Paying The Debt
Madison Faye
Contents
Paying The Debt
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Featured Content
Also by Madison Faye
His Little Bad Girl - Sneak Peek
Tempting Daddy’s Boss - Sneak Peek
About the Author
Flirting With The Law
Flirting With The Law
Author’s Note:
Mailing List
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
Epilogue
Mailing List
Sharing Beauty
Sharing Beauty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Mailing List
Mailing List
Paying The Debt
She’s mine to keep, mine to hold.
Mine to train, and mine to own.
Some people call me a demon – a bad bad man who does very bad things. They’re not wrong.
But that’s before she falls into my life – the too pure, too innocent, too untouched Skye Jensen.
She’s too good for a filthy mafia king like me, but that won’t stop me. I’ve been watching her for longer than she knows, and my interest has turned to obsession. I’m consumed with the pure need to take her, to claim her, and to make her mine and only mine.
The piece of shit who put her up as collateral at a card game he couldn’t win never deserved her anyways. And now she’s mine.
All of her.
I’ll be a ruthless monster to the rest of the world, but never to her.
I’ll worship every inch of her, and show her things she’s never even dreamed of. I’ll fight the whole damn world to keep her safe.
Because what’s mine is mine.
Forever.
Dominant, utterly obsessed alpha hero? Check. So sugary-sweet your teeth will hurt? Also check! Smoking’ insta-love cranked up to the absolute max? Check and check! If you love it quick and dirty and oh-so-hot-and-sweet, this one’s for you! HEA with NO CHEATING!
Copyright © 2017 Madison Faye
Cover: White Rabbit Creative
Photography: Wander Aguiar
Model: Peter P.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
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1
Skye
My heart races and my knees knock — literally knocking together — as my eyes drag up to the huge, massive wooden door. The house is enormous, even by Malibu standards. All glass and exposed beams — sexy, lavish, huge, and expansive.
Rich.
Terrifying.
Some people come to Malibu — the shining jewel on the crown of Los Angeles — to seek their fortunes. But most are here to show off the fortune they already have. I mean, every house on the drive here is easily pushing twenty million a piece, with another couple million in cars in the driveway or boats out on private marinas.
But this house trumps them all.
I’m not here to seek my fortune, and I’m certainly not here to show off, since I don’t have any fortune to speak of, at all. I’m the opposite of rich — not just poor, because “poor” would be an improvement than the current state of things for me. No, I’ve moved beyond “poor” into something worse.
Debt.
Not mine, but now it’s mine to shoulder. Mine to bear. I swallow, glancing back at the driver. As scary as he was on the ride over here, he’s at least a face I know, even if he didn’t speak a word and hardly even looked at me the entire way over here. This time is no different. The hulk of a man stands motionless beside the Bentley, impassive as the door I stand in front of, his shaded eyes not meeting mine.
I have no idea what to expect beyond these doors. Servitude? Prison? Torture? I shiver, my heartbeat racing and my innards turning to jelly as the weight of the reality of this hits me. Because as of right now, I belong to a monster.
I’ve never met Jagger Kovac before, but I of course know of him. Most people might not, truth be told, but in my house, the name is like the Pope. Mr. Kovac operates in the shadows. He’s the boogeyman — the man pulling the strings for most of the syndicated crime in California, if not the entire western sector of the United States, after taking over from his uncle a few years ago.
He’s not a gangster — not one of those people you hear about, or see in flashy blingy cars, or read about in the papers when they get caught.
Jagger Kovac is above all that. Filthy hands that never get dirty.
My father is one of the underlings — a low level drug pusher, not to mention a mean drunk, a gambler, and a frequent and sore loser. And that’s why I’m here — a bet. A damn gambling table bet that he was stupid enough to get into with Jagger.
With me as the prize.
No, really. My father loses a stupid poker hand, and now I belong to Jagger Kovac. Payment for a debt.
I’m shivering again at the thought when the door swings silently open in front of me. A demure, quiet older man ushers me inside the enormous foyer — the doorway inside flanked by two towering indoor palm trees. From where I stand, I can look through into the massive living room, and out beyond it, the sparkling azure of the Pacific Ocean glittering in the So-Cal sun.
“This way, Ms. Jensen.”
The butler, or servant, or whatever he is, says only those four words before he gestures with his chin, leading me through the house into the living room. The view is striking in here, and I’m practically dragging my jaw across the floor when he nods at a chair overl
ooking the view by the window — indicating for me to sit.
“Please wait here for Mr. Kovac.”
I nod quickly, demurely, trying to act as if this is something I do all the time. Like arriving at gorgeous, palatial houses because the mob bosses who live in them now own me is a regular thing for me. The butler doesn’t meet my eye though, merely nodding at the chair and waiting for me to take a seat before taking his leave.
The house is silent, and I can feel my heart racing all over again as I look out over the water. My hands smooth the cream-with-pink-flower-print sundress I’m wearing down over my thighs. It’s the nicest thing I own, and for whatever messed up reason, something inside of me wanted me to look nice for today.
For him.
We’ve never met, but again, I know who he is, and I certainly know his reputation. Ruthless, brutal, and dominant. Jagger Kovac runs the empire he controls with an iron fist — demanding loyalty and obedience like a king of an ancient land. And when even mean, hardened lowlifes like my father and his friends are scared of the man, you know it’s more than just rumor and reputation.
That’s the part that should terrify me. It’s knowing all that about the top man in a vast criminal empire that should have me trembling in fear, or crying, or begging for mercy. But there’s another part of Jagger Kovac, and it’s not stories I hear from my father’s drunk, drugged up friends. It’s not from reputation as a fearsome, domineering crime boss.
It’s that one time, a few years before, I saw the man that barely anyone sees, and after that, something inside of me caught fire.
It was at a wedding for the son of one of Jagger’s underbosses. How my scumbag, middle-management drug-pusher of a father got an invitation I have no idea, but he insisted on bringing me. And that’s where I’d seen him.
That’s when I’d felt wicked, heated, illicit feelings like that somewhere deep inside of me for the first time in my life.
He’d only appeared for a moment. After all, this was soon after he’d taken over the empire, and I’m sure there were more than a few people out there who wanted him dead to try and take it from him. But the man whose son was getting married had been one of Jagger’s uncle’s top men, so duty mandated he make an appearance.
And God, what an appearance.
Because for all of the scariness, and fearsome, brutal reputation surrounding him, there’s one thing I hadn’t known about my father’s boss before that night: Jagger Kovac was gorgeous.
It wasn’t in a Brad Pitt, handsome Hollywood kind of way, or one of those pretty boys cooing out wimpy love songs in music videos. No, Jagger Kovac was beautiful, and dark, and gorgeous in a very grown up way. Dark hair and even darker, haunting eyes. A jaw carved out of wood, and strong, eastern European features that highlighted his Serbian background. He’d worn his dark blue suit without a tie that night, the crisp white dress shirt open at the neck and the swirling ink of his dark black tattoos peeking through. Broad, muscled shoulders, like those of a football player or something, stretched the material of the suit. I’d watched, dry-mouthed and panting, at the way his biceps rippled and strained at the sleeves as he’d shaken hands.
I’d never before felt the wicked, teasing feeling I’d felt inside the instant I’d laid eyes on him back then, but I knew one thing.
I liked it.
I liked the way looking at this dangerous, brutal, ferociously sexy man made me feel — dirty, tingly, excited, and scared, all at the same time.
But that was years ago. And besides, even if he’d seen me back then — and I’m sure he didn’t — all he’d have seen would’ve been a gawky, silly little girl staring at him like a weirdo. So, as much as my dirty, inappropriate fantasies want to pretend that that was why I’m here, I know it isn’t. No, I’m here, in this gorgeous, glass castle of a house, because my scumbag father went on a bender, then went on a losing streak, and then decided to stake me on one last hand.
And lost.
I’m not here because Jagger Kovac wants me, like my teasing little fantasies want to pretend. I’m here because I’m his now, and all because of a bad draw in a game of cards. If my father weren’t the cruel, spiteful human being he is, Jagger might just have another stack of poker chips, or keys to a car, or maybe even an IOU in his possession right now.
Instead, he has me. I shiver, smoothing down my sundress again as I let my gaze drift over the beautiful, serene view of the ocean.
I feel his presence before I hear his footsteps, and as my heart jumps into my throat, I start to stand.
“No.”
The voice is like that of a Viking’s — strong, powerful, commanding, and menacing all at once. And yet, there’s a touch of something heated there too — a tinge of something fiercely protective.
I freeze at the command, breath coming fast, and my skin tingles as I hear him move towards me from behind.
“Sit.”
I nod quickly, smoothing my sundress down as I do as he says. The silly, girly fantasies and daydreams vanish, replaced by the cold fear and the brutal reality that I’m now in the possession of this fearsome man.
He moves right behind my chair, and I shiver at the feel of the heat from his body. I can smell the scent of his aftershave — something woodsy and manly. Something that smells expensive, and powerful, and clean. For a second, I have a funny thought that a man with this sort of reputation should smell like smoke and sulfur — like the devil I’ve been told he is. And yet instead, he smells, well…
Good.
Really, really good.
His hands find my bare shoulders, and I tremble at the contact. I’m not sure if I want to jump out of the chair and run or melt into him. The warmth of those hands seep into my tensed muscles, the strong, powerful fingers brushing across my skin and leaving tingly, teasing trails as they trace the straps of my sundress.
I very suddenly know I don’t want to run. I want to melt.
“You’re here now.”
His voice is a smooth, steely baritone, rough and yet warm, with the hint of accent from his background.
I nod.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“And do you know why you’re here?” he purrs, this time the voice lower and closer to my ear. I tremble again, my eyes half closing as those powerful hands stroke my skin and that dark, deep, dominant voice melts through my ears.
I nod again, panting.
“Good,” Jagger growls lowly.
“Because you’re mine now.”
2
Jagger
“Sir, she’s arrived.”
I nod absently, silently furious at Wilfred for interrupting the sanctuary of my study, even if I’ve previously commanded him to tell me when she’s here.
It’s redundant. Of course I knew when she arrived. I watched the progress of the car as it moved from her father’s shit-house in Lincoln Heights, through the city, down the 101 into Malibu. I watched on cameras as the car approached the front gate of the house, Jonah buzzing in and it pulling up the drive. And then I watched as he opened the door for her, wisely looking away and avoiding what I’m sure was the monstrous temptation to touch her as she stepped out of the car.
Because that what she does.
Tempt.
I wave Wilfred away, pulling out my folder on Tommy Jensen. Her father.
Tommy’s a piece of shit to the tenth degree. I’ve made it my mission since taking over the empire from my uncle Zoran to sever all ties with what I consider shit that’s beneath me — the shit I want our empire, under my direction, to have nothing to do with. The prostitution went first, because hell no. I know what it means to be so desperate for food and shelter that you’ll sell a part of yourself to get it. I watched it back in Serbia, during the war. I watched the light go out in my older sister Mina’s eyes as she spent night after night away from home, coming home broken and crying, but with food.
I’ve seen desperation, and I won’t sell it on my streets.
After our mother died — a victim
of crossfire while trying to get us out of a battle-torn neighborhood, it was my uncle Zoran who took us with him to the states. Zoran had connections, and it was here in Los Angeles that he was going to assume a captain's position within the crime syndicate. He rose quickly, until it was him at the top. Me, I enjoyed the tutelage of a man like that. I learned to fight, to deal, to impress power upon others. I learned to be a man.
But my sister learned to bury the wounds of what she’d endured back home with new vices — drugs. And that bring some to the second thing I’ve made it my mission to cut out of our business since taking over. The prostitution went quickly, but the drugs are proving to be harder to extract ourselves from.
Heroin apparently has more of a draw power then pussy to a lot of people.
The dossier on Tommy Jensen was to look for weak points. After all, I wanted to offer him a way out of his line of work before simply pulling it out from under him. I’m a powerful, strong man, and I will get what I want. But I’m also smart enough to offer the carrot before I break a stick over someone’s fucking head.
But with the dossier on Tommy came her.
Skye.
I didn’t know Tommy even had a kid. I mean shit, who’d have bred with that scumbag? But he did, and luckily, I’m guessing she took every single drop of her DNA from her mother. Gorgeous, willowy, and small. Thick, wavy blonde hair, big blue eyes, and luscious lips that send the blood throbbing into my cock.
And so fucking innocent.
So innocent, so sweet, and so pure, and here I am in a world drenched in filth and sin. Finding her through that dossier was like a ray of goddamn sunshine.
My bright blue Skye.
Finding her in that dossier also made my cock harder than it’d ever been before. It made me feel things I’d never felt before, and want deeper and with more conviction than I’d ever wanted anything. She’d made my goddamn jaw twitch, my blood run like fire, and my desire to have her engulf me.