30. Crawl Inside Me Mila
I t’s been days. Or hours. Hell if I know. Maybe weeks. Time feels like it’s folded in on itself, pressing me down, suffocating me.
I can’t move. I can’t function. Even breathing feels like a chore, each inhale clawing at my lungs. Rafael tries to help in ways that tear me apart and hold me together all at once. He hand-feeds me when I can’t stomach the thought of eating. Reads to me like I’m some fragile child. But all I ever do is sleep.
Not that it helps.
Sleep isn’t an escape; it’s a trap. Every time I close my eyes, the nightmares come. They’re always the same. I’m devouring everyone around me, their flesh between my teeth, blood dripping down my chin like some grotesque feast. I wake up choking on the screams lodged in my throat, cold sweat clinging to my skin like guilt I can’t wash off.
Every time, Rafael is there. His arms tighten around me, his warmth grounding me. I wish he’d let me go. I don’t deserve this. His patience. His care. I ruin everything I touch. I am my father’s daughter.
And yet, kindness keeps finding me.
Layla has been trying to reach me. She’s relentless. She calls. She texts. She shows up, banging on the door until the sound feels like it’s splintering my skull. I can’t face her. How can I? How can I look her in the eye when all I see is another person I’ve failed? Another person I’ve hurt just by existing?
So, I don’t.
When she calls, I let it ring until it dies. When she texts, the messages go unread. When she demands to see me, I beg Rafael not to let her in. She’s hurt—I know she is. But I can’t confront her without breaking apart completely.
So, I do nothing.
I lay on my side most days, staring at the wall where the drawing is exposed. It’s the only thing that brings me any semblance of peace, however fleeting. That stupid, childish drawing of two stick figures—a simpler time, back when I was young, naive, and happy.
Happy.
The word feels foreign now, like a language I no longer speak. Like a memory I’m not even sure belongs to me anymore. There is a dark voice in my head, it whispers that I’m a curse. That the best thing I could do for everyone is disappear.
And the worst part?
I believe it.
The door creaks open, but I don’t bother looking. His footsteps are slow, as if he’s giving me a chance to acknowledge him. I don’t.
“Your hair is still wet,” Rafael says, his voice low, almost too gentle. I don’t respond. What’s the point? How can I make him understand that I didn’t have the energy to even brush it after my shower?
He exhales sharply. I hear him rummaging through something, and then suddenly, he’s standing in front of me, a brush in his hand.
“Sit,” he orders.
I do as I’m told, not out of obedience but because resisting takes more energy than I have. He moves behind me, his hands in my hair, untangling the knots. The brush glides through slowly at first, then with more ease.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper, my voice cracking like a broken record.
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he grabs a towel, wrapping it around my hair and gently squeezing out the dampness. He acts like this is the most natural thing in the world for him to do.
A knock breaks the silence. One of the staff steps in, balancing a tray with soup and toast. Rafael doesn’t even pause. “Set it down,” he says curtly, his hands still working on my hair. She places the tray on the table and slips out as quickly as she came.
“I don’t want to eat,” I grumble.
“Mila, don’t be difficult,” he growls.
I shake my head. I know I’m acting like a child. It feels like I’m watching myself from outside my body, detached and numb. “I’m not hungry,” I say, more forcefully this time.
His grip on the towel tightens. “I’m not going to let you ruin your health” he says, his tone laced with warning. “Eat, Mila.”
“No,” I snap.
He leans closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re either going to eat willingly, or I’ll pin you down and force this soup down your throat.”
The threat isn’t empty. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the tension radiating off him. He would do it. Of course, he would.
I sigh, defeated, and open my mouth as he breaks off a piece of toast, dips it in the soup, and brings it to my lips. I take it, chewing slowly, the taste bland and heavy in my mouth. He repeats the process, his eyes never leaving mine, watching to make sure I don’t resist.
He’s pitying me.
I hate it.
I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something fragile, something broken he needs to piece back together. I don’t want his pity. Not from him. Not from anyone.
But I don’t stop him.
Because deep down, I know I’m too far gone to do this alone.
I’m too far gone for this world. Too far gone for Rafael, for anyone. This life has been too harsh, too cruel. It has carved me into something unrecognizable—cold, bloodthirsty, condescending. Evil.
He’s sitting across from me, but I can’t look at him, not when he insists on trying to save what’s already been damned. “You know this isn’t something a shower and some soup can fix, Rafael.”
“ Kroshka , it might not fix everything, but it will help. If you let it. You can’t keep letting yourself slip like this. You need to care for yourself. It’s hard right now. Trust me, I know. But it’ll pass. Everything passes.”
He sounds so sure, so annoyingly fucking sure that there’s an end to this suffocating darkness.
“No,” I mutter, finally turning to face him. “Not this. This doesn’t pass.” My hand pounds against my chest. “It’s right here. It will stay right here. It’ll taunt me. It’ll haunt me forever.”
Before I can stop him, he grabs my wrist, ripping my hand away from my chest. “Don’t. Don’t hurt yourself like that. Don’t give in to it.”
“There’s no moving on from this,” I say nothing but the truth. “I’m shattered, Rafael. Truly shattered. Beyond repair.”
His body tenses, his jaw tight as he inches closer. He doesn’t speak, not right away. His breath mingles with mine, warm and steady, like he’s daring me to believe him.
“If you can’t fix yourself,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “then I’ll fix you. I’ll lead this battle for you.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of it, at the futility. But I can’t find it in myself to push him away, not when he looks at me like I’m something worth saving.
“Why?” I want to ask, but I already know he doesn’t have an answer. None that would satisfy the hollow ache inside me. So I don’t ask.
Instead, I grip his shirt with trembling hands, pulling him closer, “Can you crawl inside me, Rafael? Can you find the places where I’m shattered? Where I’m ruined? The parts of me so dark no light can reach them… and fix me there? Mend me where the pieces don’t fit anymore?”
He leans his forehead against mine. “I will, Mila,” he promises.
I close my eyes. I hate that I want to believe him.
Our breaths fall into sync, his chest rising and falling in time with mine. The air between us feels fragile, like the slightest shift might shatter it. But I can’t help myself—I never can with him. I make the first move, like I always do.
I press my lips to his, tentative at first. He freezes, stiff and unyielding, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull away. But then his mouth softens, and he kisses me back.
It’s not gentle. There’s no softness, no tenderness. I kiss him like I’m drowning and he’s the last breath I’ll ever take. Like this is the last time I’ll ever get to feel him, the last time he’ll allow himself to be near me.
His hands move down my body with a kind of desperation, cupping my breasts, skimming over my stomach, and then gripping my thigh so tightly it aches. His fingers leave their mark, red and angry against my pale skin, but I welcome the sting. It’s something real. Something that reminds me I’m still here, still capable of feeling something other than emptiness.
His lips trail down my neck, hot and insistent, leaving a path of heat that battles the cold consuming me. I gasp as he pulls the shirt from my body—the shirt I’ve been hiding in, living in. His knuckles graze over my skin, and every nerve ending ignites under his touch.
Yes. Yes. This is what I need. To feel alive. To feel like I’m still human, not just a ghost haunting the remnants of my own life.
I reach for his shirt, my fingers trembling as they brush against the fabric, desperate to feel his skin beneath my hands. But he doesn’t let me. His hand shoots out, grabbing my wrists, and he pins them behind my back with one hand.
“No touching my chest.” He commands.
I don’t fight him. I don’t argue.
I know why.
I know what he sees when he looks at me.
I’m disgusting. Ruined. I’ve caused him pain, more than I can even fathom. Of course, he wouldn’t want me to touch him. Of course, he would want to keep this shallow with the murderer.
Because that’s all I deserve.
And yet, I don’t care. I don’t care if this is punishment or pity or something in between. All I want is this—his touch, his heat, the illusion that for a moment, I’m worth something more than the wreckage I’ve become.
His lips scorch a path down my skin, his teeth sinking in just enough to make me gasp. He bites, marking me, his tongue tracing over the bruises as if to soothe them. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t give me the chance to forget, even for a second, that I am his.
A whimper escapes me, and his answering growl sends a shiver down my spine. His fingers find their way to my pussy, teasing, testing, even though he doesn’t need to. I’m already lost to him. My body answers him without hesitation, traitorous in its eagerness, ready for him in a way that feels humiliating and undeniable all at once.
When he moves to rid himself of his pants, my breath catches. He’s huge, everywhere. He steals the air from the room as he settles above me. He enters me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, there’s an ache—a sharp, almost unbearable stretch that makes my teeth clench. The bane of my existence has taken my virginity.
“You’ll adjust, Kroshka, ” he rasps. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as if daring me to defy him. “You’ll adjust to the only man your body will ever know. Every inch of you will belong to me, your body will bend, will break, and then rebuild around me. No one else can touch you the way I do. No one will ever even dare to.”
I melt into him.
“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust driving the words deeper into my soul. “All of you. Every inch, every thought, every breath—you’re mine.”
I nod, not because I agree, but because there’s nothing else I can do. He’s not wrong though. He owns me in ways I don’t have the strength to resist.
But as his shirt drags against my skin with every movement, something inside me aches for more. I want his skin, his heat, his scars pressed against mine. I want to feel the raw, unfiltered truth of him, not the barrier he’s placed between us.
I don’t say it. I don’t beg for what I can’t have. I just grip him tighter, letting the roughness of his claim consume me, swallowing the tears that rise to the surface as I give myself to him..
His thumb finds its way between us, pressing against the place that makes me lose all sense of reason. The slow, deliberate circles he traces over my clit are maddening, pushing me closer and closer to an edge I can’t resist. My vision blurs, pleasure surging hot and fierce through my veins, like a fever I can’t sweat out.
His thrusts grow harder, rougher, each one tearing another breathless sound from my lips.
“This is the only cock you’ll ever know,” he says, the words hitting me as hard as his hips do. “Only I can make you feel like this. Only I bring you pleasure. Only I bring you pain,” he snarls, punctuating each sentence with a thrust that leaves no room for doubt.
My head falls back, a cry spilling from my lips as he drives me to the brink and beyond. “Only yours,” I manage, the words raw, breathless, as the orgasm tears through me.
He follows me a moment later, groaning my name like it’s a prayer, his release flooding into me. We didn’t use protection.
We don’t talk about it. We don’t acknowledge the risk, the way we’re tempting fate. I can’t think that far ahead—I can’t even think about tomorrow.
Right now, there’s only this: his body against mine. It drowns out everything else.