𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐡 | 𝟏𝟖+

Promises

Dear Lord, when I get to heaven

Please, let me bring my man

ARYA MARTINEZ

I hope nobody heard our quiet discussion. I would do anything to have Elijah's head hanging in my room, but if my father found out he was here, and I didn't immediately attack him, my head would be the one hanging in my dad's office wall. 

I wonder if my dad knows Elijah is don now. I imagine he does.

Elijah made it very clear that he would much rather be eaten by a cow than to be in my room at these hours of the night.

"There is a ball next week and I need you to be my date." He calmly explains to me as he examines my books from my bookshelf. 

Noisy bitch.

His long fingers slowly trailing along the book spines. His eyes inspecting each one of them with quiet precision. Much more invested on the titles than on the woman in front of him.

He sits on my bed to continue explaining the plan.

Apparently, you can only attend the ball with an invitation. Said ball invites most of the mafias. There is supposed to be a truce on that ball. People mostly attend it just as a power move, to brag about what they have accomplished and what they could do. While my dad has been invited to those events he never attends. He said he has much better things to do than start a Cold War 2.0.

"Wouldn't it raise alarm if I got there as your date?" I question him. He thinks for just a second before standing up. Crossing the room cautiously like a predator stalks its prey.

As he is standing in front of me, he takes a strand of my hair between his fingers and tugging on it. Making me move my face closer to him. Our lips only inches apart.

"Haven't you only attended instate manners thus far. Of course, excluding the interaction you have had with my mafia. Speaking of, wouldn't you know about the deaths of 5 certain men Mia Cara?" His accent becoming more prominent on those last few words. His fingers leave my hair alone. But I feel his cold touch on my neck, trailing his long fingers along my collarbones. His eyes looking intently and curiously at mine.

Cold against warm.

"I think we both know the answer to that" I look up smiling at him, a smirk already adorning his face.

His touch leaves my neck, his hand lower to his suit pockets getting something out of it. Not to my surprise he gets my dagger out.

My neck doesn't get the time to miss his touch, feeling the sharp end of the blade instead. Hard enough to sting, soft enough to not draw any blood. "Do you know what I would have done in any other occasion?"

He trails the dagger to upper left side of my neck. "I would dig into your carotid artery and be merciful and kill you with one stroke."

I try to take the dagger away with no success, with his free hand he grabs both of my wrists together above my head. "Fuck you". 

He murmurs something in Italian.

With one swift motion, continuing his hold on my wrists he gets down onto his knees switching the position of the dagger carefully digging it into my inner tight, his eyes still fixating on mine, darkening. "Or perhaps a superficial slash into your femoral artery so I can watch you suffer for some hours or even days if I want to".

"How would it feel getting killed by your own dagger" he strokes my thigh. A sick part of my mind wanting him to move his hand further up, and to give in what a deep part of me wants. But I don't let that feeling win.