7. Kit
CHAPTER 7
KIT
The door clicks shut, a tiny, sharp sound that amplifies the sudden hollowness in my chest. I hug the crumpled clothes to me, the fabric rough against my skin, the heat of Raphael’s touch lingering. The way he pushed me away, almost carelessly, after… after , burns a raw ache inside me. He’s a puzzle I can’t decipher. One moment, he’s pushing me past the limits of sensation, his touch a brand, his words a claim, and the next, he’s discarding me like a broken toy.
My feet sink into the plush carpet as I walk back to my room, the silence of the opulent estate pressing in on me. This gilded cage, once a source of bewildered fascination, now feels like a suffocating weight. I close my bedroom door behind me, the soft click a fragile barrier against the turmoil inside.
It’s absurd, I know. I should be running, leaping at this chance to escape his control, his touch. But a part of me, a dark, thrilling, terrifying part, yearns for him. Yearns for the way he makes me feel—shattered and whole, terrified and exhilarated, all at once.
I dress slowly, my body a landscape of aches and lingering heat. Each movement is a reminder of his possession, of the way he used me, claimed me. I catch my reflection in the mirror and flinch. My skin is flushed, my lips swollen, my eyes dark and dilated. I look… ravaged. And the thought sends a strange, unwelcome thrill through me.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, I bury my face in my hands, the cool silk a small comfort against the burning confusion inside. Fear wars with desire, shame with a strange, burgeoning sense of belonging. It’s a chaotic storm of emotions, and I’m drowning in it.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway, and I jump, my heart leaping into my throat. I expect Raphael to burst through the door, his face a mask of cold fury, ready to punish me for… what? For not leaving fast enough? For the flicker of defiance I still can’t quite extinguish?
But the sound fades, leaving only the whisper of the wind outside. I close my eyes, willing my racing heart to slow, trying to breathe. And that’s when the memory hits me, sharp and brutal, like a shard of glass.
Mr. Henderson’s face leers in my mind, his hand gripping my arm, his breath hot and rancid against my ear. His words, slick and disgusting, crawl across my skin. The feeling of his hands, violating, defiling…
I gasp, my body shaking, the terror of that night flooding back, raw and visceral. I curl into a fetal position on the bed, my knees pressed to my chest, trying to ward off the images, the sensations.
The door opens, and Raphael is there, his expression… unreadable. For a heart-stopping moment, I brace myself for his anger, his punishment.
But he simply closes the door behind him and sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. He doesn’t touch me, but his presence is a palpable force in the room, a strange mix of threat and comfort.
“Kit,” he says, his voice low, a rough edge to it that makes my stomach clench. It’s not the cold dismissal from before, but there’s no tenderness either. It’s… something else. Something I can’t quite place.
“I…” I start, my voice trembling, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell him about the nightmare. I can’t show him this weakness, this vulnerability. Not him.
He sighs, a sound that seems to vibrate through the room. “You’re shaking,” he observes, his voice still rough, but with a hint of… concern?
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
He reaches out, his hand hovering just above my arm, not quite touching me. “Tell me,” he commands, his voice still low, but the roughness is gone, replaced by a strange, almost hesitant gentleness.
The small shift in his demeanor, the almost imperceptible softening, cracks something inside me.
I tell him about the nightmare, about Mr. Henderson, about the way he made me feel, the terror that still clings to me like a second skin. I tell him everything, the words tumbling out in a rush, punctuated by choked sobs and shuddering breaths.
He listens, his hand finally settling on my arm, his touch a warm, steady pressure. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t judge. He just listens, and his silence is more comforting than any words could be.
When I’m finally finished, the silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. I wait, bracing myself for his reaction, his disgust, his rejection.
But he simply pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me, holding me tight against his chest. The warmth of his body seeps into me, chasing away the chill of fear that still clings to me.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair. “You’re with me.”
The words are simple, but they resonate deep within me, a promise of protection, of belonging. And in that moment, nestled against his strength, I realize he’s right. I am safe. Safer than I’ve ever been before.
He pulls back slightly, his hand cupping my face, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that still linger on my cheeks. His gaze meets mine, and for the first time, I see something other than cold dominance in his eyes. I see… warmth. Concern. And something else… something that makes my heart leap. Something that feels… dangerously close to tenderness.
He reaches for the silk ropes, the moonlight glinting off the smooth fabric, turning them into shimmering bands of potential restraint. My breath catches in my throat, a nervous flutter in my chest. The ropes are familiar now, a tangible symbol of his control, of my… surrender. But the anticipation, the thrill that curls low in my belly, is sharper, more intense than before.
He pushes me back onto the bed, the soft mattress a contrast to the hard planes of his body. He binds my ankles to the bedposts, the silk a cool caress against my heated skin. The knot tightens, a gentle pressure that sends a jolt of awareness through me. I’m spread out before him, vulnerable, exposed. And the feeling is… intoxicating. Terrifying. Exhilarating.
He steps back, his gaze raking over me, a predatory gleam in his eyes that makes my cock twitch involuntarily. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice rougher than before, but with an undercurrent of possessiveness. “So fucking beautiful.”
His words, raw and edged with desire, ignite a fire within me. The shame I felt earlier, the fear, is still there, lurking in the shadows of my mind. But it's being consumed by a growing heat, a yearning for his touch, his control. It's a dangerous, exhilarating feeling, this craving for submission, for surrender.
He kneels between my legs, his hands tracing the lines of my body, his touch rougher now, more demanding. His fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer, grinding my erection against the mattress. A groan escapes my lips, a mixture of pain and pleasure.
He smirks, a flash of teeth in the dim light. “You like that, don’t you, Kit?” he murmurs, his voice a low growl against my ear. “You like being used. Being controlled.”
His words are a challenge, an accusation. But they’re also… a recognition. An acknowledgement of the dark desires that twist within me. And the acknowledgment, the raw honesty of it, sends a wave of heat through me.
He trails a hand down my chest, his fingers circling my nipple, pinching it hard enough to make me gasp. His hand moves lower, dipping below my waistband, cupping my cock through my underwear. I arch into his touch, a moan escaping my lips.
He strokes me, his touch rough, almost brutal, but with a precision that makes my breath hitch in my throat. He knows exactly how to touch me, how to make me writhe beneath him, how to push me to the edge of madness.
“You’re mine, Kit,” he growls, his voice thick with possession. “And you’ll beg for it. Beg me to take you. To use you. To own you completely.”
His words are a command, a promise. And the thought of begging him, of surrendering to him completely, sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust through me.
I close my eyes, my body trembling with anticipation, with the burgeoning need to surrender. He’s right. I will beg. I will surrender. Because in his possession, in his control, I find something I’ve never had before. A sense of belonging. A sense of… purpose.
He rips my underwear off, the sound of tearing fabric a counterpoint to the frantic pounding of my heart. His gaze, hot and predatory, rakes over my body, making me feel both exposed and strangely exhilarated. He’s a force of nature, all hard muscle and raw power. His broad shoulders and sculpted chest taper down to a narrow waist and powerful thighs. He’s beautiful, in a terrifying, awe-inspiring way.
He doesn’t waste time. He’s on me in an instant, his weight a welcome pressure, his hard cock pressing against my thigh. One hand grips my hips, his fingers digging into my skin, while the other curls around my throat, the pressure building slowly, a thrilling constriction.
“Mine,” he growls, his voice thick with possessiveness. His thumb strokes my Adam’s apple, the light touch warring with his roughness. “So fucking beautiful. Made for me.”
The praise, unexpected and raw, sends a shiver down my spine. The feeling of his hand at my throat, restricting my air, heightens the sensation, turning the fear into a dizzying thrill.
He positions himself between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I buck up against him, a desperate plea for release.
“Impatient,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “Good.”
He pushes into me, a single, powerful thrust that stretches me, fills me completely. A gasp escapes my lips, cut short by the pressure at my throat. He holds himself there, deep inside me, his gaze locked on mine. The world narrows to the feeling of him inside me, the pressure at my throat, the raw intensity of his gaze.
He starts to move, slowly at first, then with increasing speed and force. Each thrust is a claim, a brand, a reminder of his absolute ownership. I writhe beneath him, my body a canvas for his pleasure, my moans muffled against his hand.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his voice thick with lust. “So fucking tight.” He increases the pressure at my throat, just enough to make my vision swim, to heighten the already overwhelming pleasure.
He bends down, his mouth finding mine in a bruising kiss. His tongue invades my mouth, mimicking the possessive thrusts of his hips. I kiss him back, my hands clutching at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.
He fucks me harder, faster, his thrusts becoming more brutal, more demanding. He’s pushing me to the edge, shattering me, remaking me in his image. And I’m surrendering to him completely, body and soul.
He groans, a low, guttural sound that echoes my own rising pleasure. I’m close, so close. He pushes me over the edge, a strangled cry tearing from my throat as I shatter around him.
He follows close behind, his body convulsing as he spills inside me. He collapses on top of me, his weight a comforting pressure. Then, to my surprise, he moves gently, rolling off me but keeping me close. The pressure at my throat disappears, replaced by the gentle caress of his fingers.
He cradles my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that have leaked from my eyes. He kisses me, a deep, tender kiss that’s different from the brutal passion of moments before.
“My beautiful Kit,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice surprisingly soft. “All mine.”
He holds me close, his body a warm, comforting presence against mine. The aftershocks of pleasure still ripple through me, leaving me weak and pliant in his arms. But it’s more than just physical. Something has shifted inside me, something profound and unsettling.
I lie there, nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, trying to make sense of what just happened. The raw intensity of the experience, the blend of violence and tenderness, has left me reeling. The choking, the rough possessiveness, the brutal force of his lovemaking… it should have terrified me. And yet, beneath the fear, a strange sense of exhilaration lingers.
He strokes my hair, his touch surprisingly gentle. It’s a stark contrast to the rough handling of moments before, and it warms me in a strange way. This tenderness, this unexpected gentleness, is more unsettling than his dominance. It makes me feel… seen. Vulnerable.
I close my eyes, trying to sort through the chaotic storm of emotions raging inside me. Shame wars with desire, fear with a burgeoning sense of… belonging. It’s a dangerous cocktail, this mix of vulnerability and power, and I’m not sure how to navigate it.
He shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look at me. His gaze is soft now, almost… loving. It’s a look I’ve never seen from him before, and it makes my breath catch in my throat.
“Are you alright?” he murmurs, his voice low and husky.
The question, so simple, so unexpected, cracks something inside me. The carefully constructed wall I’ve built around myself crumbles, and the tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over.
I don’t try to hide them. I let them flow, a silent testament to the tumultuous emotions swirling within me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to comfort me with empty platitudes. He just holds me, his arms tightening around me, his presence a silent reassurance.
And in that moment, held safe within his embrace, I realize something profound. I’m not broken. I’m not damaged. I’m… his. And in his possession, in his control, I’ve found something I’ve never had before. A sense of belonging. A sense of… worth.
It’s a terrifying realization, this surrender of control, this acceptance of his ownership. But it’s also… liberating. For the first time in my life, I feel truly free. Free from the fear, the shame, the self-loathing that has haunted me for so long.
He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering against my skin. “Mine,” he murmurs again, the word a soft affirmation, a promise.
And I know, with a certainty that goes beyond logic, that he’s right. I am his. And in his possession, I have found something precious, something I never thought I would find. A home.