OWNED BY THE MAFIA

Had Rhea never once, in all these goddamn years, felt guilty for what she did to Isolde? No shame? Just pride? Pride in being the reason Isolde grew up broken, scarred, crawling with trauma that never healed, only festered into something uglier with time?

"Accept your pathetic fucking fate, Isolde," Rhea hissed.

"You'll end up just like your mother. Replaced. Pushed aside by women who are better than you. Trying to kill Olivianne or me won't change a goddamn thing. There will always be someone more beautiful than you. You'll always be the one left behind, because there's nothing in you worth loving. You and your mother were made to be discarded. Forgotten."

Isolde's stare turned glacial. What the fuck was she still doing, wasting her time listening to this bitch?

What was she even expecting—an apology? Regret?

She slowly lowered the gun from Rhea's temple and slid it back into the drop leg holster at her thigh. Rhea smirked, proud like she thought she'd just won. Like she believed Isolde had backed down.

But the next second, Isolde reached for the hidden blade strapped to her left thigh, and before Rhea could so much as flinch, she drove it straight into her throat, right through the trachea.

The knife plunged deep and fast. Isolde didn't hold back. She watched Rhea's arrogant expression twist into horror, her eyes widening, her mouth parting like she wanted to scream. But Isolde didn't give her the chance.

She yanked the blade out and drove it back in. Again. And again. The only sound Rhea could make was a sickening gargle like she was choking on her blood—the result of a shredded trachea courtesy of Isolde's blade.

But that wasn't enough.

Isolde shifted targets and buried the blade into Rhea's chest. Her lips curled higher with every stab, with every spray of blood painting the floor, her hand, and her face. Rhea's face turned ghostly pale. Her body trembled and jerked, but Isolde didn't stop. She lost count of how many times she stabbed her. All she knew was that the more Rhea bled, the wider her grin grew—until the grin cracked into laughter.

The laughter that started low, quiet, then climbed louder and louder—shaking, unhinged. Tears streamed down Isolde's cheeks, mixing with the blood on her skin.

Click.

Her hand froze the moment she heard the hotel room door open. The knife slipped from her grasp. She snatched the gun instinctively, fully expecting it to be Rhea's gigolo boyfriend coming back.

But it wasn't. It was Severin.

He stepped into the room like he fucking owned it, shutting the door behind him with deliberate calm. Isolde stared. What the hell? Severin was supposed to be in Las Vegas. She'd come here with Dax, Ivar, and Theron, not him.

He wore all black, black leather shoes, black trousers, black button-up—and, of course, a lit cigar held lazily between his middle and index fingers.

Severin approached slowly, eyes sweeping over her blood-soaked figure. His smile curved with pride as he looked down at Isolde, crouched on the floor surrounded by Rhea's corpse and a puddle of gore.

"Ah... you are so damn sexy in red," he said, taking a drag from his cigar without sparing the dead woman a second glance.

Isolde stood facing Severin, watching as he handed her the cigar. She took it without hesitation, brought it to her lips, and drew a long breath in front of him—then deliberately blew the smoke into his face.

Severin's eyes, usually unreadable, now glinted with something else—interest. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingering as the last tendrils of smoke faded between them.

And just like that, his hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her forward. He leaned down and crashed his mouth against hers—for the first time.

Isolde's eyes widened in shock. Not just at the suddenness but because Severin had never kissed her. Not even during sex. Never. The cigar slipped from her fingers, landing in the pool of Rhea's blood below them.

She felt his lips—harsh, forceful—like the way he always took her. Rough. Possessive. Brutal.

She didn't kiss him back. Instead, she used the moment to pull a gun on him, pressing the muzzle against his stomach—only for Severin to knock it away effortlessly. The weapon flew across the blood-slick floor, far out of reach.

He pulled back slightly, lips curled in a smug grin. "Nice try, baby."

Frustration flared in her chest. Another failed attempt. Her second. But more than anger, something else burned hotter in her veins. Something she didn't want to name. Something she needed to unleash.

Her hands reached for his collar, yanking him down again. This time, she rose on her toes and kissed him back—just as hard and vicious.

She felt his hands at her waist, yanking her closer as his tongue forced its way past her lips, coaxing hers into a wild, messy rhythm.

The kiss trailed down to her chin and jaw, leaving her breathless and gasping for air as the heat of his mouth faded—her lips swollen, stinging, and alive.

Isolde's breath hitched as she felt Severin lick her jaw and trail down to her neck, sucking and lightly biting there despite Rhea's blood still on her skin.

Severin's hands at Isolde's waist pulled her even closer, pressing her tightly against him until she could feel his hardened erection pushing against her lower stomach.

Without breaking the motion of his lips on her neck, Severin guided Isolde backward toward the table. He effortlessly lifted her onto it, then gripped her chin to bring their mouths together again.

Isolde moaned between Severin's rough kisses as he devoured her, nipping at her upper and lower lips in turn. At the same time, his hands tugged down the straps of her dress, along with her bra, leaving her bare-chested with the dress pooled around her waist.

Isolde's hands weren't idle either—she moved her bloodstained fingers to undo the buttons of Severin's shirt one by one. She could feel him smirking briefly between their kisses, amused by her unusually bold move.

Isolde was usually passive when Severin touched her, but this time, she was different. Their bare chests pressed together—Isolde's exposed and Severin's broad—each time he deepened their kiss.

Their kisses were rough, and their movements rushed as if chased by time. Severin spread Isolde's legs as their lips parted, tearing away the underwear she wore and lowering his zipper, freeing his erection with a firm grip. He stroked himself briefly before guiding himself to her core.

As always, Severin didn't care whether Isolde was ready to take him. He thrust into her in one sharp motion, his gaze never leaving her face—streaked with Rhea's blood—or her swollen lips, bruised from his relentless kisses.

Isolde's forehead furrowed, the pain between her legs sharp from Severin's rough treatment—yet she ignored it. Instead, she raised her right hand, still slick with Rhea's blood, and dragged it across Severin's broad chest, then down his muscled abdomen, deliberately smearing the crimson stain over his skin as he pounded into her.

Now she understood why Severin always wore black—even his gloves. Bloodstains were far less visible on dark fabric.

"Touch your tits. Play with them and look at me," Severin growled, his voice rough against the creaking of the table and their ragged breaths.

Isolde obeyed, bringing her bloodied hands to her breasts, kneading them as she held Severin's gaze. The streaks of red smudged across her skin only darkened his stare, his thrusts turning even more brutal and relentless.

Severin loved seeing Isolde covered in blood. Deliberately, she brought her index finger—stained with Rhea's blood—to her lips and licked it without breaking eye contact with him. The metallic tang of Rhea's blood spread across her tongue, and her bold act made Severin's erection twitch inside her—she could feel it.

Suddenly, Severin lifted Isolde, carrying her without breaking their connection. He moved them toward the sofa and sat down, straddling her on his lap.

Isolde whimpered—in this position, he felt even deeper inside her. Severin tilted his head back, his hand brushing the stray hairs from her forehead before tucking them behind her ear.

"Ride me," he commanded in a rough voice, his hands cupping her bare breasts.

"Good girl..." Severin whispered again as Isolde obeyed his command.

Isolde's vision blurred, her lips parting as soft moans escaped effortlessly. Her mind was a chaotic mess—she felt as if she were floating, soaring too high, consumed by a euphoria she hadn't felt in so long.

It was similar to the rush she'd experienced when Maxen first introduced her to ecstasy two years ago. But this time, there were no drugs—just the rough grip of Severin's hands on her breasts, the overwhelming fullness of him inside her, sending her spiraling.

What is this feeling? Was it the adrenaline rush from killing Rhea with her own hands? Was this what serial killers felt after finishing off their targets—aroused and dizzy with exhilaration?

To hell with all that. Isolde wanted her mind empty, focused only on chasing her pleasure right now. She looked down at Severin, her fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tight until he tilted his head back to meet her gaze. With her hips still moving relentlessly in his lap, she crashed her lips against his once more.

This time was rougher. Isolde chased her pleasure, riding him with abandon as she savored the heat of Severin's lips, biting down hard when she felt the muscles in her lower body tighten.

A stifled moan escaped into Severin's mouth as her body shuddered with electric tension—and she took it out on him, sinking her teeth into his lip until the metallic tang of blood coated her tongue.

Severin growled in unison with her as she felt the hot spill inside her. When Isolde finally pulled back and looked down at his face, she expected fury—how dare she yank his hair, how dare she bite his lip bloody in the throes of her climax?

But instead of anger, Severin looked satisfied. His bloodied lips curled into a wicked grin.

"Good girl, you completed your first mission. You've earned your reward." His voice was dark and taunting. 

"Now tell me, what do you want from me, my little devil?" Isolde met his gaze, unflinching.

"Your death."

…