I was no longer protected by tigers but forced to become one.

I’m Needle, and I will survive.

CONTROL.

I loved it.

I wielded it.

I owned it.

But that little Weaver whore broke my control, turning me into nothing more than a sex-driven idiot. She’d made me throw my decorum, calmness, and carefully laid plans out the goddamn window.

Her timid fingers. Her fluttering breaths. They’d been more of a turn on than the most experienced of lovers. She was so fucking pure she choked on a halo.

And to fucking ask me to teach her? Granting me power by evolving this virginal creature into anything I damn well wanted?

It was temptation.

It was not fucking permitted.

She was mine to take from. Mine to share.

I refused to train her, because in the end I would be the one delivering the killing blow. She wouldn’t succeed in dragging me into whatever game she played.

I breathed hard, even now struggling to find my beloved coldness. I needed an icy shower. I need to teach her a fucking lesson—that’s what I need.

A knock snapped my head up. I spun in place, trading the view of the front gardens to glare at my father. The man who’d taught me how to be the master of my emotions. How to rein in the uncouth part of ourselves and be ruthless with silence. He’d taught me the most—beaten me the most—and I was his favourite.

Thank God there were no cameras by the stables—if he saw how far I fell, his disappointment would bring repercussions. Big repercussions.

My father popped his head into the ‘Buzzard Room’ named for the hand-stencilled wallpaper of hunting buzzards and the mounted carcasses of ducks, swans, and small birds.

It was also the room I’d picked for Nila. This would be her quarters—a room stinking of death and decay.

She’d somehow won the lesson I wanted to teach her at the kennels. She’d managed to make me trade control for the promise of sex. It had worked.

It. Would. Not. Work. Again.

I pitied her really. She’d shown me so much in that brief moment. She was hungry. She was hidden. And she was so damn vulnerable it made me smile to think of her illusions. She thought she could outsmart us.

Us?

Diamond merchants, biker royalty, and proven masters of the Weaver’s fate.

Stupid, stupid girl.

I nodded at my father. “Cut.”

His grey goatee bristled. “Bring her into the dining room when she’s ready. Everyone’s gathered.” He puffed on a giant cigar, wearing a tweed waistcoat and trousers complete with a leather jacket from the Black Diamonds. He looked an enigma of motorcycle world and English aristocracy.

I nodded again.

He left without a goodbye, and I moved to sit on the seventeenth century hand-carved brooding chair. A chair made for men and only men. Complete with ashtray, newspaper stand, and heavy dark brocade designed with our family crest.

Ten minutes later, the door to the ensuite bathroom opened, revealing a freshly showered Nila. Her long black hair draped like ink staining her naked shoulders. She looked younger, innocent without the heavy makeup smeared from last night. Her eyes were bigger, like black unhappy pools whilst her skin glowed a natural dusky tan.

I’d seen her in magazines. I’d run a fingertip over her snapshot in the fashion columns but never found her attractive. She didn’t have breasts. She always stood like a fading shadow next to her brother and looked too prim and stuck up.

She was nothing to me.

Then why did I almost come while fingering her?

My mouth watered, remembering the wildness lurking beneath that up-tight-virgin bluff.

I swallowed, battling the blood rushing to my dick. The way she rode my hand—fuck.

Then I laughed. Out loud.

Waving at her tiny hands clutching the towel, I said, “I see your fingers are capable of holding something.” My head cocked. “Do I need to remind you what a disappointment earlier was?”

She was nothing to me before, and she would remain nothing to me. And after this afternoon there would be no way in hell she’d ever let me touch her again.

Which was perfect, because the next time wouldn’t be for pleasure. It would be for pain. And permission would take the fun away.

She froze, locking her knees. The heavy cloud when she suffered a stupid balance attack swirled in their brown depths. Sucking in a breath, she said quietly, “No, you don’t. You’ve told me countless of times. You’ve made me very aware of what you think of me, and I’m sick of hearing it.”

Pushing away the newspaper stand, I took my time glancing down her body.

She didn’t fidget or blush which pissed me off. I wanted her nervous. I wanted her terrified of what was to come.

I stood up slowly, clicking my tongue. “Ah, ah, ah, Ms. Weaver. Don’t take that tone with me. You’re the failure. You’re the prisoner. You take what I give you. You do not assume to have any say or authority. That includes listening to everything I deem important to tell you.” Ghosting to a stop in front of her, I murmured, “Is that quite understood?”

I flexed my muscles, welcoming back the soothing chillness of control. I hadn’t liked stepping outside my confines of civility. Things got messy when silence was disrupted. Things got rushed when tempers rose and curses flowed.

And I didn’t want to rush her undoing. I wanted to savour it. Devour it.

Running a fingertip along her damp shoulder, I smiled at her flinch. “Did you do as I asked and wash your filth away?”

Her lips pursed, anger glowed in her eyes. But she swallowed it down, muting the light. “Yes.”

“Did you leave your pussy alone? No trying to finish what I started?”

Her head hung a little lower. “Yes.”

My finger followed the contour of her shoulder, tracing down her arm. She stood silently, hiding the wild creature from before, depicting quiet sexuality and vulnerability. My mouth watered again, but it wasn’t with need to shove her against the wall and drive my dick inside that tight, tight cunt. No, it was because I’d never made someone with her skin colour bleed. Would her blood be darker? Would it be a rich chocolate like her eyes?

I knew her family tree. I’d studied it in preparation. Her bloodlines weren’t pure—there was mixed race in her past. A blend of Spanish and English. Another reason why Hawks were better. We were one hundred percent English stock. Unsullied.

Nila looked into my eyes. Her skin broke out in goosebumps. “Stop whatever you’re doing and let me get dressed. Where are my clothes?” She clutched the silver towel harder, hiding everything but her longer than average legs and tiny feet. “I need to charge my phone. I want my suitcase.”

I didn’t bother caring who’d she’d texted last night to drain her battery. There would be no cavalry coming to her rescue—of that I was completely sure. “You’ll receive your belongings if you please us.”

“Us?”

Stepping back, I smoothed my shirt, taking my time in delivering the truth. I hoped she’d move away—run even—after all, I was a hunter at heart. But she locked her knees again, standing firm on the thick mahogany carpet.

“Yes. Us.” Holding out my palm, I waited. “Take my hand.”

She hesitated, hoisting her towel higher, her tiny fist jammed against her small breasts.

I looked forward to making her obey, but then the aloofness I’d briefly witnessed in the kennels came over her features—blotting out the fire, turning her into an obedient robot.

Slowly she did as I requested, placing her slightly damp hand in mine.

The moment I had her, I marched across the bedroom floor. She gasped, jerked into motion, her legs darting to keep up. Silently, I wrenched open the door and stalked down the huge corridor, past shields and lances and crossbows, to the end of the bachelor wing where the Black Diamond brotherhood met once a week in a club meeting called the Gemstone.