36. Liliana
T wo weeks. Two weeks I’ve been in this room, in this bed. At first, all I did was sleep.
But now I’m recovered, or as recovered as I can be. My body is physically fixed. My leg is no longer refusing to take my weight. Even the burn on my chest is healing enough that it doesn’t continuously hurt.
And yet he hasn’t kicked me out. Hasn’t hauled my arse all the way back to the darkness.
Nor has he touched me.
He may have taken tiny liberties with the first bath, but since then he’s acting more as a nursemaid than my abuser. He’s washed me, massaged oils into my skin, taken care of me the way a lover would their sick companion.
It’s driving me mad. It’s making me crazy.
I don’t want his touch. I don’t want anything from him.
But why the fuck is he doing this? Why isn’t he just taking what he so obviously wants? Why is he pretending to care, pretending to be someone he’s not?
Every touch he makes, every slight brush of his hands against my skin makes me shiver and I feel equal levels of repulsion and need.
I can’t look him in the eyes, I can’t even look at Gabe anymore. My shame is too great. My guilt and my self-hate are taking over everything. I wish I could just disappear, could just fade off and daydream the way I did when he and his mates were raping me. Surely, such an end would be better than this new form of torture?
Every night he sleeps beside me as if I won’t gut him the moment I get the chance, and every morning he leaves, with that smirk on his face and the knowledge that I’ll be here, naked, still in his bed when he returns.
Smug fucking bastard. I hate him. I fucking hate him.
I want to be back in the darkness. I need to be. I have to get out of this room because it’s tricking me, fooling me into thinking that this man is not the monster I know him to be.
I clench my fists, curling up the stupidly soft sheets, and I snarl before I can stop myself.
Beside me, Magnus turns, opening his eyes and with horror, I realise that I’ve woken him. I really am becoming reckless, aren’t I? Reckless and stupid.
Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he’ll react now, lash out, hurt me, and remind me once more that he is the literal spawn of Satan.
He pulls me closer, pulls me so that I’m pressed up against him. Goosebumps erupt over my skin, something crawls down my spine and it feels both delicious and horrific all at the same time.
I don’t want his attention, I don’t want his touch, and yet I crave it as if nothing in this world could ever compare. As if nothing but the feel of my rapist’s skin against mine will do. A shudder runs through me and the contempt I feel is undefinable.
He lowers his face to mine and that look in his eyes, it’s so much worse than the usual contempt he holds for me. No, this look, this hunger, it fucks with my head, makes everything too real.
His hand grazes my cheek. It’s a soft, considerate touch that’s so different from the way he normally behaves.
His fingertips brush against the wisps of my hair that’s regrown.
I hold my breath, watching in slow motion, as his mouth moves to capture mine.
His tongue forces its way in past my lips, though in truth I don’t put up much resistance. But the way he slowly explores, it’s too much. Far too fucking much.
I know I shouldn’t do it.
I know there’s going to be consequences, but I can’t stop myself from reacting.
I have to stop this.
I have to do something.
I have to prove to us both that I am still me. I am still Ana.
My hand raises up and I slap him, pouring all my pain, fear, and every other emotion he has forced me to endure into the weight of that action.
He tenses, his eyes snap open and I brace myself for my inevitable punishment that he’s going to delve out.
Only, he seems almost amused rather than angry.
And then his hands wrap around my throat, tightening enough to restrict my airway but not cut it entirely. With his thighs he pushes my legs apart and in one swift movement he thrusts himself inside me.
But the noise I make, it’s not disgust, it’s not revulsion; to my horror, the sound that escapes me is as close to a moan of pleasure as I’ve ever uttered .
I shake my head, as though remonstrating with my own brain, but my body refuses to listen to the message.
No, despite everything, I’m arching my back, my hips eagerly meeting each of his thrusts as he slides his cock in and out.
There’s none of the usual pain. None of that awful, dry penetration. With horror, I realise I’m wet, aroused, literally dripping for this man.
I can’t do this.
I can’t give in like this.
I hate the way I’m reacting. I hate the awful comfort I’m feeling in this moment.
A tear streaks down my cheek but it’s full of despair for myself, despair and hate too because on some level I have submitted, haven’t I? On some level, I know that I want this, no, need this interaction.
I need this man’s touch, his caresses, hell, I’ll even take his beatings too if that’s what he gives me.
As his hands shift on my throat, I gasp the words ringing in my head. Repeating over and over.
“Harder.” I hiss. “Harder.”
His eyebrows raise. “Harder?” he repeats as if he thinks he misheard.
“Make it hurt. Please, God, make it hurt.”
And I want it to hurt. I want him to remind my body of everything that he is. That he’s a brute and a monster and nothing about this situation should make me seek any form of comfort from him.
He picks up pace almost immediately. Clearly, he was being gentle before, but now, now the gentleness is gone.
Now, it’s me and my monster again.
I let out a cry of relief. A cry of pain too. And it feels so good. So necessary. I need him to hurt me and punish me. I need him to ensure this lesson is learnt and remembered .
But my body still wraps around him, my leg curls into him as if encouraging this brutality. And my hands, my nails dig into his skin, I claw at him, I writhe against him, meeting every thrust with a moan that steadily grows louder and louder until I am screaming, I’m crying, I am falling apart beneath him.
My orgasm shatters any last resolve I have and as he groans with his own release, some stupid pathetic part of me wants to thank him.
He slumps on top of me. His weight holding me in place. Revulsion creeps into my veins and yet I stay still, docile, breathing in his scent like I’m an actual addict.
I need him, I love him, and yet I despise everything about him all the same.
A sob racks through me. I turn my face away but he’s quick to react, to grab my jaw, to force me to look at him and though the words aren’t spoken, he can see my shame, he can feel it just as much as I can.
And then his mouth comes down, he devours me once more, and I’m lost, helpless, completely and utterly ruined.