Monstrous Urges: A Dark Mafia Enemies To Lovers Romance

Where the fuck am I.

The question tears through my head as my eyes flutter open, wrenching me upright as my breath chokes in my throat. My pulse hammers in my ears as I blink, my eyes darting around my surroundings. My head throbs, my mouth and throat are bone dry.

I force another breath, wincing as I try to swallow. As the oxygen fills my lungs, my vision clears a little.

No, but seriously… Where the fuck am I?

I’m in a bed of some kind, which is chilling in and of itself. My brain jangles as I quickly glance down at myself. But I’m still dressed, in the de la Renta I put on yesterday, before⁠—

It all hits me at once, making me physically flinch as I scramble back on the bed, into the headboard.

Before I went to dinner.

With him.

NapoleonInExile is fucking Drazen. That’s who I played depraved games with. Who I ran from in the dark.

Who made me come with his fucking knife.

The man that even dangerous, scary men themselves fear is the man I asked to chase me, and catch me, and fuck me, “whether I say no or not.”

I mean, Jesus…

The scene from dinner flashes through my head, arresting my pulse as I clench the duvet beneath me, holding on for dear life. The insanely personal questions. His eyes eviscerating me. The sudden change of subject. The way my head swam just before he dropped my lacerated panties onto the table, turning my world upside down.

After that, the memories fade to nothing.

And now here I am.

…Wherever here may be.

I swallow painfully again, glancing around the opulent bedroom. The walls are sand-colored stone covered with a light wash, giving it a very Mediterranean feel. Huge windows take up almost an entire wall, though right now they’re covered by sweeping white curtains. Even still, I can see the white glow of sunlight outside through them.

Gorgeous leafy flowering plants in terra-cotta pots fill one corner of the room. Earthen-colored tiles cover the floor, with a huge almost Moroccan-looking teal and burnt orange Persian rug laid over them. The bed is hewn from weathered wood and black iron, with white gauze curtains hanging from the four tall corner posts.

Across the room, a curved doorframe, again, very Mediterranean or Moroccan in feel, leads to what appears to be a huge, open bathroom, done in white tiles. Another similar door reveals what looks like a large changing room, or massive walk-in closet.

The third door—heavy wood with bands of iron—is closed.

Swallowing again, I gingerly swing my legs off the bed. My bare feet hit the floor, and I sway a little as I stand, my head still swimming.

That motherfucker drugged me, and I’m still feeling the effects.

I slowly make my way to the closed door. Unsurprisingly, it’s locked. Just the same, tugging on it and feeling the complete lack of give, and getting an idea of how strong and thick the door itself is, sends a shiver down my spine.

Then the panic truly begins to mount.

I whirl, my pulse spiking as my eyes dart around the room. There’s obviously no sign of my phone, and when I run to the other doors, I confirm what I guessed from the bed: one leads to the bathroom, the other to a huge dressing room.

I bolt to the windows and yank open the white linen curtains that fall to the floor. I wince, shutting my eyes tight against the blinding sun. When I force them back open, I shudder when I take in the view.

I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto…

Turquoise ocean stretches out to the horizon in front of me. Below the windows, there are rocky cliffs and crashing surf. The windows open with cranks, and even though there’s bars over them, I open them quickly and squeeze my head between the iron rods.

Where the hell…?

All I can see is rocky coast and the same sandy stone walls stretching off to either side of me, dotted with more barred windows.

Suddenly, I hear the whine of metal. I jolt, bringing my head back through the bars and whirling to see the knob of the closed wooden door twisting. My pulse thunders as it opens, and a woman maybe a few years older than me wearing a housekeeper’s uniform steps in with a tray.

Weirdly, she doesn’t even flinch as I rush toward her, clearly with every intention of shoving her aside and bolting out of this prison cell. Just as I get to her, she deftly slides the tray onto the weathered, Moroccan-style wooden credenza beside the door and turns to me.

In an instant, I go from charging her to being twisted around with both hands pinned behind my back and an insanely strong arm wrapped around my neck. My eyes bulge, and I try and scream as I fight her. Her arm just tightens, choking me as my bare feet kick and scrabble at the tiled floor.

“Easy, Yaelle,” a deep man’s voice rumbles.

The housekeeper force-walks me back into the room a few steps before dropping her superhuman grip. I pull in a ragged breath, my head spinning as I turn toward her. Then, my gaze goes past her to the huge man in dark pants and a dark dress shirt, tie-less with his sleeves rolled up, showing arms covered in what looks like Bratva ink. His dark eyes sweep over me as he nods his cleft chin.

“You’ll have to forgive Yaelle,” he murmurs in a rumbling bass tone. He smirks as he glances at the housekeeper. “That Mossad training just doesn’t ever turn off.”

I wince as I rub my sore neck, glaring at the still impassive Yaelle. When I rip my gaze to the dark-haired man, he flashes me a small smile.

“My name is⁠—”

“Where the fuck am I?” I hiss, eying them. Yaelle continues to look at me like she’s a fucking psycho robot. The tall guy just keeps smiling, which is infuriating.

“Where. Am. I,” I spit. “Because this is fucking kidnapping, in case you’re unclear. This is a felony⁠—”

“As I was saying, Ms. Crown,” the man says slowly. “My name is Milos. And you’re here as a guest of Mr. Krylov.”

I sneer. “Guests have the option of coming or going. Do I have that luxury?”

“That would depend on where you’d like to go, Ms. Crown.”

I glare at him. “This is a fucking crime.”

“I think that could be up for discussion,” Milos says without emotion.

“You locked me in a fucking room!” I snap, my nerves fraying.

“The locked door was merely a precaution—a measure to protect you should you wake up confused.”

“I can’t imagine why I’d be confused,” I snarl. My jaw tightens. “You need to let me go, now.”

He smiles again, spreading his arms. “You’re free to go wherever you please, Ms. Crown.”

My eyes narrow. “Oh, really.”

“Really,” the man dips his head. “Anywhere you’re not to go will be locked.”

“And if I run?” I hiss. “Will I be restrained?” My eyes drop to the gun tucked into his belt. “Or shot?”

The man shakes his head. “Of course not. There’s actually nowhere to run to.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re on an island, Ms. Crown.”

Milos and Yaelle leave me with the tray, which holds a pot of coffee with a cup and saucer, cream, and sugar, along with some toast, a bowl of olives, and another bowl of cherries.

Sure enough, they leave the door not only unlocked, but wide open when they go.

I wolf down the food and the coffee. Then I head out of the room, and the moment I do, my jaw drops.

Holy shit.

Wherever I am, it’s palatial. Airy hallways with the same sandy limewashed stone, terra-cotta tiled floors, and Mediterranean or Moroccan throw rugs lead to huge, vaulted rooms filled with gorgeous furniture, more potted ferny plants, and modern and classical art. I stagger to a halt in one room, staring at a framed painting on the wall.

A Van Gogh.

I wonder—even hope—for a second that it’s a very, very good forgery. But something tells me that’s not the case. Not in this house. Not with that man.

My eyes are wide, my mouth open as I drift from one room to another, until I lose track of how sprawling and massive the house is.

I gawk when I discover an airy, open hallway with one whole side open and overlooking the sea below. Further down, I step out of another hallway and into a stunning open courtyard filled with lush flowering plants, hanging Moroccan oil lamps, and sumptuous couches.

I start for a moment when I spot a black-clad armed guard when I step out of the house through a side door. But the man barely nods at me before turning to face forward again.

…Apparently, I can go wherever I want.

So I head directly to the cliffs I saw from the windows inside. Sure enough, the edge of the world drops away in dramatic, rocky shards down to the frothing surf below.

You’re on an island, Ms. Crown.

Let’s find out.

I follow the rocky cliffs away from the house. In some places, they drop away less dramatically, more like little hills sloping down to sandy beaches. I keep following the edge of the ocean, past a mound of rocky ruins that sends a shiver up my spine, and then a little glade of trees—curiously, with a tall stone wall around them, and a locked wooden gate.

Odd.

I continue walking for maybe another half a mile or so before I spot a white gravel road—or driveway?—that looks to be coming from the house. I veer away from the coast and follow the road, going away from the house, until suddenly I freeze.

In front of me, the gravel drive hits a huge wrought-iron fence. Beyond it, the road becomes paved as it crosses a fairly short—maybe fifty-foot—bridge to what, if Milos is to be believed, is the mainland. Four armed guards stand watch on the other side of the fence, on this side of the bridge. Another dozen or so stand around multiple dark SUVs and another iron gate on the far side.

I’m about to turn away when my brain suddenly short-circuits. I falter, my vision glitching as something flashes behind my eyes.

A half-remembered dream.

A fleeting image.

A flickering memory…

Come play, Annika.

Play with me…

I gasp as I jolt out of the…episode, or whatever it was. My breath catches as I tense, my pulse thrumming in my ears as I stare through the gate at the bridge.

I continue around the perimeter for another few minutes until it’s pretty clear Milos wasn’t bullshitting me. I’m almost certainly on an island.

I pause, peering out at the turquoise ocean. Then I frown slightly, shielding my eyes from the sun as I focus on something a little ways out from the beach coast below: a buoy, with a small little rowboat tied to it.

I swallow, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip.

It’s not that far out.

You could easily swim that.

As if on cue, a motorboat zips by with more armed men in black standing on it.

Drazen’s men.

Well, maybe I couldn’t swim it in daylight…

Giving up on following the coast, I turn inland until I hit the driveway again. I follow that back up to the sprawling house, this time getting a visitor’s impression of the grand entrance.

The house truly is gorgeous. So is the island, and the views of the ocean. I mean it would be a vacation paradise if it wasn’t for the annoying little fact that I’m here against my fucking will, and that it took drugging me to get me here.

Back inside, I meander through the house until I end up walking out an open doorway from a living room and onto a beautiful stone patio overlooking the ocean. The sun is hanging low over the water, and even though I’m a prisoner here, there’s no ignoring the warm, floral and sea-salt air that drifts over my skin.

Suddenly, there’s another sensation creeping over me. Something dark and chilling. Something malicious and cold. With a start, I whirl.

Icy blue eyes stab into me, freezing me to the spot as my throat tightens. A cold sensation, like standing at the mouth of a black cave, tingles over my skin, obliterating the warm, salty-floral scents of a few short seconds ago.

“Welcome home, Annika.”