Chapter 23
Tears instantly stream down my face as I look at the hand cuffed to my wrist. The pain is almost unbearable. It feels like my hand is going to break from the joint, but I don't even fear that happening as much as I fear turning to face Set. I can’t figure out when he got up from between my legs and got the chance to notice what I was doing.That’s irrelevant anyway. I'm going to die, probably in the most horrific way.
That thought only brings more of my tears running down my face as I watch his other hand unclasp the knife from between my fingers. I don't want to look at him. I’m too afraid to look at him, but the tone of his voice demands that I do it. “Wasn't my tongue good enough? Did you plan on me fucking you with this ?” His thumb goes over the knife's blade in a silent warning that turns my blood cold like ice.
“No,” I whisper, trying to prepare myself for what he's going to do to me. Not that one could ever prepare for their death.
“Do you want us to play with a knife? You should have said so from the start. I wasn't planning to rush things like this.” His thumb comes to trace my bottom lip in an agonizingly slow movement. “I was saving the best for later, but since you're in such a hurry, I will fulfill your little fantasy.”
“Noooo!” I cry out, afraid of what he's planning to do with me.
“Shush, it will hurt much more if you fight it.” My hand is still there—his prisoner. I would give anything to escape this kitchen, and be anywhere else but here with him.
“Set,” I all but beg him.
“You're so fucking beautiful when you fear me. You should see the way your lips shake when you look at me.” He leans in, claiming a kiss. But my lips can’t move in response. I just can't stop myself from crying, I know I’m only making things worse for myself, even though I’m aware my tears are fueling that messed-up part of him.
I feel his heavy breath resting on my lips; a shade of madness in his gaze, like he's on the verge of losing control, and I can't stop myself from calling him back to me again. “Set.”
This time, he does answer. “I'm here, Ya’amar. With you.” He whispers the words onto my lips while opening my hand, which had earlier held the knife. A knife which he placed back into my palm, but this time with the blade facing down on my skin.
“What are you going to do to me?” I don't want to ask this question—mainly because, in some way, I’m not sure I even want to know, but I just couldn’t help myself.
His own hand slips into mine, and his fingers intertwine with my own while the blade is hidden between our palms.“If I tell you everything I plan on doing to you, you will orgasm only from the thought.”
I'm scared to the bone, and I'm starting to fear that he won't do me the favor of killing me. He will do way worse things to me.
“You don't understand so many things,” he says, squeezing my hand tighter on the blade. “But it's okay. I'm trying my best to be patient with you. I’m proud of you for trying to find your courage. You were brave for what you tried to pull just now. But do that again, and you will be dead.” With his free hand, he drags the hilt down through our palms, splitting our flesh until a crimson strand of blood begins spilling down on our wrists.
The pain is sharp, almost unbearable. But nothing compared to the fright of seeing him holding the knife after I just tried to kill him; or looking at the strand of blood that’s dripping on the floor.
Shit, this is completely unhygienic. Only I would think of getting some random bloodborne disease at a time like this when I’m not even sure I’ll get to live long enough to get it in the first place.
Still, I can't stop looking at our hands together; the pain almost disappears as Set applies pressure to my cut, squeezing my hand in his own like he’s never to let go. This has a much more important meaning to him than just a wound. I’m beginning to think he didn’t even do it to hurt me. The cut running through our palms is now uniting us, and his lips part to whisper the words that confirm it.
“You're mine.
By body.
By blood.
And you will soon be by heart .”
It's like I am having an out-of-body experience. I don't feel anything except a strange warmth spreading through my veins, as if he has just murmured a spell to mess with my senses. Even though I’m having difficulty admitting it, his words mean something—not just to him. And that makes another cry echo as it escapes my throat.
“Shush, before I put the knife back into your hand and play a game of who gets to use it first,” he warns, jabbing two of his fingers inside of me in just one move. It's not meant to cause me pleasure. It's to draw pain because he curls them to press on my inner walls until I’m beginning to think he's going to tear me apart from the inside out. He knows exactly what he's doing—the damage he’s causing, and he stares me down as he keeps pressing on that zone that I swear will soon make me faint. He wants something from me, and his request doesn’t wait to be voiced out. “Say it. You're mine by...”
He wants me to repeat it. I follow his game and murmur “blood.” As soon as the word is out there, floating in the air around us, he takes our joined hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “By body,” I go on, and his bloody hand abandons my own to cup one of my breasts through my nightgown, his eyes pointing at me like he’s breathlessly waiting for my new promise.
I don't say anything more, and I feel his fingers squeezing inside of me to the brink of pain, almost making me scream from the intrusion. “And...” he waits for me to complete his sentence.
I don't say it. I don't want to say it, no matter what that would mean in the end. I try to endure the pain, unwilling to sell out the last piece of myself.
I think he knows I’m not going to give in, because his lips stay an inch away from mine, urging me to repeat after him. “And by heart...”he snarls to remind me of the pact he wants with me. “You will be, Serena. You will.” It doesn’t even come off as a warning; it's a promise and I’m beginning to think that scares me even more than any of his threats ever could. I suddenly feel the fingers that were torturing me losing their power. “But for now, I need to deal with the body part.”
What does the body part even mean? Is he out of his mind? Does he want us to just pick up from where we were left?
I quickly get the answer to my question as a line of kisses sends him back between my legs, and I can't believe he can still think about sex after I just tried to kill him. I could even say he’s more turned on, judging by the swirls of his tongue. The fingers playing inside me have gained a different rhythm, one meant to incite my senses and gather the pleasure to build within me at an insatiable pace. He wants to see me succumb to him, to make my body respond to every single one of his demands, and to recognize him as its master.
I'd like to think I’m strong, that he won't bend me to his will, but I feel that what he's doing to me is beyond my power. It's like he's setting out traps every time he pulls a new trick on me, and I can't help myself from falling into them.
Taking a look at my hands, I want them to stop shivering, the same way I want to take back the small moans that break through my throat. But it's impossible to resist him.
“Ya'amar, you're so tight that I think you're going to break my fingers.” He groans, looking up at me, then lets his tongue slide on the full length of my pussy, fully aware that I am watching his every move.
I try to close my eyes, and my mind to what he's saying. But his words are flowing through my body in small tingles that seem to meet in the pit of my stomach. And even if I try to fight back the fire he's igniting within me, I only seem to manage to make it worse. The harder I oppose, the stronger the pressure is below my waistline.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me tremble under his touch, but I soon realize I no longer have that option. I feel his fingers spreading within me as his tongue slides between them, and that damn piercing stops right on my clit. The things he's doing to me should be illegal because he's breaking me apart with each and every new second he remains between my legs. It's like I can't keep my eyes from closing, and my head from falling back to find support on the kitchen cabinet.
Before I know it, one of my hands is tangling between the raven locks of his hair. I can’t even tell when it happened. I could cut my own hand off for dismissing my brain, yet there's something about him that doesn't allow me to control myself. I hear myself moan, but I can't stop that either. It's quieter at first, but it gets louder and louder every time the metal on his tongue glides up and down my already aroused nub.And if I wasn't already falling apart, I feel his tongue retreat from my channel only so he could bite and then suckle my clit. My hand falls back onto the counter, trying to steady myself so I won't plunge straight onto the floor. The lightning sensation that surges through my body is so intense that I don't even know what to do with myself. I can only cling to the counter as Set is doing exactly what he promised—drink me in. I can still feel his tongue gliding at my entrance as he groans, feeling the results of my ecstasy. He’s even taking his time to enjoy it, like a well-deserved victory. Damn psychopath.
I'm about to faint, or at least go into some kind of shock by the time he finally stops. Still, my ego tells me I need to remain as calm as I can, given the circumstances—I am supposed to hate him, not enjoy the orgasms he gives me. In reality, that's mostly impossible because I feel my cheeks blushing fiery red as I watch him get back on his feet and lean in to join his lips with mine. At least he doesn't get to see how flustered I am . I try to man myself up, feeling his mouth on mine. Yet before I realize it, it's not him kissing me; it's me kissing him.
“See how good you taste on me?” he asks without breaking the union of our lips. I can still feel a sweet aftertaste on his tongue and I think that’s what he’s referring to.
Shit, that's from me.
How could I even think that he wouldn't see how embarrassed I am? I must look like a ripe tomato by the time he pulls away.And I quickly realize that my face isn't the only red thing in the room. My thighs bear crimson traces of blood from Seth's hand, while the kitchen counter resembles a murder scene. My own hand had been bleeding while clutching onto the counter, letting more than a few drops of blood fall to the floor.
I rush to grab a kitchen towel to clean it up, but Set shakes his head as a no. Instead, he takes the towel, and carefully wraps it over my cut. “Keep it there. Someone else will clean the kitchen by morning.” His palms mold on my hips, guiding me down from the counter, and I can't help but wonder how it is that he considers it normal that another person could come and clean all of this without asking any questions. The confusion dissipates as I quickly realize who Set is. Even though sometimes I think I willingly force myself to forget he's a killer, something always comes to the surface to remind me of that.
“My room.” Set arches an eyebrow, expecting me to comply with what seems to be an impossible request.
What does my room even mean? I suddenly feel trapped, teetering on the edge of claustrophobia as I am about to be head straight into the lion's den.
I want to make something up, like a stupid excuse that I have to wash my hair or maybe even change my bloody clothes, but all my lips manage to murmur is “I...I can't.” I can't even focus enough to come up with an innocent lie, but I do feel I owe it to myself to try to get out of this situation.
By the look on Set’s face, he doesn’t seem pleased with the answer. On the contrary, I see his hand coming toward my cheek, and some dormant self-defense mechanism kicks in that gets my own hands to cover my face.
I remain so for a few seconds until I hear the clink of a glass on the counter. Only then do I spread my fingers to see what he's doing and realize I must be losing it. I'm becoming too paranoid for my own good. He was just getting himself a glass from the cabinet, while I thought he was going to hit me. And that makes me think back to Nick and wonder if, at times, he wasn't even worse than Set.
“I need a drink, and you need to calm down,” Set says as he picks up a bottle of whiskey from behind me and pours himself a glass. “I'm not Nick; I would never hit you. But I wasn't asking. I was telling you. My room, now!”His tone, so imposing that it leaves no room for negotiation.
He doesn't even wait for me to start walking to his bedroom. He knows I will follow. I'm not dumb enough not to.
Maybe he's right, and I do need to calm down because I'm wondering again if I'm walking toward my death. I'm scared of him—especially scared of the pissed-off version of him. And I think trying to kill him might have drawn out the worst-case scenario.
Following him, I feel my heart caught in my throat as I watch him turn left to his bedroom. This is the first time I have ever entered his room. Sure, I was curious about how the place looked. I just never found the courage to actually open the door. Now that I am here, I realize that it’s not that different from what I expected. It's a statement of wealth and expensive interior design, and just like the rest of the house, it lacks any kind of warmth. Even though I find it strange for any other human being, it defines Set—perfect on the outside, but lacking anything remotely human on the inside.
I'm beginning to feel small in this space, and I think that's how it's supposed to make you feel—insignificant, just an object to be used by those who hold the power.
I can't help but stop and glare at the king-size bed. It's a piece of modern art in itself, with large black upholstered squares covering the headboard on the gold metal frame, perfect balancing form and function. But I’m not staring at it to admire the art. I know that's where I'm supposed to go, and as I look at Set, who is standing in the middle of the room, he confirms it.
I'm trembling as I lay between the sheets, mostly because a part of me is terrified to find out what's gonna happen next, but there's also some mentally damaged part that is somehow anxious to discover his plans with me. Yes, I'm that fucked up. I know it. And sometimes this makes me feel like I'm racing toward my death.
I quickly grab a pillow to hug, as if it’s going to serve me as some kind of shield in front of him. It only serves to elicit a smile from him. He can feel how uneasy I am with being in his bed, and I'm starting to think he enjoys torturing me this way so much that he's going to turn it into a hobby.
I don't make another move; I just remain here, so quiet that maybe he’ll even forget that I’m in the room.
Dream on, Serena. I tell myself, knowing he's all too aware of my presence. I'm even beginning to think he's going to put on a show for me. At least, that's what it feels like with every single one of his calculated gestures. He slowly draws the glass to his lips, taking his time to enjoy the fine liquor, and I can hear him crunch a few times on one of the ice cubes he just picked up from the glass. I want to look away from his perfect jawline, but it draws my gaze like a damn magnet. It exudes so much masculinity that when it moves, it instantly sends a wave of heat through my body. And Set seems a little too aware of what he’s doing to me. I watch him placing the glass on the table near him so he can get more comfortable—much more comfortable. His arm raises to the back of his neck, grabbing his shirt only to remove it in a swift move.
Another heat wave sweeps through my body. I always find it so attractive when a man takes off his shirt like that. Of course, I never had that before with the men in my life. I only saw it in some movies and figured out that that's just for people's fantasies. Well, Set is really turning out to be a living, breathing fantasy. Only he's not the hero; he's the fucking dragon. A hot, tattooed dragon I could look at for ages without getting bored—if only he would be different.
His belt comes off next, also with one sharp move, and some very nasty dark thoughts cloud my mind as I see it rising in the air just before falling to the floor.
Someone send help.
By the time he reaches the button of his pants, I realize that my body is arching against the mattress like it's getting ready for something. But this time, I'm not going to let any kind of physical lust replace my sanity. As soon as his pants are gone, and I can see his hands moving to the edge of his boxers, I pull the sheet over my head.
I did not just do that. I think I just embarrassed myself to death, and now there's no way I'm ever getting my head out from beneath the sheets. It's not like I haven't seen a dick before. I don't know why I'm acting like this; it just feels like even looking at him should be forbidden.But to be completely honest, I'm somehow regretting I didn't take a small peek. Though I have the feeling I'm going to find out sooner or later what I missed.
“I'm going to take a shower. You could always join me, or even come watch.” I hear him speak in a hoarse, but slightly amused voice as he leaves for the bathroom.
And I can't help but wonder how much of a dork I really am. “No thanks; I just took a bath before I came into the kitchen.” As soon as I speak, I realize how true my words really are— I came into the kitchen. I internally smile at how my mind works against me. Some flashbacks from earlier in the kitchen pop into my mind—his by body, by blood and by heart.
By blood—I suddenly realize that my nightgown along with my whole right leg are covered in Set's blood. However, there's no way I'm joining him in the shower. Besides, his sheets are satin black, so I'm not going to make too much of a mess. I also seem to have developed the habit of sleeping on blood-stained sheets, so that doesn’t bother me as much as it should anymore.
I can't hear another sound in the room, so I assume he's gone to the bathroom. That's my cue to pull my head out from under the sheets. Maybe I should try to sleep, but I know better than to lie to myself that pretending to be asleep would stop him from putting any plan he has with me into action. Been there, done that—it didn’t work out.
I just try to use the time I have before he gets out of the shower to hopefully arrange my thoughts, but all I really manage to do is stare blankly around me. The place is sublime; luxury and an exquisite taste in architecture found their way here. Still, it's not the graphite and gold-textured wallpaper or even the large dressing mirror that catches a part of the bed that captures my attention. It's a piece of decoration. A wall-sized piece of gold plate adorned with ancient letters—I assume hieroglyphs—tells the same story I saw when I was entering Set's office—the apocalypse. Only here, it's much more detailed. Monsters and animal-shaped humans are taking over the world and leaving it barren. The more I look at it, the more it gives me the creeps. I just can’t seem to take my eyes off of it, and by the time I actually manage to do it, my gaze stumbles upon Set's body. I freeze for a second, but I am somehow relieved to see that he's wearing a towel around his waist. I just pray to the God of Towels that he keeps that cloth right where it is because putting the sheet over my head again is not an option.
I have no idea what to do or say, or even what to do with my own body, which doesn't seem to find its place on the bed. And, of course, my anxiety is quickly picked up by him. “You're too nervous today, and when you're nervous, you do stupid things. I need to keep a close eye on you.” He heads straight toward the bed, and once here, slides in alongside me.
I just choose to pretend not to see him. I know this is childish, but it's not like I should be expecting him with open arms. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling as if the lamp above me is the most interesting thing I have ever seen in my entire life. My breath is almost nonexistent as I feel his heavy arm resting across my body, right on top of my breasts, and one of his legs intertwining between my own, while his head settles right next to mine.
Is he using me as a pillow? Is that what keeping an eye on me means?
It somehow feels unlike him to settle just with this, but I understand his reasoning. He's saving me for later, the way you save the best piece of cake for last, so you can savor it better. And instead of a good-night kiss, he leaves me with a tormenting declaration. “I like you being covered in me. My body, my blood.”
I wish I hadn't heard that, because the traces of blood on my own body begin to tingle, and his hot length pressing on my outer thigh gets my legs to squeeze together in a futile attempt to quell the tightening sensation below my waist.
But something else manages to distract me from my suffering; my attention is quickly diverted to what seems to be the impossible. His open hand lies somewhere next to me, and I can see traces of where his wound used to be . And I do say traces because that's all that's left of it. It looks exactly like a healing scar—as if the wound were at least a few weeks old.
That's impossible, right? Because my own wound is still bleeding.
I even try to take a peek at his other hand to make sure that I’m not looking at a different wound, but his other palm is as clear as that of a newborn baby.
The only logical explanation I can think of is that his cut wasn't as deep as mine. But then where did all that blood come from? And even if this was the case, it still wouldn't heal that fast. I'm just about to freak out. Still, I do my best not to move and awaken the almost-sleeping beast. I may be losing my mind, but I still have a little sanity left. I'm counting on that to keep me afloat for a while, despite all the weird shit that's going on in my life recently.
As if I’m making a last attempt to cling to the surface, I'm trying to force myself to feel uncomfortable in his presence. Well, I do feel uncomfortable because Set's weight is pressing down on me, but it's the good kind of uncomfortable. The kind a person could easily get used to, especially as I can feel his warm breath as he’s falling asleep and the warmth of his body radiating into mine, promising protection in front of the whole world. But the only person I really need protection from is him. I'm desperately trying my best not to let myself forget that, even for one second.
So, I close my eyes, trying to find some sleep before I make more of a mess out of my life than it already is. Good night, Set—Tempter of Bodies and Demon of Souls.