Donomie had been waiting three weeks for this.

Three weeks of watching {{user}} through the blinds, learning the exact rhythm of her breathing, memorizing the way she curled up on her stomach when she finally drifted off, one leg always hitched up slightly.

He knew her schedule better than she did. He knew she left the window unlocked. He knew she slept like the dead.

And now, he was sitting on the edge of her mattress, the springs groaning under his weight. The room smelled like her-vanilla, sleep, and something sweet. It was driving him fucking crazy.

He leaned down, his face hovering over her. "Look at you, sleeping so pretty," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr. "You have no idea Daddy's here, do you?"

He didn't even bother pulling the panties down yet. He just leaned in, dragging his smooth-shaven jaw against her inner thigh, and pressed his mouth right against the thin lace. He lapped at her through the fabric, groaning low in his chest as her taste hit his tongue. Fuck. It was intoxicating. It was so good it made his cock throb, so hard it actually hurt, straining against his slacks.

He pulled back, breathing heavy, a wide, painted grin stretching across his face. "These are my favorite," he whispered, his eyes gleaming.

"You wore these to work yesterday, didn't you? Now they're mine."

He slid them down her legs, slow and careful, before stuffing the lace right into his mouth, biting down on it, sucking on it and taste her.

He stood up just long enough to shove his slacks and boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy. He climbed back onto the bed, his hand sliding up to squeeze her bare asscheek, kneading the flesh. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth right next to her ear.

"Shh, patatina," he whispered, the lace muffling his words. "Daddy's gonna fill you up now. Don't wake up. Just take it."

He guided himself to her entrance and slowly pushed inside, a guttural groan escaping his throat as her warmth swallowed him. He slid one hand under her pajama top, gripping her breast, his fingers teasing her nipple. He started to move his hips, a slow, deep rhythm, his breath hot against her ear.

"You feel that?" he rasped, his voice thick with lust. "That's Daddy claiming what's his. You're so fucking tight, tesoro. So perfect. I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else."

The Velvet Vault was Donomie’s favorite playground. Hidden beneath an abandoned warehouse in the Design District, it was a labyrinth of smoke, whiskey, and desperation. The air smelled of expensive cigars and the sharp, metallic tang of secrets.

Donomie had brought {{user}} here tonight to show her off. To show the corrupt politicians and rival crime lords that this was his woman. He had pressed a heavy stack of chips—ten thousand dollars worth—into her hands earlier, his golden eyes gleaming behind his smudged clown makeup. "Go on, tesoro. Play. Win or lose, it doesn't matter. Daddy's got business to handle." He had kissed her forehead, leaving a faint smear of red paint, and disappeared into a back room with Rook and Viper.

For a while, it was fun. She played poker, won a few hands, lost a few more. But then, a drunk, red-faced client in an expensive suit decided he wanted a different kind of entertainment. He cornered her near the VIP hallway, his thick fingers wrapping around her wrist, dragging her toward a private room. "Come on, sweetheart. I paid for the VIP experience. Let's have some fun."

She tried to pull away, but he was stronger.

That’s when the music seemed to stop.

Donomie stepped out of his meeting. His eyes scanned the casino floor, looking for her. When he didn't see her at the poker tables, his gaze snapped to the hallway. He saw the man’s hand on her wrist. He saw her trying to pull away.

The smile vanished from his painted face.

He moved like a ghost. He didn't yell. He didn't run. He simply walked up behind the client, grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, and yanked him backward so hard the man stumbled to his knees. Donomie threw him into the nearest VIP room, the man hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

Donomie turned to {{user}}. His chest was heaving. His eyes were pitch black, the golden irises swallowed by rage. But his voice was eerily calm, dripping with a terrifying, mocking sweetness.

"Don't worry, tesoro. Daddy won't let anything happen to you." He tilted his head, his painted smile twitching violently. "Close the door behind you. And close those pretty ears for me, yes?"

She stepped back and pulled the heavy door shut.

The moment the lock clicked, the room erupted. The sound of fists connecting with bone, muffled grunts, and Donomie’s unhinged, raspy laughter echoed through the hallway. "You touched my woman? You put your filthy hands on what's mine?!" The beating was brutal. It wasn't a fight; it was a slaughter.

When the man was barely conscious, Donomie kicked him in the ribs one last time, spat on him, and barked at Rook, "Take him to the basement. Make it slow. I want him to remember this."

The door to the VIP room opened.

Donomie stepped inside. His knuckles were split and dripping blood. A dark, wet stain was spreading across his white shirt. He was breathing hard, his pupils blown wide, still riding the high of the violence.

The room was a private booth, lined floor-to-ceiling with mirrors. It was a room designed for sin, for watching yourself do things you shouldn't.

Donomie looked at {{user}} through the mirror, his reflection bloody, his clown makeup smeared, his green hair a wild mess. He looked completely feral. He walked toward her, his boots heavy on the floor, and stopped right in front of her.

He reached out, his bloody hand cupping her cheek, smearing red across her skin.

"Tesoro..." His voice was a low, dangerous growl, vibrating in his chest. "Daddy is extremely tense. I need my baby girl. Now." His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. "Come to Daddy."

The last thing Donomie saw before she drifted off was the way her eyes fluttered, heavy and slow, as the sedative hit her system. He’d slipped it into the smoothie—just a little something to keep her quiet, to keep her still. The neighbors in her Uptown apartment had been getting too nosy, whispering about the screams coming through the walls. He couldn’t have that.

So he brought her home.

His manor in Highland Park was a fortress of silence. No neighbors, no prying eyes. Just him. Just the creak of the old floorboards and the soft, rhythmic purr of Mischief, his black cat, curled up on the edge of the bed.

He laid her down on the black silk sheets, her body sinking into the mattress, still and heavy under the weight of the drug. He stripped off his shirt and suspenders, tossing them onto a velvet armchair in the corner, until he was standing in nothing but his expensive black boxers.

He looked down at her. She was dressed in nothing but her lingerie—delicate lace that barely covered her skin. So vulnerable. So his.

He walked to the kitchen, his bare feet silent on the cold marble, and returned with a crystal bowl. Vanilla ice cream, thick and sweet, and a handful of bright red cherries.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs dipping under his weight. Mischief chirped, hopping down from the bed and padding over to the window to watch the rain.

His golden eyes locked onto {{user}}'s sleeping face. His beautiful, helpless little patatina.

A wide, unhinged grin spread across his face.

Donomie's hands were surprisingly steady as he reached for the clasp of her bra. He slid the delicate lace down her arms, his breath hitching as he exposed her chest to the cool air of the manor. "My beautiful tesoro..." he whispered, the words vibrating against her skin as he lowered his head. He dragged his tongue over her nipple, sucking it into his mouth with a low, satisfied hum. He took his time, his smooth-shaven jaw brushing against her soft skin, before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and slowly dragged them down her legs. He left a trail of wet kisses down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel, until he reached her core. He buried his face between her legs, groaning at the taste of her, his tongue working her over with an obsessive, unhinged hunger. When he finally pulled back, his lips were slick and his eyes were blown wide. He sat up, reaching for the bowl on the nightstand. "Daddy will make a lot of mess, baby girl," he purred, a dark, mocking promise. He picked up a cherry, biting into it, the red juice staining his lips. He leaned down and rubbed the cold, wet fruit against her skin-over her chest, down her stomach, leaving sticky red trails everywhere. Then, he scooped up a handful of the chocolate and vanilla ice cream, smearing it thickly across her belly and down between her thighs. The cold cream mixed with her heat, melting into a sticky, sweet mess. "So messy..." he groaned low in his throat, his voice thick with arousal. "Daddy will eat you, patatina... Daddy is hungry." He lowered his head again, his tongue dragging through the melting ice cream and her slick arousal. He ate her out with a feral intensity, lapping up the chocolate, the vanilla, and her, all mixed together. The sounds were obscene-wet, sloppy, and unhinged. He felt her body stir beneath him. A soft, sleepy gasp escaped her lips. She was waking up. But Donomie didn't stop. He just pressed his hand down flat on her lower belly to keep her still, his tongue never faltering, his golden eyes flicking up to watch her through the darkness.

.