37. The Final Cut
The Final Cut
Dynah
I can’t help but feel utterly lost as soon as I close the door and lock it. I feel like I’m left out of a major plot point in a book, stuck between the pages, and trying to figure out what happened.
One minute I’m laying on the couch while Elliot rustles through papers, the next minute he turns into a completely different person and chased Spencer out of the house.
I’m not scared of his darker side, actually it's quite hot if you were to ask me. The way his eyes narrowed and darkened, the way his grip tightened on my cheek without him realizing it, and ugh… how he growled. The deep growl went straight down and in between my thighs. I had to clench them together and hold back my moan.
I’ve never seen a man who’s anger wasn’t directed at me, and it makes me want to jump on him and go for a nice little ride.
God, I’m fucking deranged.
I walk into the kitchen absentmindedly, lost in thought and pacing near the counter. I need to blow off some of this steam, need to calm myself before they get here, otherwise I might not be able to keep myself away from him.
It’s one thing letting a stalker captor man touch your fucking bits, but it’s another to fully spread your legs and tell him to eat them too.
Grabbing a knife from the butcher block, I slowly sink to my ass, leaning against the fridge. I hold it in my hands like it’s a precious artifact from a museum. I shouldn’t do this, Elliot will be pissed at me, but if I don’t calm down soon I fear my heart is going to beat out of my chest and my pussy is going to crawl away from me.
I need to manage the pain– the voices– in my head. I only know how to do that myself. I can’t let someone else control me, this is the only way I can control myself.
I hold the handle and bring the blade to the skin of my thigh. Very carefully, I put pressure on the blade, running it horizontally and cutting into the tissue. Throwing my head back against the fridge I let out a sigh. The stinging sensation brings my head out of the clouds, allowing me to focus on the pain instead of everything else. I do it again, cutting open my skin and letting the crimson blood run down my leg. I try not to cut too deep, just enough to feel the pain.
On my third cut, the door handle in the living room jiggles and I jump, slicing deeper than I mean to.
“Fuck!” I yell into the still empty house. Blood is now pouring from my leg, soaking my shorts and the floor under me.
“Dynah Darling, it’s us. Open the door,” Elliot hollers to me through the door.
“Uhm… I can’t!” I yell back.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He is going to be so pissed.
He lets out a small noise, like a cross between a curious sigh and a grunt, before picking the lock and opening the door.
“Where are you?”
“Kitchen… Uhm, before you say anything, I’m sorry,” I mumble, hoping he won’t yell at me. I know he isn’t like the other men I’ve dealt with in life, but something like this might trigger him. I don’t want his anger directed at me.
I’m so stupid! Why did I do this? I’m going to ruin everything he’s helped me with. Tears run down my cheeks, falling to my thigh and mixing with the blood. He’s going to be so angry… so violent.
Fuck!
“What the fuck did you do?” He yells, turning the corner and coming to a standstill above me. “Why–”
“I didn’t mean to cut too deep! You wiggled the door handle and it scared me. I was just… I was…” I let out a deep sob and look up at him with puppy dog eyes, hoping he will forgive me for being stupid and move on.
Elliot doesn't say another word as he takes the knife from my hands and sets it inside the sink. When he reaches for me I cower, flinching in on myself and putting my hands up to cover my face.
“Don’t hide from me, Darling. I won’t hurt you,” he says. With easy movements, he picks me up and pulls me to his chest bridal style, letting me cry it out against him. My head lays on his shoulder and we make our way into the bedroom. He sets me down on the bed and pries me off him. I don’t want to let go. What happens when I do? Is he going to hurt me now that we're alone?
He goes to his duffle bag, rummages inside it, and pulls out a first-aid kit. When he comes back toward me, I try not to flinch. He notices and all I can see is the sympathy in his eyes as he kneels down and grabs my leg. Gently, he cleans off my thigh with an alcohol swab before putting a couple butterfly bandages on the cut. When he is finished, he picks me back up in his arms, turns around, and flops back onto the bed with me on top.
My body straddles his, legs on either side of his hips, and hands on his chest. I can feel every inch of his body under mine. Nothing is left to my imagination. His hardness presses into my ass, his hands finding their way onto my hips.
“Elliot,” I whisper.
“If you want to cut someone open, then you will cut me. You want to watch the blood drip, you will watch it spill from my body. If you want to feel pain, then I will make you feel it. No one else. Not you, not your Father, no one. It’s me, Little Raven. Only fucking me ,” he says, his voice deeper and more gruff than usual. It seems like it almost pains him to speak.
I shudder as he grabs a knife from his pocket, flips it open, and runs it over my hip and down my leg until it sits in front of me.
“Take it. Cut me,” he demands.
“I– I can’t…” My cheeks turn pink as my hand wraps around his, holding the blade together.
“Cut me, Dynah. You can’t hurt me more than my past already has.” Elliot transfers the knife into my hand. Letting go of my hip, he brings both hands to my face, pulling me down to his. “I promise.”
Our lips barely touch, his breath mixing with mine as we sit in the silence of the moment.