Mafia King's Contract Breeder
Chapter 34 Don’t Come Near Me

Chapter 34: 34 Don’t Come Near Me

Lara POV

I stretched out my limbs, bare skin sliding against cool, smooth fabric.

Oof, my body ached.

But there was a lightness in my bones, the kind that came after an incredible, earth-shattering orgasm and the deep sleep that followed.

It felt kinda like a hangover—except instead of a pounding headache, I had this dull, persistent ache between my legs to remind me exactly how thoroughly I’d lost control.

My eyes fluttered open onto an unfamiliar room. The pale glow of morning sun poured in from floor to ceiling windows that covered one side of the room. The bedsheets beneath me were black, the pillows lined with silk.

I sat up against the massive headboard, muffling a yawn with the back of my hand, and scanned my surroundings with growing disbelief.

Was this — Emmanuel Sagres’s bedroom?

The last thing I remembered was the elevator.

Why the hell had he brought me here? Was the great, untouchable lord too high and mighty to even step foot in the staff quarters?

Or was this some kind of power play?

One terrible difference between this and blacking out drunk was that I still remembered everything that happened last night vividly.

The way that he had claimed me on the floor of the limo, mocking me about how I hated him, and challenging me not to come.

A challenge that I had completely, unequivocally failed at.

And then blacked out from the power of sheer denial, good job, Lara.

I rubbed my hands over my face, my cheeks heating.

Maybe that’s why I was here. So the great Emmanuel Sagres could catch me in the aftermath and force me to admit how deeply he affected me. How easily he could unravel me.

But for now, as far as I could tell, I was alone.

Well. If I had this unexpected window of freedom in the lion’s den... I was going to make the absolute best of it.

For one, I was not going to confront him while naked in his sheets.

I yanked the black silk sheet free and wrapped it around my body like a makeshift toga, then dragged the trailing fabric behind me as I padded across the room. I pulled open the door I assumed led to a wardrobe.

It wasn’t just a wardrobe. It was a full walk-in closet, larger than my entire staff quarters bedroom. Of course it was.

The space was as orderly as everything else I had come to associate with Emmanuel Sagres: masculine, sophisticated, and radiating understated power.

Neat rows of tailored suits, shirts, and trousers color coordinated in black, blue, and gray. Watches, ties, and cuff-links in glass-topped drawers, then below that, more dark wood drawers, presumably full of underwear.

The whole closet smelled faintly of leather and his cologne.

My mouth watered slightly.

I scowled.

I was starting to develop some kind of Pavlovian response to the scent of his cologne, I realized despairingly.

I snatched a random white dress shirt from its hanger and shrugged it on, stealing it without a shred of guilt.

It swallowed me whole, the hem falling to mid-thigh. I rolled the sleeves up several times until my hands reappeared, then buttoned it enough to feel somewhat decent.

Right. At least I was somewhat dressed.

I poked my head out of the closet. The luxurious bedroom was still empty. Good.

Curiosity getting the better of me, I began to explore. One door opened into a stunning marble-lined ensuite bathroom.

A deep, sunken tub dominated the space, big enough for two. Beside it, resting on a low marble shelf, was a thick, serious-looking book lying face down.

I stepped over to read the title of the book off the spine:

Critique of Pure Reason, by Immanuel Kant.

...?

I made a face, equal parts disbelief and amusement.

Was the mafia kingpin’s idea of unwinding a bubble bath and dense 18th-century German metaphysics?

It was so...nerdy.

Shaking my head, I left the bathroom and froze mid-step.

Coming from this direction drew my attention to a piece of wall decor I had not noticed before—

A human skull mounted on a pole on the wall.

It sat in a place of honor between a large abstract painting and a framed Latin quote in elegant calligraphy. The empty eye sockets stared straight at me, hollow and unnervingly lifelike.

The bone was bleached clean, almost ivory under the morning light.

I stared at it for a long moment, aghast.

Empty eye sockets stared back.

"That’s fucked up," I muttered under my breath.

Dragging my eyes away from it, I pulled the sheets back onto the bed and idly pulled open the drawers on the bedside table.

The heavy thud of metal knocked against the inside of the drawer as I tugged it.

A handgun lay inside. Gleaming, black steel.

Power and death in the pull of a trigger.

My breath caught.

I reached out and wrapped my hands around it with trembling fingers.

"What are you doing?"

The cool, velvet-edged voice sliced through the silence behind me like a blade.

I jumped violently.

I swivelled around at once, hastily hiding my hands behind my back.

Emmanuel Sagres stood in the doorway with an unreadable expression, his gaze lingering on the collar of my shirt, tracing the way it draped over my bare thighs. Well, his shirt.

"Nothing," I squeaked.

"It is very rude to go through other people’s property without permission."

"I didn’t ask to be here," I shot back defensively, nudging the bedside drawer shut with the back of my leg. "You brought me here!"

"So I did," Emmanuel said, a strange note in his voice.

When our eyes met, my stomach flipped uncomfortably.

All the things we refused to admit hung between us—heavy, electric, and dangerous.

He had been jealous over me last night. Violently so.

And I... I couldn’t stop myself from reacting to him. His voice. His hands. The raw intensity that seemed to burn through every defence I tried to build.

I hate him. I really do.

But God help me, I wanted him too.

"What’s with the wall decor, anyway?" I said, jerking my chin at the far wall. "Is that a real human skull?"

Emmanuel’s gaze followed mine.

"A memento," he said smoothly. "From the first man I ever killed. I was fourteen."

The blood drained out of my face.

He first killed a man when he was fourteen?

What kind of sick, twisted psychopath killed a man and then kept their skull as wall decor?!

A shiver ran down my back, my face twisting into a grimace.

My expression seemed to amuse Emmanuel. His eyes glittered like he was back in his comfort zone again.

"Does that frighten you?" he said mildly.

"It disturbs me," I said through gritted teeth. "You’re— sick."

Emmanuel’s grin widened as though he found that to be a compliment.

He pushed off the side of the doorway and strode towards me with predatory grace.

My arm lifted straight before I could think better of it.

My fingers were wrapped around the cold steel of the handgun.

"Don’t come near me!"