Chapter 8 Julian #2
We sit like that for a while. She tells me about her time with Eve and the other girls. She talks about the Board, about her father, about how she doesn’t really understand any of this. Her voice grows quieter with every confession.
At one point she leans into my side, head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her, careful not to hold too tight. The hoodie slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck. The bruise is more visible in this light.
“I’m going to hurt in the morning,” she says, not looking up.
I nod. “You are definitely going to be hungover.”
She smiles against my shirt. “Do you think it’s true, what they say? That the Hunt is about more than bloodlines?”
I consider the question. “Yes. But that’s not all it is. It’s about obedience. About breaking you until you fit the shape they want.”
She closes her eyes. “I don’t want to fit.”
“Good,” I say, surprising myself. “Don’t.”
The room grows still. Outside, the wind rattles the old glass. I can hear the distant echo of a party in the quad, laughter and music spilling out into the night.
She shifts, so she’s looking at me. Her hair falls over her eyes, and she pushes it back, the movement unsteady but beautiful.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Anything.”
“Why do you always look so sad, even when you’re smiling?”
The question takes me apart for a second. I search her face for malice, but there’s none.
I shrug. “Maybe because nothing here is real, and I’m the only one who doesn’t want any of this shit.
Wealth means nothing to me. As much as I’m an asshole, I also believe in integrity, but that’s a word none of our father’s believe in, and one long forgotten to Westpoint history.
You may think we could stand and refuse our place, but we can’t.
Some of us have had siblings who tried, and they’ve mysteriously disappeared.
We are just as fucked as you girls are, but it’ll change. Soon.”
She bites her lip, then reaches up to touch my cheek. The contact is feather-light, more permission than affection.
I don’t move away.
She leans in, lips grazing mine. The kiss is slow, careful, not hungry. Her mouth tastes like coke and vodka and want.
When she pulls back, she looks at me for a long moment.
“I know you want to ruin me,” she whispers. “But you’re not the only one.”
I’m not sure if she means herself or the world. Maybe both.
She sits back, legs tangled under her, and studies her hands. “I want to do something reckless,” she says, not quite a dare, not quite a plea.
I laugh, but it’s a soft sound. “You are reckless.”
She shakes her head, then looks up, eyes glinting. “Not enough.”
She stands, a little unsteady, and moves to the kitchenette. I watch her pour water into a glass, sip, then top it up again. She turns, leaning against the counter, the oversized hoodie sliding up to expose a strip of thigh.
“Do you want to fuck me?” she asks, as her fingers play with the hem of her sweater.
The question is said with such innocent shyness, it slices through my defenses. I stand, crossing the room in three steps, and pin her against the counter. She stares up at me, unblinking, daring me to answer.
“Every minute of every day,” I say. I let my hands settle on her hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin under the hem.
She shivers, but she’s not afraid.
I lower my mouth to her ear. “But not when you’re this drunk.”
She laughs, breathless. “You’re a liar. You want to fuck me so bad you can’t see straight.”
I smile, teeth sharp. “Little lady, that’s you. You are probably seeing double and this isn’t a threesome. No sex for you.”
She pushes me back, then grabs my collar and pulls me in. The kiss is desperate now, all teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that feels like dying. She digs her nails into my neck, and I let her. I want her to leave a mark.
She breaks the kiss, gasping. “I want you to ruin me.”
Well fuck.
I lift her onto the counter, shoving aside a box of cereal and a chipped mug. She wraps her legs around my waist, hoodie riding up so high I can see the edge of her underwear. The fabric is white, plain, a deliberate fuck you to the designer lace her status can afford.
I slide my hand up her thigh, slow, giving her time to push me away. She doesn’t. She arches into my palm, a moan slipping past her lips.
“Still want it?” I ask.
She nods, hair falling in her face. “More than anything.”
I press two fingers against the cotton, feeling the heat of her through the fabric. She’s soaked, and I want to make her say it.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
She glares at me, but there’s no fight in it. “I want you inside me.”
I tear the underwear, not gentle, and she gasps at the sting of it leaving a red welt between her thighs.
I slide my hand between her legs, finding her clit, circling it until she’s shaking. She bites my shoulder, muffling the sound of her own need.
“Not here,” she says, breathless.
I scoop her off the counter and carry her to the bed. She’s light, but she clings to me like I’m the only thing holding her up.
I drop her onto the sheets, then strip off my shirt.
She stares at me like she’s memorizing the sight, and maybe she is.
I reach for my belt, but she stops me, fingers clumsy as she unbuckles it herself.
She pushes my pants down, then wraps her hand around my cock, stroking with just enough pressure to make me want to kill something.
She shifts, pulling off the hoodie in one motion, exposing her bare chest. Her nipples are flushed, and she doesn’t try to cover them. She just stares at me, daring me to look away.
I don’t.
I pin her to the bed, mouth on her neck, on the bruise I left. She arches under me, legs parting, and I slide inside her in one slow, brutal thrust.
She gasps, head snapping back, and I bite her collarbone to keep from losing control.
I fuck her hard, relentless, the way she wanted. Each thrust is my promise to protect her, each sound she makes a prayer to a god that never answered her.
She claws at my back, hips grinding up to meet me. “Harder,” she whispers.
I’m about to come, but I snap my hips forward, faster and deeper, forcing down the need to empty my balls inside her.
She comes once, then again, the aftershocks making her sob. I don’t stop. I fuck her through it, refusing to let her go until I’m done.
When I finally come, I spill inside her, then pull out and collapse next to her, both of us panting.
She curls into me, skin slick with sweat.
For a while, we say nothing.
She’s the one to speak first. “I think I love you,” she says, and the words are so soft I almost miss them.
I stare at the ceiling, letting the feeling settle. I don’t know what to call it. It’s not love, not the way the world defines it.
It’s obsession.
It’s war.
I brush her hair back, then press my lips to her forehead.
“I won’t let them take you,” I whisper.
She smiles, then drifts off to sleep.
I watch her, memorizing every line of her face. Every bruise. Every scar.
My girl.
She’s my sweetest sin and my greatest redemption.