Syn Carnahan thought that the only true darkness around her was in her own head, but after witnessing the horrific murder of her friend, she is pulled into a world that she wished she didn't belong in. A world where every dirty little secret is rev...
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Elias pov
She was staring daggers at me as she sat on the couch in her little cocktail dress. Aleksei, standing behind her on the lounge chair , making certain no one neared her.
People looked her way either way, curious of the beauty secluded from the bustling conversations of the others.
She had this sensual dissatisfaction on her face, much different then the other woman here, who seemed to yearn for even the slightest of conversation or once of opportunity.
She didn't care about the looks or the stares or the conversations. She just stared at me. Hate. Anger. Discontent.
She'd refused to come here. She Had dug her heels into the ground and scratched my living room floors with her stilettos as my men dragged her out to the elevator and into the car.
I'm not your showpony. She told me. And she was right in some ways, as the various glances I saw the men here give her now made me want to take my shielded knife and dig it into their skulls.
But she was my wife, and public appearances would gather talk.
But The men looked hungry at her. Absolutely Starving and ravenous. As if they were undressing that perfect little body, and if she was laid out for them. Waiting for them to come for her.
Her long red dress fitted, her curves more then prominent and her cleavage pouring from the lowness of the top of the neckline.
Most people here knew she was my wife. Least of all, they had seen me enter with her. Something I have never done.
These galas were nothing more than a show of power, yet attendance was expected and Violence was highly discouraged. Yet everyone held there's guns and knives and weapons so closely.
I have never brought a woman anywhere with me, never as a date or a plus one, and I heard the whispers and the talk of it all through out the guests.
I swirled the scotch in the glass, as I stared at the various people I'd remind myself to kill, as they glanced at her, then to me, then back to her, as if wondering just what they'd have do to have her sultry lips on them.
A part of me would like them to try, as it would give me an excuse to spill blood on the floor of this peaceful little power meeting. But she didn't like the blood.
With that man in that room, she could have tortured him back. Slit his skin. Driven knifes to stake him to the chair. But she didn't. She wanted to. Despite that violence under her skin that begged to be released, there still lingered that hesitation.
He wasn't the first person she's killed, yet there were no reports and no deaths associated with her name. No records of murder. Or lives taken or lost. And fuck, I wonder who has been slaughtered by those pretty little hands.
