HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

Raven Noir, stolen and sold at birth, a lethal assassin scarred by a decade-old rape, infiltrates billionaire Damien Blackwood's elite nightclub empire as stripper, her cover to get close enough to torture and kill the man who unknowingly fathered her daughter. Damien, captivated by her icy control and commanding presence, pulls her deeper with lucrative nights and charged intimacy. But when he encounters her identical twin, the buried memories flood back. Mistaking the twin for his victim, guilt drives him to propose marriage. Devastated, Raven faces an impossible choice: expose the truth, seize her revenge, or let obsession destroy them all in a dark, slow-burn thriller of betrayal and forbidden desire.

Chapters

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

RAVEN'S POV:

The black SUV arrives at 9:45 p.m. on the dot, headlights off, engine a low, predatory rumble in the quiet Brooklyn street.

I emerge from the alley shadow, hood pulled low until the last moment, then open the rear door and slide inside.

The leather seat is cool against my bare thighs.

The driver, clean shaved head, thick neck, glances once in the rearview, gives a single curt nod, and pulls away.

No words, no pleasantries, just the faint scent of a new car and the city lights streaking past tinted glass like bleeding neon.

Tonight marks my first official night working for Damien Blackwood.

I adjust the lace mask in the dim cabin glow.

Black filigree clings from nose bridge to hairline, leaving only my mouth and chin exposed enough to tease, not enough to betray.

The wig is long, glossy raven waves that spill past my shoulders in deliberate disarray.

Hazel contacts mute the gray eyes that could undo everything.

Corset laced bone-tight, ribs compressed, breathing shallow and controlled.

Skirt high on the thigh, concealing twin sheaths; one slim throwing blade balanced for a quick flick, one mini-taser humming faintly against my skin.

Heels pointed enough to puncture if someone forgets their manners.

I look like every dark fantasy they pay to chase but never quite catch. Perfect for the role.

The ride downtown is silent except for the bass bleeding through the speakers, slow, deep, syncing with my pulse. I stare out at the passing streets, running contingencies like a mental checklist.

If Damien enters the room unannounced, play the tease, keep him at arm's length, gather intel.

Ten years of planning. One night won't unravel me.

Velvet reservoir appears at the end of the narrow cobbled lane in the Meatpacking District, black brick facade, no sign, only a single red velvet rope guarded by two bouncers who look like they bench-press cars for fun.

They scan the code on my burner phone without comment, then open the unmarked STAFF door with a soft pneumatic hiss.

The shift is immediate. Air thick with expensive perfume, Cuban cigar smoke, and the sharp metallic tang of arousal.

Purple-red lighting pulses in time with the bass deep enough to vibrate through my sternum.

Crystal chandeliers drip fractured light across leather booths and mirrored stages.

Three circular platforms dominate the main floor, poles gleaming like wet obsidian under spotlights.

Girls already move on two of them oiled skin catching every beam, eyes distant or predatory.

Up on the mezzanine, heavy velvet curtains hide private rooms.

The energy is electric, hungry, moneyed.

The stage manager mid-thirties, sharp black bob, intercepts me at the talent entrance.

"Raven Noir. First night. You're on the main rotation starting at 10.

Private bookings if they request you.

Mr Blackwood wants you visible; he said you're the new draw.

Locker 14. Change fast. Set in twenty."

She hands me a black keycard. "Your cut wires offshore the second the client leaves. Make it worth his while."

I nod once. No questions. I already know the game.

The locker room is controlled chaos.

Girls laughing, spraying glitter on collarbones, adjusting garters, stretching like felines in heat.

I claimed locker 14, slipped out of my clothes and changed into the red lingerie.

Mask in place. Wig perfect. Contacts sharp. I look in the mirror once, porcelain skin under heavy makeup, smoky eyes, lips blood-red. Dangerous, desirable, good.

I step onto the main floor at 10 sharp.

Spotlight hits center stage. I grip the pole. Music drops slow, dark bassline laced with sultry strings that curl like smoke. I start.

Slow roll of hips. Drop low, thighs parting just enough to tease my audience.

Rise slower, back arched until my hair brushes the floor. Wig cascading. I don't smile.

Men in tailored suits and open collars circle the platforms like sharks scenting blood. Bills flutter onto the stage.

Hundreds, fifties, twenties, like confetti at a funeral. I spin once, legs opening wide on the descent, enough to flash the perfect shape of my pussy. Gasps ripple through the crowd.

Halfway through the set I feel eyes that aren't just hungry, possessive, calculating.

Damien.

He's in the dark alcove above the mezzanine, black suit blending with shadows, bourbon glass dangling from long fingers.

Watching, observing.

I let my gaze flick up once. Our eyes lock for two heartbeats. His mouth curves small, satisfied, almost proud.

The set ends. Applause and more bills splatter on the stage.

The manager appears at the edge of the platform.

"Room 3. VIP booked you for thirty. Double rate. He paid for two services."

I step down.

Heels click across the floor. Curtain parts.

Inside, dim red light, low chaise, small stage with pole. And waiting there Clarissa Voss.

Platinum hair loose, red lipstick fresh, black lace lingerie that leaves almost nothing to imagination. The same woman I watched Damien fuck over his desk bent over, moaning, taking him hard while he gripped her hair like reins.

She looks up, recognizes me instantly, and her eyes narrow into venomous slits.

She doesn't speak, just stands, walks to the center, drops to her knees in front of the client, an older man in charcoal suit, Rolex glinting, already loosening his belt, cock out and hard.

The manager whispers behind me, "He booked both of you.

Double rate. He wants a show. Blowjob competition. Winner gets the bigger tip."

The client grins, lazy and entitled. "Ladies. Let's see who earns it."

Clarissa shoots me a look, pure territorial hate, then leans in and takes him into her mouth.

No hesitation, deep, loud, wet, sloppy sounds fill the room.

She moans around him deliberately, eyes flicking to me like a challenge.

Hand pumping the base in fast, twisting strokes.

Cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling visibly. Gagging slightly for effect performance art.

Silent competition.

I step forward. Drop to my knees beside her. The client groans louder, two mouths now. Clarissa's technique is aggressive, fast bobs, head moving like a piston, saliva dripping, moans theatrical and high-pitched. She's trying to out-volume me. Out-speed me. Win with noise and spectacle.

I don't compete on volume.

I compete on control.

I lean in slow.

Tongue flat along the underside, tracing the vein from base to tip.

Lips seal tight. I take him deep, deeper than she did, until my throat flutters around him. Hold, swallow once, pull off slow, tongue dragging, lips sealed, leaving him glistening. Then again. Steady rhythm. Tight suction.

One hand cupping his balls, rolling gently, thumb pressing the sensitive spot behind. The other braced on his thigh,nails digging just enough to sting.

He curses under his breath. Hips twitch hard.

Clarissa glares sideways. Pushing me away, she takes him again. Speeds up. Tries to match me. Gags louder. Moans higher. Hand twisting faster. She's desperate now, sloppy, frantic.

I ignore her. Focusing on him. Slow, deliberate pulls. Tongue pressing flat on every upstroke. Hollowed cheeks. Throat working in subtle swallows that make him shudder. I feel him thicken, pulse against my tongue.

Clarissa redoubles, slurping, moaning, trying to drown me out.

I pull off slowly, let saliva string from my lips to his tip, then take him again, deeper, holding until my nose brushes his abdomen. His hips jerk violently.

He groans, long, broken.

She tries to push in, take him back. I don't let her. I keep the rhythm steady, unhurried, merciless.

One final deep hold. Swallow around him. He cums with a choked curse, thick, hot pulses down my throat. I swallow without breaking eye contact with Clarissa. Pull off clean. Lips barely wet.

Clarissa pulls back coughing, mascara smudged, lipstick smeared across her chin. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, glaring at me like I stole her birthright.

The client slumps back, panting, fumbling for his wallet.

Thick stack of hundreds hits the table, more for me than her. "Jesus Christ. Both of you. Again next week. But you," he points at me "first dibs."

He leaves.

Clarissa stands. Steps close. Voice low, venomous, barely above a whisper.

"You think you're special because Damien recruited you bitch? He fucked me on his desk.

Bent me over, came on my back. You're just the new flavor. He'll get bored."

I wipe the corner of my mouth with one finger. Meet her eyes through the lace.

"At least I don't get fucked like a nobody." I replied , glaring back at her.

Her face blanches, then flushes crimson.

I turn. Walk out.

In the hallway, the manager is waiting, eyes wide. "Room 8. Another booking. They're scrambling for you already, words are spreading."

I nod.

I glance up at the mezzanine alcove.

Damien hasn't moved.

Still in shadow. Eyes locked on the floor below, on me.

His mouth curves again slowly, satisfied, almost proud.

I didn't return it.

I just walk to the next room.

But the fracture is wider tonight.

And Damien Blackwood is already addicted to watching me break other people's control without ever losing my own.

The rest of the night is a blur of bookings.

Room after room.

Men who pay double, triple, to have me alone.

Some want pole work, slow grinds, arches, drops that leave them hard and breathless.

Others want private dances, hovering inches away, heat radiating, never quite touching. I give them just enough to hook them. And they couldn't get enough of me.

Every time I glance up, he's there, watching from the dark.

Not intervening.

Just observing.

Happy.

Because the line outside the private rooms is growing. Names on the list. Cash stacking.

And every man who books me is another piece of his empire that now orbits me.

Continue to next part

My entire family was slaughtered three years ago by Alistair Kirkland, the usurper who stole the underworld throne. I was the only survivor. Smuggled out of New York as a child, I was trained in the shadows to become a flawless weapon. Now, at sixteen, I returned to the city that was supposed to be my graveyard. But the New York I returned to was a suffocating cage. Kirkland didn't just wipe out the Valenzuela bloodline; he branded my few surviving loyalists as traitors. He paraded my men down the streets in heavy iron chains, letting the very people we once protected hurl rocks at them. He bought the doctors, ensuring my wounded soldiers would bleed out in the dark. Even worse, the mother of my only ally—Julian Morgan—secretly sold us out to a Chicago warlord just to keep her archaic grip on power. I stood in the shadows, watching an eleven-year-old boy get his head smashed with a jagged stone just for defending his father's honor. How could the city my grandfather built cheer for our extermination? Why did the old guard prefer to cower and die in the dark rather than fight the monster who stole our home? "Ghosts don't knock on my door, Athena. What do you want?" Julian asked me. I tossed a blood-stained ledger of Kirkland's deepest secrets onto his desk. "I'm here to help you take back what's yours, and burn Alistair Kirkland's empire to the ground."

Action Mafia Modern

9.0

Jilted Bride's Revenge: The Valkyrie Awakens

9.0

I had been a wife for exactly six hours when I woke up to the sound of my husband’s heavy breathing. In the dim moonlight of our bridal suite, I watched Hardin, the man I had adored for years, intertwined with my sister Carissa on the chaise lounge. The betrayal didn't come with an apology. Hardin stood up, unashamed, and sneered at me. "You're awake? Get out, you frumpy mute." Carissa huddled under a throw, her fake tears already welling up as she played the victim. They didn't just want me gone; they wanted me erased to protect their reputations. When I refused to move, my world collapsed. My father didn't offer a shoulder to cry on; he threatened to have me committed to a mental asylum to save his business merger. "You're a disgrace," he bellowed, while the guards stood ready to drag me away. They had spent my life treating me like a stuttering, submissive pawn, and now they were done with me. I felt a blinding pain in my skull, a fracture that should have broken me. But instead of tears, something dormant and lethal flickered to life. The terrified girl who walked down the aisle earlier that day simply ceased to exist. In her place, a clinical system—the Valkyrie Protocol—booted up. My racing heart plummeted to a steady sixty beats per minute. I didn't scream. I stood up, my spine straightening for the first time in twenty years, and looked at Hardin with the detachment of a surgeon looking at a tumor. "Correction," I said, my voice stripped of its stutter. "You're in my light." By dawn, I had drained my father's accounts, vanished into a storm, and found a bleeding Crown Prince in a hidden safehouse. They thought they had broken a mute girl. They didn't realize they had just activated their own destruction.

Action Modern Romance

9.7

Mafia's Captive Desire

9.7

He leaned in, inhaling her sweet scent as his hands traveled from her back to her waist, and then down to her thigh. She felt her breath hitch as she let out a small gasp. "We shouldn't be doing this." She said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then tell me to stop." His voice was low, daring, as his fingers traced slow circles on her skin. *** Lucy had always lived life on her own terms, until the night everything changed. One moment, she was free; the next, she was bound to Barry Cooper, a cold, dangerous man who ruled the underworld with an iron fist. She never expected to be trapped in a world of power struggles, deceit, and unspoken desires. But as the lines between captor and captive blur, Lucy realizes she's caught in a deadly game, one where trust is a luxury and survival is not guaranteed. Will she escape the ruthless mobster who owns her... or will she become his greatest obsession?

Action Adventure Mafia

8.6

Marrying His Rival: The Jilted Wife's Sweet Revenge

8.6

"Her blood type is a match. It’s the only option." I froze outside the conference room door, the quarterly reports digging into my ribs. I knew that voice. It was Ben, my husband’s best friend and doctor. But the next voice, cold and devoid of warmth, shattered my world. "Then we do it," my husband Ethan said. "Chloe cannot wait any longer. If Ava is the match, then Ava is the solution." For the past month, Ethan had been obsessed with my health, insisting on daily "vitamins" and endless checkups. He called it love. Standing in that hallway, I realized he was actually shopping for spare parts. "She is your wife, Ethan," Ben argued weakly. "You can't just harvest her like a crop." "She became my wife because she was useful," Ethan replied, his indifference cutting deeper than any scalpel. "Now, she can be useful for this." The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The nausea I’d been feeling wasn't stress. I was pregnant. And those "vitamins" he fed me every morning? They weren't supplements. They were poisons designed to ensure I remained a viable donor. He was killing his own child to save his mistress. To him, I wasn't a partner. I was livestock. An asset to be liquidated for parts. I didn't burst into the room. I didn't scream. I walked away in silence, my hand hovering over my stomach. He wanted my kidney? He wanted to carve me up? I decided right then. I wouldn't just leave. I would terminate the pregnancy, fake my death, and burn his entire world to the ground.

Action Modern Romance

8.9

Pregnant With The Ruthless Billionaire's Secret

8.9

Aubree Hamilton was the top-tier executive assistant to Wall Street's most ruthless titan, Beck Franco. A month ago, she made a catastrophic mistake and spent the night in his bed. Thinking she had erased the mistake with a morning-after pill, she panicked upon his return and lied about being engaged to push him away. But Beck, a man who despised disloyalty above all else, immediately suspended her and ordered her escorted out of the building. Her nightmare only escalated when her toxic ex-boyfriend attacked her on the street, tearing her purse open and exposing the empty morning-after pill box to the public—and to Beck, who was watching from his penthouse. After having his security rescue her, Beck trapped her in his car, ruthlessly tearing apart her fake engagement. Later in her apartment, the suffocating tension between them almost ignited into a kiss, but a violent wave of nausea suddenly hit Aubree. She shoved him away with all her strength and violently threw up in the bathroom. Beck took it as the ultimate physical disgust. He walked out, deeply humiliated and dangerously obsessed, unleashing his resources to investigate her every move. Left alone and trembling, Aubree finally checked the crushed white box. The pill she took had expired a month ago. Staring at the two bright pink lines on the pregnancy test, she made a desperate vow: Beck Franco could never know she was carrying his child, and she had to disappear before he found out.

Action Billionaire Mystery

9.4

Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

9.4

I stood before the double doors of the master suite, my hand hovering inches from the polished brass. As a surgeon, I was trained to steady my heart before a cut, but the silence in the Alexander estate felt like the heavy, oppressive pause that always preceded a scream. I pushed the mahogany door open to find my fiancé, Authur, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets with a woman named Jasmine. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and a floral perfume that wasn't mine—a brutal reality check just twenty-four hours before the merger meant to save my family from total ruin. Authur didn't look guilty; he looked amused, coldly telling me to close the door because I was letting in a draft. When his parents unexpectedly arrived, I was forced to hide his mistress and pretend our "intensity" had ruined the room, donning his discarded shirt to look disheveled just to protect the Lawrence family stock price. The humiliation only deepened on our wedding morning when Authur issued a sadistic ultimatum over the phone. "Wear your scrubs to the altar—the ones covered in blood—or I'll watch your father's company go belly up by lunch." He wanted to turn our wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral into a public execution of my dignity. I walked down the aisle in shapeless navy cotton and crimson stains, enduring the horrified gasps of the elite who labeled me an "insane gold digger." Authur stood at the altar, reeking of whiskey and malice, certain he had finally broken me and turned my professional oath into a circus act. But as the priest began the vows, I looked at the man who thought he owned me and realized I wasn't his victim—I was his surgeon. I had the footage of his debauchery ready to play for the world, and as we shared a punishing, hateful kiss for the cameras, I knew the real war had only just begun.

Action Modern Romance

HATE ME HARDER ( a dark revenge romance)

Chapter 5

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