into the glass shower cubicle. I slam the door forcefully, but not hard enough to break it, and he watches my every move as I scrub myself with a bar of soap that smells like lavender.

After I’ve soaped everywhere and rinsed off, I shut the water off. He hands me a towel and I snatch at it angrily, annoyed that he’s being nice to me. I preferred it when he was choking the life out of me. This shit is just messed up.

He points to a scrap of folded white material on the counter next to the sink. “Get dressed. It’s time to eat.”

He leaves the room and I snatch at the white clothing, shaking it open. It’s a white sundress, with an empire waist and stretchy sides. It’s a maternity dress, for fuck’s sake.

I fling the dress on the ground and wrap the towel around me instead, stepping out of the bathroom. I’m starving, but if he’s going to stay in here and watch me, I’m not touching his fucking food.

A look of annoyance flashes over his features as he sees I’m not wearing the dress, but he doesn’t say anything. He points to the wicker chair that overlooks the balcony, the plate of eggs and bacon sitting on the table next to it.

“Sit,” he says, tapping the back of the chair. “Eat.”

I frown. “You were trying to starve me, and now you’re trying to fatten me up? I don’t think so.” I cross my arms over my chest, water from my wet hair dripping down my shoulders and seeping into the top of my towel. Luckily, the heat seems to be turned on in this part of the house, or I’d be freezing cold.

“Juliette,” he says sharply.

I storm over to the plate, picking it up and hurling it at the window. I’m so weak that the stupid plate doesn’t even break—nor the window—but it’s still satisfying seeing the eggs slide down the glass as the bacon rains onto the carpet. My stomach protests, but I don’t care. I’d rather starve to death than eat his food.

He nods, a grave expression on his face. Pulling his phone out, he dials and waits, never taking his eyes from me.

“Bring that little servant girl up here,” he says to whoever is on the other line. “
Quickly
.” He ends the call and pockets his cellphone, looking oddly calm despite my act of defiance.

He sits in one of the two wicker chairs, turning it to face me, while I stand there and drip water on the carpet. What is he playing at? Suspicion bubbles up in me, keeping the hunger company. A moment later the door opens, and The Prospect is there, but he’s not alone. He’s holding the wrist of a young Hispanic woman, who’s eighteen at the most, and probably younger than that. She’s dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt and a black knee-length skirt, some kind of uniform I guess. He pulls her into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.

“What’s your name,” he asks the servant girl.

“Violetta,” she says quietly.

“Did you cook this food?” Dornan asks her pleasantly, his fingers templed in his lap.

“Yes, sir,” she says, nodding frantically.

“Well,” Dornan says. “Apparently it’s not good enough for my girl.” He flashes a
fuck you
smile at me, then turns back to the girl as my panic mounts.

“Ese,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Today’s your lucky day. Stand right where you are. Violetta, unzip his pants and start sucking his cock.”

“What?” The Prospect and I both say at the same time. The poor girl is too scared to even open her mouth to question her asshole of a boss.

“Have you got a hearing problem?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “Or would you like me to give you one?” He pulls his gun from his waistband and sets it on his lap as a clear warning. “Sometimes, if the bullet doesn’t get lodged in the brain, I can get it in one ear and clear out the other.” He smiles cordially, as if he’s talking about the fucking weather.

“Knees. Suck. Now. Do you need that in Spanish?”

“Boss,” The Prospect says, shifting from foot to foot.

“Shut up,” Dornan says. “You’re expendable. There’s a million other fuckin’ chili eaters out there who’ll take your place, Mexicana. Stand there and do as you’re told.”

Violetta sinks to her knees, fumbling with the guy’s zipper, and in no time at all, she’s pulled his soft cock from his pants. Poor guy. I don’t blame him for not being hard. It’d be pretty hard to get it up with Dornan Ross calling the moves on your surprise blow-job.

“Well?” Dornan says, amused. “It’s not gonna suck itself, Violetta.”

She glances at Dornan before opening her mouth, sucking him in. I’m still staring, horrified.

“You,” Dornan says, distracting me. “Go and put your dress on. Pick up your mess. And eat every fucking scrap of breakfast that Violetta cooked for you. Once you finish eating, Violetta may stop.”

“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” I say, my mouth agape.

Dornan shrugs, a giant grin on his face. “Nope,” he says. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fucking funny.”

I glance at Violetta, who’s getting into it now. The Prospect is trying to feign indifference, which looks pretty hard when he’s getting blown.

“He’ll come eventually,” I argue. “And I’m not eating your fucking breakfast.”

He laughs, obviously loving this. “Oh, baby girl. If he comes, I’ll just make her blow me. Then I’ll make her eat your pussy,” he laughs, “and if you’re still not doing what you’re told, I’ll go and gather up all of the men in this house, and make you watch while they take turns raping her.”

If I thought my mouth was agape before, now it’s practically sitting on the carpet. I glance at the girl, who is doing her best to get the guy off given the circumstances. Fuck.

Dornan can see the indecision on my face. “I think there are seven men in the house,” he says. “Maybe eight. Ever been fucked by eight men before, Violetta?”

She stops what she’s doing and looks at Dornan fearfully. “No, sir.”

“Did I say you could stop?” Dornan asks sharply, making her jump. She turns back to the job at hand.

I stare at Dornan, rage in my veins. He stares right back, and we both know he’s won. Of course I’m not going to let the girl get gang-raped. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? He threatened that specifically because he knows it will cut me the deepest to even consider.

I turn on my heel, storming into the bathroom. I drop the towel and snatch up the stupid dress, shoving it over my head and pulling it down so that it covers me. Stalking through the bedroom and over to the spilled mess of scrambled eggs and bacon, I scoop up the majority of the food and toss it onto the unbroken plate.

I drop into the second chair, balancing the plate on my knees, and shove a piece of bacon in my mouth. I chew it quickly, swallowing it, before picking up some of the scrambled egg mess.

“She can stop now,” I say to him with a mouthful of egg. “I’m eating. I’m wearing the goddamn dress.”

Dornan chuckles, unzipping his pants as The Prospect makes a strangled grunt and the girl makes a gagging noise.

“Violetta here can’t stop until you’ve finished
all
your breakfast,” Dornan says, snapping his fingers at the girl. I shove as much food as I can in my mouth, Dornan chuckles as he watches me.

The Prospect tucks his softening dick back into his pants, a sheepish look on his face. Dornan thrusts his chin at him. “Don’t say we don’t treat you well here.”

“Yes, sir,” the guy says, completely straight-faced.

I look at the girl, and see her eyeing off Dornan’s lap uncomfortably.

“Dornan,” I say in between chewing and swallowing. “Come on!”

He grins at me, gesturing for the girl to come over. She doesn’t even bother getting to her feet, instead opting to crawl the short distance between dicks.
Bloody hell
.

Dornan doesn’t take his eyes from mine as he reaches into his pants and tugs out his stiff cock. The girl is smart - she doesn’t hesitate this time. Dornan relaxes back into the chair, the only sounds in the room her mouth slurping around his dick and me chewing as fast as I can. Utterly ludicrous.

I finish the food on my plate in record time, glaring at Dornan as he grabs the back of the girl’s head and forces her to take him deeper. She gags violently, wrenching her head away and coughing loudly, still on her hands and knees.

“You need to learn how to suck dick,” Dornan says, folding his erection back into his pants. “Both of you get the fuck out.”

The girl stops coughing, wipes at her mouth and stands quickly, practically running for the door. The Prospect opens it on cue, and the girl scurries out, followed by him.

The door shuts, and we’re alone once more.

Dornan stands and adjusts his pants, laughing when he sees the horrified expression on my face. “What?” he asks. “Too weird for the black widow? I thought you of all people would appreciate that.”

I roll my eyes.

“Though,” he says, raking his eyes down my thin frame, “You’re looking more like a praying fuckin’ mantis these days.”

“That’s generally what happens when you starve someone for three months,” I retort, feeling my face go red. He pushes all of my buttons. He makes me so fucking angry.

He’s the only person in the world who can change anything for me, and all he’s going to do is make things worse.

Not for the first time, suicide crosses my mind. I didn’t have any way to do it before, when I was tied up in the dungeon, and I wonder briefly if he’ll keep me tied up in here as well.

“What are you planning to do with me?” I ask quietly.

He kneels in front of me, a strange gesture of submission for the man who dominates my every waking moment, but the look on his face says otherwise.

He smiles, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “I’m going to destroy you,” he says softly, that deep voice making me shake, and I don’t doubt him for a second.

He pushes off his feet, standing above me.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says.

My heart plummets into my stomach.

He disappears, slamming the door behind him, and I eye the door nervously. Did he lock it? I didn’t hear a key turn.

I rush to my feet, the empty breakfast plate sliding from my lap and onto the carpet with a dull thud. I reach the door just as it opens again, and I have to step back to stop it smacking me in the face.

“Miss me already?” Dornan asks, looking amused. “Sit. Down.” He points to the chair and I reluctantly make my way back to the chair, sitting my skinny ass down. I watch as he approaches, wondering what sick surprise he’s got in store for me. “Look at that,” he says, reaching down and nudging my slightly rounded stomach. “You’re showing.”

I stare up at him morosely. “I just ate breakfast,” I say dully. “I don’t believe you. I’m not pregnant. You’re just trying to fuck with my head.”

“Shut up and get on the fucking bed,” he says shortly. “Now.”

I’ve been trying to convince myself all along that he’s just fucking with me. That it’s not real. It can’t be. But when he produces one of those hand-held Doppler machines and holds it to my bare skin a few minutes later, I can practically feel my world end.

First, he squeezes cold, sticky goop on my stomach and rubs it all around. Then, he presses the tip of this plastic microphone thing to my skin and moves it around until it starts going crazy.

It sounds like horses galloping. He turns it up so loud that the noise fills the room, and I feel my own heartbeat quicken.

I narrow my eyes. “It’s my heartbeat,” I say dismissively. “Nice try, asshole.”

He smirks, grabbing my fingers and jamming them against my neck, against the spot where my own pulse flutters rapidly. But the sound being transmitted from the small machine, the sound that bounces off the walls and strangles me with its absolute certainty is completely different in pace and speed to my own fragile heart.

Fuck.

I gasp. Tears fill my eyes. He smiles triumphantly, pressing the little plastic receiver harder into my stomach, and the sound gets even clearer.

He’s not making this up. This is really happening.

Again.

How could I have been so stupid to let this happen after everything I went through the first time six years ago?