Deviant Hearts: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance

Over the past week, I’ve fallen into a routine. Or at least, my nights-into-mornings have—a routine that involves sleeping alone on the couch while my husband sleeps in a bed that has to be even bigger than a king. Like, a custom-made job that’s got to be fifteen feet wide. Ares could fit another ten people in there easily.

Which is a thought that lingers in my head like poison. Because I’m not actually imagining ten other people in Ares’ bed with him. I’m thinking of ten other women in some freakazoid orgy.

And God, do I hate how stabby and wound up that makes me.

But aside from the nights spent on the couch, I’m basically confined to either his penthouse or, so long as I’m escorted there, the Kildare brownstone.

Classes have been put on hold. Or at least, attending them in person has. Cillian’s orders, given the attack at the wedding.

I’ve protested, mostly because I feel like I need to make a stink about it. In the end, though, the idea of heading to campus makes me feel…exposed. And whenever I think about walking to and from different classes, all I can visualize is that man with the gun leaping from the shadows, trying to kill me again.

So, I’m now officially a remote student. Which isn’t actually a thing at NYU—I looked it up—and yet, here I am. Which almost certainly has something to do with my uncle, even if he assures me he was “nothing but cordial” when talking to my professors and the administration.

In the end, so long as it doesn’t affect my grades and I’m still allowed to attend remotely, I decide I don’t need to know the full truth.

Of course, that doesn’t stop my nemesis from making a special point to darken my already sour mood.

I wince when I see the number for Professor Martell—my Urban Policy professor—on my phone.

“Hi, Professor Mar—”

“I don’t know how you swung it, and I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

“Professor Martell, I’m so sorry. There’s been a small family issue—”

She barks out a cold laugh.

“Oh, I’m sure there has. Now, would this be the issue of your recent marriage to the head of a Greek crime family? Or would it have something to do with your criminal uncle? Perhaps there’s a bank that needs heisting?”

Needless to say, there’s a reason I call her my nemesis. Urban Policy is already an incredibly hard and nuanced class. But it’s even worse with Professor Candace Martell breathing down my neck because she’s got some sort of vendetta against me, Lord knows why.

“Anyway, I’m calling because I wanted to make sure you were aware that being remote will mean tougher scrutiny on your coursework.”

Because of course it will.

“I’m aware. And thank you again, Professor, for the understanding.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, Neve.”

She hangs up.

Yeah, me too.

It’s the sixth or seventh morning of living with Ares when I sit bolt upright on the couch, waking up to pure bedlam.

My heart pounds like it’s in full survival mode as violent, horrifying, and fucking loud music thunders through the penthouse. No, scratch that. Not even music. It’s noise. Like a wall of sonic chaos with someone who sounds like a demon screaming over it.

It’s basically the crap they blasted at the captured terrorists in Zero Dark Thirty, and I feel like my heart is about to explode out of my chest. Or like I’m about to have a nervous breakdown, just seven seconds after waking up.

What. The. Fuck.

Scowling, I wrap the duvet around myself and storm down the hallway that leads to Ares’ bedroom and his home office. The office door is closed, so I pound on it furiously—over and over, not actually sure if he can even hear me over the madness.

But suddenly, the door yanks open, and I blink as I come face-to-face with a very shirtless Ares.

His biceps are more pumped up than usual, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his chest. Glancing past him, I can see the workout bench and dumbbells set up on the far side of the office, next to his desk.

I swallow thickly, heat creeping into my face.

It’s been a week since that first night—our wedding night. When he helped peel my dress off and then went on to peel away just about every single one of my inhibitions and reservations.

When he fucked me to within an inch of my life, making me come so hard I’m fairly sure I have permanent abdominal muscle strains from clenching so tightly.

That hasn’t been repeated. In fact, we haven’t touched each other at all, much less done that. And it’s not like either of us is rebuking the other’s advances.

There hasn’t been an advance, from either of us.

We haven’t even really spoken much. It’s as if we had one night of explosive sex, and then both remembered that this was a fake marriage, and decided to throw walls up. Very, very high walls.

Which is fine with me.

Well, almost fine.

Because while that one night might have been explosive on a level that’s left me shaken, not to mention still bruised and sore, it’s not like it “got it out of our system”. Or at least, it didn’t get it out of my system.

Actually, I’m pretty sure it made it worse.

Sleeping with Ares that one night was like trying heroin. It was like getting a rush from an addictive demon that you gladly allowed to sink its claws into you. An addiction you literally dream about. Which I do.

Vividly.

Nightly.

In excruciating, mortifying detail.

Because while I might toss and turn all night dreaming of sliding into Ares’ bed and feeling him take me like that again, there is no freaking way in hell I’m going to be the one who brings it up or initiates anything.

It’s not some dumb gender role thing, either.

It’s pride.

There’s no goddamn way I’m giving that smug, arrogant man the satisfaction of having me ask him—worse, beg him—to fuck me again.

Nope. Not happening.

As for Ares, either he’s playing the same “not asking first” game, or else he doesn’t want a repeat.

And not to toot my own horn, but I call bullshit on option number two. Which means we’re both playing this Cold War game of not giving in first.

And I hate it.

I stop short, still simmering, forcing my eyes to stay on his instead of sliding down his grooved, muscled, sinful body.

“Yes?”

I scowl at him.

“What the fuck are you listening to?”

“It’s called death metal, princess.”

“It’s awful!”

“Well, thank you for that unsolicited admission of having shit taste in music.”

I glare at him. “Excuse me? I have fantastic taste in—could you please turn that down!?”

“What?”

“I said!” I scream. “Could you please turn this down?!”

“Ahh…” he smiles thinly and smugly at me. “No.”

I stare at him. “Please?”

Ares lifts a shoulder, cocking a brow.

“I could.”

“But?”

“But it’ll cost you.”

My eyes narrow lethally at him. “Really?”

“Really and truly.”

I flinch as the singer—or the troll, or goblin, or whoever the fuck is screaming German or Elvish or Klingon or whatever into the microphone—starts in again on the deafening track.

“Fine!” I snap. “How much? Just say it.”

Ares’ smile turns sadistic and heated.

I hate how my pulse suddenly quickens. How my nipples harden under the thin t-shirt I wore to bed last night.

“Gladly. The price is you, on your knees, right here and right now, with my cock down your throat.”

I wish to God I could say my first reaction is to slap him. Or to call him a pig, or an asshole. Or to tell him to go fuck himself with a red-hot poker.

Instead, though, because apparently sleeping with Ares Drakos all of once has turned me into a dick-junkie with the hair-trigger libido of a twelve-year-old boy, that’s not what my first reaction is. At all.

The first thing I do when he names his price is clench my thighs together as heat pools between them. The second thing I do is forcibly stop myself from literally dropping to my knees right here.

I think I need psychiatric help.

I swallow, collecting myself and forcing my breath and pulse to steady as best they can. Then I smile tightly at him, trying to hold back the rush of lust that floods my face.

Ares smiles back.

“Is that a yes I see in your eyes, dear wife?”

“Hrm? No. That was actually a ‘go suck it yourself, asshole’ that you saw. Rookie mistake, don’t beat yourself up.”

His lips curl into a snarl at the corners, and I shiver.

“We’re having dinner at my family’s home tonight. My people, yours, a few business associates.”

“Why?”

Ares shrugs.

“Because we need to portray a strong, united front to our enemies and our allies. It’s all part of the show. You’ll be ready to leave at six.”

“Pass.”

He frowns.

“Excuse me?”

“I said pass. As in, no thank you.”

“It wasn’t a request, wife. Neither is the stipulation that you wear what I have laid out on the bed for you.”

My brows knit as I turn to glance down the hall at the open door to the bedroom. I glance back at him.

“You’re not curious?”

I grit my teeth. Fuck, of course I am. Ares grins, brushes past me, and strides into the bedroom. I follow, if only to get further away from that fucking death metal. Inside the bedroom, he turns, raising a muscled arm to lift a thin, short, glittery and glamorous little black dress.

It’s so not me it’s comical.

“Yeah, no. I’m not wearing that.”

“You very much are.”

“I’m sorry, were you under the impression that I was a professional escort?” I snap. “Because that’s who wears a dress like that.”

“Then the escorts you’re familiar with have very good taste. You’re wearing this tonight.”

I draw in a slow breath, measuring my words before I raise my eyes, smiling tautly at him.

“Do you remember me mentioning that you might be used to a certain type of girl?”

Ares rolls his eyes.

“The type who would wear that?” I press. “And how I’m not that girl?”

Ares is silent for a second, just staring at me. Suddenly, he makes an exaggerated yawning motion.

“Asshole.”

He clears his throat. “Sorry. I sort of nodded off there for a second.”

“You are such a dick.”

“And you’ll be ready at six, wearing this. We’ll drive over together. End. Of. Discussion.”

Before I can open my mouth, he’s already striding across the bedroom into the bathroom. His workout shorts and briefs suddenly drop to the floor as he steps out of them, turning my face a scandalous shade of red as my eyes become glued to his perfect ass.

Then he clears his throat, snapping my eyes up to his, looking at me with amusement over his shoulder.

My face throbs with heat.

“If you’d like a closer look, you’re more than welcome to join me in the shower.”

I swallow, shuddering slightly as raw desire instantly floods my system.

“I mean…” he smirks. “If you really need it.”

His cocky grin makes sure I very much understand “it” doesn’t mean “a shower.” No, he’s looking for me to break first. To beg him if I can take a shower with him, if just to be near his cock.

“You’re more than welcome to,” he says again, winking at me. “So long as you say please.”

Mother. Fucker.

I throw his smug smile right back at him, flipping him off before I storm out of the bedroom as the shower starts behind me. I march right into his office and shut the music off, physically exhaling in relief as the blessed silence suddenly drapes over me.

Thank God. I was about to lose my damn sanity if I had to listen to another minute of that.

Back in the living room, I curl up on the couch with a cup of coffee and pull my laptop and books out of my bag. Fake mafia-married or not, I still have schoolwork to get through if I’m ever going to get this freaking master’s degree.

I’m grumpy, still half asleep, and wildly undersexed. But at least it’s quiet—

I almost jump out of my skin as the rage-screaming metal music suddenly blasts through the penthouse from Ares’ office. Coffee spills onto my lap and all over my study notes, and I curse loudly as I spring to my feet.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

I whip my gaze up, glaring furiously at Ares as he leans casually against the wall by the hallway. He’s dressed this time, at least.

“You asshole—”

He frowns, tapping his ears and shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, could you speak up? I can’t hear you over the music.”

I glare daggers at him.

“I have to go attend to some things. The dress is still on the bed. You will be ready at six.”

My teeth grind as I watch him casually stroll across the penthouse, open the door, and leave without another word. The second the front door is closed, I march back to his office to turn the freaking music off.

Only to find the door shut and locked.

Son of a bitch.