Oath of seduction a dark.., p.1
Oath of Seduction: A Dark Mafia Romance (Deviant Doms), page 1
OATH OF SEDUCTION: A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE
DEVIANT DOMS
JANE HENRY
J HENRY PUBLISHING INC.
Copyright © 2022 by Jane Henry
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover art by Popkitty Designs
CONTENTS
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Meet Jane
SYNOPSIS
It began with a one-night stand.
Two lonely strangers.
One fiery attraction.
Nothing to lose…
Or so we thought.
But actions have consequences.
And in the morning light, pretty little Detective Emma King will have to face hers.
The man she let into her bed, the man she fully submitted to...
Is none other than Mario Rossi.
The player.
The mastermind of the family she hates.
The man she’s determined to destroy.
And now the only choices that remain to her are death… or marriage to me.
She's as smart as a whip and clever as a fox.
Sensual and seductive.
She’s determined not to yield to me again...
But I know what she craves. What she needs.
So I’ve taken another oath.
To seduce her.
To punish her.
To enthrall her.
To make her blood sing for me and her body crave mine.
I might be known as a player, but Emma will soon learn…
When I play, I always win.
CHAPTER ONE
Emma
I shiver when a brisk wind kicks up my skirt, the crimson fabric fluttering around my knees like the wings of a cardinal.
My mother hated red. She said it was the color whores wore.
She would know.
But I like it. Red’s full of energy and life, the color that symbolizes many things throughout various cultures and times—life and courage, anger and love. Passion.
I wrap my arms around myself to warm up, trying to be impervious to the biting wind.
“Happy now?” I ask her, my voice tinged with bitterness. “You got your way. I’m alone now. Just like you always wanted. Only now you’re not here to mock me anymore.”
Bitterness coats my tongue, even through the salt of tears. I swipe at them angrily. I vowed when I was fifteen years old I’d never shed another tear for her, but sometimes tears come when I don’t want them to.
I lift up my chin, defying the cold waterfront breeze to chill me. We’ve left winter behind, but the cool spring air hasn’t yet warmed, still holding on to the last vestiges of winter on the coast. A chilly wind whips over the water, pebbling my skin.
But I like the cold. I like the taste of the salty air, even as it turns my lips blue and I shiver. I like the raw boldness of it, the gusty bellow of a silent power that knows no bounds.
I step out further, the pointed, shiny tips of my shoes—death-defying heels I wore in honor of the occasion— edging toward the precipice.
Jump, a little voice in my mind tells me.
No one will miss you.
You won’t have to fight anymore.
Jump, and let the water wash it all away.
I stare at the blue-green waves laced in white, churning like a monster’s rage, boiling and simmering below as if defying the cold March air.
I laugh at the voice in my head.
Give up so soon? I taunt. Never.
I have a mission. A job to do. I’ve worked all my adult life to get here and won’t let one low moment push me into doing something stupid and reckless.
That’s not who I am.
I want wild, though. I want to do something that doesn’t follow the rules, that doesn’t make sense. Something... bold.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but the sun sinks from eye level to barely noticeable, nothing more than a splash of fading orange on the horizon. And with the setting sun, a deeper cold sets in.
My stomach churns with hunger. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I didn’t skip food because of grief. No, grief was the bitter herb I tasted a full decade ago. I’m beyond caring at this point. The tears aren’t tears of regret but of anger, though why I’m angry, I couldn’t say.
I’ve got a ways to walk, but I chose it this way. I wanted to be alone. I craved being alone. Sometimes, walking alone’s the one thing that clears my mind.
My mother made it easy. Hardly anyone came to her funeral anyway, save a harried-looking woman wearing a too-tight dress and scuffed flats. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t talk to me. She dropped a wilting rose on my mother’s dead body, then left with her head hung low.
And I didn’t care. I still don’t.
Ah, that’s right. I ate two mints from the little glass bowl in the waiting room. A meal for an ant, not someone like me. Fuck it, I’m starving.
Another brisk wind makes me shiver again. My legs wobble on the edge of the cliff. I’m in danger, and I know it, but I crave the bolt of adrenaline that courses through me when I look over the cliff’s edge. It helps make the little voice in my mind that coaxes me to jump to fade a little.
I listen to the waves. I close my eyes, my arms spread out wide to stay balanced. They say it’s harder to remain still with your eyes closed. My lips tip up in a grin.
I didn’t get to where I am by being reckless and dangerous, but damn if it doesn’t exhilarate me.
I focus on the details around me. It centers me somehow.
I’ve never really known how it works with me… I’m not like other people. When I was younger, I didn’t know enough to pretend I was ordinary, but learning to feign mediocrity’s a skill one learns with age.
When I was little, I pretended I had superpowers. I almost fooled some of my friends. The power of observation when others are blind to details does seem almost supernatural.
Not everyone could tell you that the sun sets today at precisely 5:38 p.m., that tonight we have a full moon, that there are three cars parked in the nearly barren parking lot below the cliff, that there used to be an ice cream shack there, and maybe it returns when the weather warms up.
I could tell you the woman who came to my mother’s funeral today was a hooker, but that was an easy one. She was the only friend my mother had, and yet she didn’t know who I was. It didn’t surprise me that she didn’t know my mother had a daughter.
I could tell you in kindergarten everything about my teacher’s wardrobe, clothing size, a full catalog. I could tell you what she drove, what she ate for lunch, and that she had two crooked front teeth and dyed her hair every other month. Not because I spied, but because I simply couldn’t shut my brain off. When I saw something, my mind automatically catalogued it. At one point, my mother and her then-boyfriend thought it smart to have me see a shrink.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” my mother hissed at the desk when asked why she’d brought me in during my freshman year of high school. Long after my father died. “The girl’s a freak. She’s way smarter than she should be at her age.”
Her boyfriend only cringed. Assholes don’t like when the woman they’re screwing has a smart kid. They sniff out bullshit.
I tuned it all out. Tuned her out. I got used to it.
“Ma’am, you can’t bring her to see anyone on the grounds of her being… unusual,” the desk girl said as patiently as she could. Meanwhile, my cheeks burned with embarrassment. This was before I realized I could’ve just walked out.
The day you learn you can just walk is the first day of the rest of your life.
I come to with the sound of an approaching car. It gets louder as it draws nearer. I stand up straighter. I’m a little shaken I didn’t hear it sooner, but the sound of the waves is louder than I expected and the wind howls in my ears like a mourning lover.
My eyes pop open. Those wheels are moving at an alarming rate, so much so I’m not sure they could stop now if they wanted to, not without careening off the edge of this cliff. I stare out at the fading sun, and listen to the sound of the wheels to see if they’re approaching or leaving.
Definitely approaching, and at a good clip.
Someone’s coming up here, and fast.
I’m a few feet away from the road that leads up here. I know, because I walked every damn step by foot.
I clutch my small purse to my side and swivel to see what’s coming.
Who’s coming.
A stunning red convertible, as bold and vibrant as the dress that clings to my legs when the wind kicks up, approaches from the east side of the cliff. The top’s down. I can’t see who ’s driving it, but whoever it is has a death wish, since they’re going at least a hundred miles an hour.
God, to be that bold. That daring. To feel the wind in my hair and not give a shit if I lived or died. To feel the power of that engine with a tap of your foot.
I draw in a breath and hold it as they come nearer and nearer. I can see the driver now, and my heart thumps a little faster. I can’t make out details, but I know from here it’s a guy, he’s big, and… yeah, he’s hot. Dark brown hair that falls across his brow, a T-shirt that clings to his frame… Faint strains of classic rock echo in the wind.
He slows as he nears me. My heart beats madly, and I clutch my bag as if it could save my life.
With the grace of a stallion coming to rest, the car purrs gently as it slows, then stops only feet away from me. He’s wearing sunglasses, his eyes hidden from me. Full lips tug upward in a smile, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, teeth that are too perfect, like the wolf’s before he ate Little Red Riding Hood.
Wow. He could grace the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. I’m rarely stunned by beauty, but this man… with his classic good looks and smooth, tan skin, I half expect him to speak to me in Italian.
“Hey, baby,” the stranger says, his voice smooth and seductive. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
A shiver courses through me.
I blink in surprise. It’s a classic pickup line, I know it, but that doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t beat a little faster at the heat that flares between the two of us.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that humans need to be fed once in a while.
Fuck it.
My mother’s dead.
Today begins the rest of my life.
I get one night of freedom before I recommit myself to my mission, my purpose.
I’m cold, I’m alone, and I could think of worse ways to spend my time than with an anonymous stranger in a sexy car. A woman like me trusts no one, but today, I’m feeling bold and reckless, and the guy, as hot as he is, honestly looks like he’d help little old ladies cross the street.
I swallow hard.
I wanted something different. Daring. Dangerous.
“I’ll let it go this time,” I tell him. My voice sounds a little raspy from disuse.
Who am I? I don’t flirt. I’m not witty. Yet the words fly off my tongue as if a stranger says them. “Guess you’ll have to make it up to me.”
I step toward the car, but before I can open my door, Mr. Tall and Handsome puts it in park, launches his tall, muscular frame out of the body of the car, and quickly reaches for my door handle. He moves with the grace of a dancer, seductive vibes rolling off him like a lover, and right then, I’d empty my wallet in the back of his car just for a kiss from him.
“Now, you know better than to open your own door, doll,” he chides in a way that makes heat rise in my chest. I’d do wicked things if he asked me to in that voice. “My mother would kick my ass for not behaving like a gentleman.”
Doll. Gentleman.
Oh, I like that. All of it. For one brief moment, we’ve stepped back in time.
He has a mother that cares about him. I think I like that. Is that just part of the pickup line, though?
He opens the door and gestures for me to take a seat.
The interior of the car’s wrapped in luxury leather. It’s buttery smooth and soft to the touch, lending a decadent, pleasant scent to the air around us.
What am I doing?
Mmm. I take in a shuddering breath as he trots back to his side and folds his long, tall frame into the seat beside me.
I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know where he’s from. And for the first time in my life, I like that.
I watch as he kicks the car into gear, and we take off.
I observe everything I can. It’s my job.
Now that we’re this close, I can tell he’s definitely Italian, but his accent’s faintly tinged with Boston, so likely born here. Dark brown hair, ruggedly styled, definitely mussed by the wind but it looks intentional… sexy. Tanned olive skin, and since it’s March in New England, either he’s gone to a tanning salon, or he’s spent some time in a warmer climate recently. He seems way too masculine for tanning, so my bet’s on option two. It’s getting dark, but I can tell his eyes are so blue they nearly shine in the darkness. Most of the Italian men I’ve met have darker eyes, but blue’s not out of the ordinary. Blue eyes likely mean he’s from Northern Italy, then. Genoa, Milan, Tuscany.
I want to look deeper into those eyes.
The rugged cut of his jaw, shadowed with casually masculine stubble, is offset by an almost boyish pair of lips that look like he’s perpetually smiling. Something tells me he can pull off a scowl that would make me melt. Jesus, those lips… A faint rose color paints his cheeks. His perfectly symmetrical face, the way he holds himself, makes him look like Mustang hired him for a two-page spread in a racing magazine.
The cut of his clothes suggests wealth. Paired with the car, that’s a no-brainer. A quick glance tells me the Mustang is a custom job.
His phone’s mounted on his dash, but even though it’s off, it’s plugged in and on. So either he’s someone that doesn’t like to be disconnected, or he’s someone who’s expected to be on call. Interesting. The screen’s clean, free of smudges, but it’s a smallish phone.
The car’s impeccably clean, not a fleck of dust or crumpled paper or empty Subway package in sight, yet from where I’m sitting I can see flecks of mud on the hood.
He was driving fast, then. Maybe even racing fast. A car like this was built for speed.
I glance casually behind us and note a black leather jacket folded over the seat, but there’s nothing else to note in the car.
Wrong.
My heart gives a quick thud when I glance again at the jacket. It’s hidden, and it’s discreet, but he’s hiding a handgun.
This boy—no, man—is trouble with a capital T.
“How long have you been waiting?” he asks. Fuck it, that voice is sin personified. Sex on the rocks.
“Oh,” I shrug quietly. My voice is a little shaky now that I’ve seen the gun. Weapons don’t scare me. Half a second with that beauty in the palm of my hand and I could make it purr for me. But for a brief moment in time, I’d wanted to believe he was a good man.
Maybe he is.
But could a good man handle a girl like me?
And does that matter?
“I mean… a while.”
Normal people would either ask for a name or offer theirs at this point, but I have no interest in doing either. And thankfully, he doesn’t seem interested either.
“So,” he says, reaching a large, heavy, masculine hand to my leg. I note it’s the only thing about him that isn’t model material, and I’m not complaining. His palm’s rough and calloused, his fingers strong, the nail tips blunt. There’s a silvery scar along the top of his hand, a gentle smattering of dark hair. When he moves his hand, I see a trace of ink on his forearm, but it’s covered by his long-sleeved shirt.
The warm feel of his confident hand on my naked skin feels incredible. I sigh and move closer to him and make the decision right then, right there, that whatever he wants to do to me, I’ll let him. I’ve never had casual sex, but tonight’s the first time I’ve ever wanted it. Maybe even needed it, the freedom not to think, to not have to plot my every move and every step so they’re perfectly aligned. To give myself permission for one night, just one night, to forgo perfectionism and live a little.
He traces his fingers so lightly on my thigh, I shiver. His touch is so electric, the wild part of my mind that doesn’t dwell on reality imagines sparks fly from his fingers. His voice, a low rumble that somehow both commands and seduces, slides into my veins like a potion. “How do I make it up to you?”
I smile to myself, and it feels a bit wicked. Not only am I dressed in crimson, I’m wearing bright red lipstick (also not my mother’s favorite.) I feel a bit like a sorceress.
