36. The Devil Repents Rafael
T he scent of clay fills the room, damp and earthy, as I run my fingers over the curve of her waist. My Mila. My kroshka . I sculpt her belly button, my fingers trembling with the need to get it perfect. She would notice any imperfection.
It’s my fifth sculpture this week. Before, I used to stop at her face, her angelic, cruel face. But now that I’ve memorized the soft dip of her waist, the swell of her thighs, the delicate arch of her spine… How could I stop there?
The door creaks open and I freeze.
Every nerve in my body goes taut. No one sees her like this but me. No one touches this version of her but me.
Anatoly.
Of course, it’s him. Anatoly has made a habit of barging in without knocking. My blood boils as he steps into the room, his eyes barely registering the sculptures before landing on me.
Before he can say a word, I’m across the room. My clay-stained hand grips his throat, slamming him into the wall with a force that rattles the frames nearby. His eyes go wide, his hands clawing at mine. I don’t let up.
“You don’t come in here. Not when I’m working on her,” I growl.
“Rafael—” he gasps, his words cut off as I press harder.
“No one sees her like this!” My voice cracks with rage. “No one. Not you, not anyone.”
His face turns red. “You’re… losing it,” he chokes out.
I loosen my grip just enough for him to suck in a ragged breath, but I don’t let go. “Say that again,” I dare him.
“You’re losing your mind without her,” he repeats, his words tumbling out in a rush. “You’re obsessed. Look at yourself, Rafael. You’ve turned into a fucking animal.”
“You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel it every second she’s gone? I can’t fucking breathe without her, Anatoly. She’s everywhere. In my head. In my veins. I close my eyes, and it’s her. I open them, and it’s her absence that greets me.”
He stares at me, his expression a mix of fear and pity. It makes me want to rip the walls down.
“You don’t get it,” I hiss. “You’ve never had someone like her. Someone who owns every fucking piece of you. She’s mine, Anatoly. Mine to watch. Mine to protect. Mine to sculpt. And if she won’t come back to me…”
I trail off, my breath heaving.
“You’ve been keeping tabs on her, haven’t you?”
I smile, a dark grin that even I can feel is wrong. “Of course I have. Did you think I’d just let her go? I know where she is, who she talks to, what she eats for lunch, even when her last fucking period was. I know she’s thriving, Anatoly. Thriving while I’m rotting.”
“She’ll hate you if she finds out.”
“She already hates me!” I roar, slamming him harder into the wall. “But hate is better than indifference. Hate still ties her to me. And if this is what it takes, if this is what I have to become to keep her, then so fucking be it.”
“You can’t live like this,” he says quietly. “You’re going to destroy yourself.”
I lean in, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I don’t care. If destroying myself means I get her back, then so be it.”
I release him suddenly, and he stumbles, clutching his throat as he gasps for air. I turn back to the sculpture, picking up where I left off.
Anatoly lingers by the door, his back to the room. “You need help, Rafael. This isn’t—”
“Leave,” I snap without looking at him.
He hesitates, then finally retreats, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand up and go wash my hands. The water is freezing, biting at my skin as I let it cascade over my hands. I scrub harder, watching the soap swirl down the drain. My fingers ache from the pressure, but I can’t stop. It’s not just my hands that feel dirty—it’s everything else.
The chair creaks as I sink back into it. The glass box on the table catches my eye immediately. I reach for it like it’s an extension of myself. Inside is the single strand of her hair I got from the fountain that day, curled perfectly like it knows it belongs to me.
I open the box with more care than I show most people. I lift the strand and hold it to the light. It glimmers, and I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips.
I run the strand between my fingers, then bring it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It’s her. All of her. The obsession inside me churns and grows, clawing at my chest until I feel like I’ll break apart from the force of it.
I only gave her the one month because I know how damn stubborn she is. If I hadn’t, she would’ve hurt herself trying to run, desperate to prove a point. That’s who Mila is—fierce. I know her better than she thinks. It’ll take less than a month for her to realize the truth—that no matter how far she tries to go, we can’t be apart.
Every night, I sit here, telling myself I won’t do it. I won’t go to her. I won’t slip into her space. But every night since she’s been gone, I lose that fight.
Tonight is no different.
The door to her apartment is quiet when I open it. The air inside smells like her, light, sweet, intoxicating. I close the door silently behind me.
She’s on the bed, curled on her side, her face bathed in the soft glow of the light filtering through the window. God, she’s beautiful.
I step closer. She doesn’t stir. She never does.
Kneeling beside the bed, I let my eyes roam over her face. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks, and I wonder what she’s dreaming about. Is it me? Does she think of me even a fraction of how much I think of her?
I reach out to brush a strand of hair from her face. It’s soft, silkier than the one I keep in my box. My thumb grazes her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my touch.
Her lips part slightly and I can’t resist. My fingers trail down, hovering over the curve of her mouth. I could kiss her. I could do so much more. But I don’t.
I sit there, drinking her in, the way her chest rises and falls, the faint sound of her breathing, and the way her hair fans out across the pillow like a halo.
She kicks the blanket off, and her bare leg is out. She seems to only be wearing a pair of panties and a shirt. My dick immediately stands to attention. She could just breathe next to me and I would be ready to take her.
I try, I really do. I try not to look, not to touch, not to go crazy for her… But it doesn’t work. My fingers find themselves dancing on the skin of her calf without my permission. I trace them upwards until they are ghosting over the skin of her inner thighs. Fuck. I can’t stop myself. I pull her panties to the side, staring at my pretty little pussy.
I still haven’t tasted it and that is unacceptable. I want nothing more than for my tongue to explore her cunt. I want to suck on her little pearl of a clit, to tease her opening with the tip of my tongue, to kiss her flesh. But not now, I don’t want my kroshka to wake up and freak out. This is my refuge.
My cock hurts. It wants her so bad. She shivers and I cover her back up. I don’t want my angel cold. Fighting my urges, my darkness, my filthiness, doesn’t work. So like I always do, I embrace it. I don’t need to touch her to make this work.
I take my cock out, looking at her angel-like features while I jerk myself off. How can someone be so perfect? If the devil ever saw her, he’d kiss her and repent. And I have. I repented.
Each stroke is a reminder that I’m not the one in control of her right now, but that’s only temporary. She’ll be back soon enough. When I come, it’ll be for her—for what’s coming, for what I’ll take from her, body and soul. It’s torture. My hand moves with a hunger that I know she’ll never understand. I’m building it, making it last.
I work myself, my grip tightening with every pull. I can almost feel her, her body pressed against mine, her skin hot and soft beneath my hands. I imagine her, the way she’d react, how her body would arch when I touch her, and I match that rhythm with my own hand, pumping harder, faster.
The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room, but she’s always been a heavy sleeper. She opens her mouth, and gives a small little sigh, like a kitten.
The tension builds to a breaking point, and I feel the heat coil in my gut, desperate to escape. My hand moves faster, rougher, until the inevitable wave crashes over me. I bite down on a groan, my body shuddering as I release into my own hand, the wet warmth spilling over my fingers.
My fingers shake as I slide them up to her pulse points, pressing the sticky warmth into her skin, marking her. I trace the delicate curve of her throat, feeling the flutter of her pulse beneath my touch. I smear a little more on the soft skin beneath her ear, the pulse there strong, steady, just like the rhythm I’ll set for her.
I let my fingers trail down to her lips, watching her intently as I smear the last of it across her parted mouth. She won’t be able to forget that I’m with her, even when I’m not there. She’ll taste me every time she touches her lips. Every time she breathes, she’ll remember that I’ve been inside her, marking her, claiming her in ways no one else can.
Her pink tongue peeks out as if she sensed my essence, and she licks her lip, moaning at the taste. That’s my girl. Even in sleep, she knows how her worshipper tastes. I want to brand her. I want her to smell like me all the time. I. Just. Want. Her.