Chapter Seven
Lyra
He plants a hand beside my head, grabs my hip with the other, and thrusts forward, burying the full length of his cock inside me. A shocked cry tears from my throat, and my eyes water from the onslaught of pain. God, it hurts. It fucking burns.
And I’m not sure who I hate more right now; him for taking what I’m not willing to freely give, or myself for getting wetter.
“Fuck,” he breathes. A shudder works through his shoulders. I try to center myself, find something to focus on other than the pain, but it’s hard when I feel like I’m impaled on a foot of his cock.
He starts to draw out, but I sink my nails into his shoulders and beg, “Wait.”
It hurts too much right now. I need a moment to get used to his size. I know trying to push him off me is futile, but maybe he’ll respond and actually listen if I plead with him. He has always enjoyed the sound of my begging, the sadistic asshole.
For a moment, I think he’ll listen. He pauses, looking down at me, his biceps flexing, tendons on his neck bulging.
Then, an evil smile flits over his lips.
“If you wanted softness from me, you shouldn’t have fucking run.
” He pulls out and slams forward again. My inner muscles stretch, ache, prickle, and burn.
I reflexively try to roll out from under him, to get away, but the hand on my leg returns to my neck, flexing with warning.
“I wouldn’t,” he advises tonelessly. “Lie there and fucking take what you’re given, Lyra.”
My pussy clenches around him at his lewd words.
One of his eyebrows twitches. “You like that, don’t you?
” his tone is softer now. “Being forced. Being told to lie there like a little fuck-doll and accept whatever I want to dish out.” He leans over me, until his lips are right by my ear.
“That’s what you are when I’m inside you.
A toy. My favorite toy to play with.” His hand around my neck tightens. “Best pussy in the fucking world.”
My response to his words is embarrassing. A moan leaves my lips, and my eyes roll into the back of my head.
Yes, having his cock inside me hurts. And yes, as much as I despise myself for it, the pain drives the pleasure.
Killian’s deep, taunting chuckle tells me he knows as much. “Look at me,” he coaxes.
I shake my head; he pinches my nipple, hard. I whimper and open my eyes.
“Good girl.” He draws out the words because he knows damn well what they do to me.
His hand on my throat flexes, and he stares at me with such intensity it’s like I’m the only person in the world.
The only one he can see. It makes me feel important, even if I know my sole purpose here is to do what he says.
I know, deep down, that he only wants me because I said no; that’s what makes me unique to him.
I’m also still half-certain that he is going to kill me at some point. Maybe he doesn’t plan to do it immediately or in the near future, but—
“Focus.” He snaps his hips forward roughly, and his cock dragging against my inner walls jars me out of my thoughts and into the present.
“Killian, I—”
“Shut up.” His hand on my throat tightens once again. His thrusts are coming faster, slightly jerkier; I know that means he’s close to coming. He usually lasts a bit longer, but then… it’s been some time.
Feeling the force of his desire does something to me. It undoes just a touch of my resistance—enough to frighten me. One spanking and a single fuck, one that I did not consent to, and I’m already softening?
I turn my head away, shut my eyes, and try to distance myself from the situation.
It’s a herculean task, given that I can feel every thick inch of him filling me and stretching me.
The pain’s faded, now, and in its place comes a mounting pleasure that frightens me.
I haven’t felt good in a long time, but even under such harsh circumstances, something in me responds to Killian.
“Look at me,” he grits out. “I want to see your eyes when you come for me.”
I won’t. I’m determined not to accept pleasure from this act. I’ll stave it off. I’ll—
His hand leaves my neck, denting the mattress beside my head. The other hand sneaks between our bodies, and his fingers glide over my clit. My eyes flash open. “No—”
“Yes,” he growls. “Come on my cock, Lyra. Show me how much you love this.”
I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. But it’s too late. I can already feel the faint tingles of an impending orgasm sweeping over me, making my entire body shiver.
“Resist all you want,” he rumbles. “Fight me to your heart’s desire. But when I tell you to come, you better fucking come.”
In the next moment, I do. I don’t know if it’s his words, his hand, or his cock, but I can’t help myself—I come hard.
Heat sweeps through me, erupting from the top of my head and traveling all the way down to my toes.
The orgasm is strong enough to shake my legs and my arms, and I clutch Killian’s arms for purchase, crying out as I convulse around him.
I don’t even realize he’s come as well until I feel a rush of warmth inside me.
He collapses on top of me, crushing me with his weight. His teeth find my neck, sinking deep, and I clench around him again, releasing a sob.
Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m not sure if they’re from pain, pleasure, or surrender; whatever they are, they take a good chunk of my strength alongside them. I feel pathetic, weak, and demeaned. Then, Killian softly murmurs, “Good girl,” and the finality of what just happened sets in.
He took without asking—again.
He came inside me—again.
And I’m not on birth control, so unless I can manage to sneak some in here, I’m at risk of getting pregnant… again.
Time passes. Killian eventually rolls off of me and pulls me into his side.
He’s still wearing a shirt, with the sleeves rolled up.
I stare at it, wondering if this is how it’ll always be, so long as he keeps me alive.
He issues order, then pressures or forces me until I comply, all while maintaining complete composure.
How long can I hold out? How many days, weeks, months do I have before the pressure crushes me?
And what will be left of me then?
“How did you cope?” he asks out of the blue.
I blink. “What?”
“After you left. After…” his eyes slide down to my stomach. A pang of grief tightens my muscles, and the aching emptiness that’s eaten me up these last months returns.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Alright.” He pauses long enough for me to be surprised. “We’re talking about it regardless.”
My eyes flutter. There it is. I know how this goes if I refuse; he gets the belt and persuades me to respond. “I didn’t,” I admit. “I haven’t. I’ve been focused on other things.”
It’s easy to stave off grief when it’s replaced with terror for your life and freedom. Now that my worst fears have morphed into my reality, I expect I’ll have to face the full implications of my loss.
“And you?” Shut up, idiot! Why am I asking him that? God, what is wrong with me? I should be taking a vow of silence, not inviting him into this conversation.
“I didn’t, either. Also had things to focus on. A Little Bird to put in a cage.”
I already knew this penthouse was a cage, but hearing him say it only reinforces the dreariness of my circumstances. Unless I find a parachute and jump out of a window, I don’t see myself getting out of here until Killian lets me out. And I don’t know when that will happen.
“What was it like?” he asks after another long silence. “When it… happened.”
If I didn’t know better, I think I might detect a note of sadness in his voice.
“It hurt,” I say honestly. “It hurt a lot. There was… a lot of blood. And then…” I let the rest of my sentence trail off.
“How did you get away?”
“I have an investigative reporter background, Killian. I know how to shy away from cameras.”
“And how did you get out of the country?”
I shrug. “I know people who know people. Some sections of our country’s borders are notoriously porous.”
“My clever little journalist.” He sounds almost fond. “I might have never caught you, you know. If you didn’t come to that graveyard.”
“I thought I was careful,” I mutter.
“You were,” he assures me. “I got a tip-off from a friend. I wouldn’t have found you if not for that. The game was rigged.”
The game is always rigged to the benefit of the Killian King’s of the world. It’s a harrowing reminder. The underdog may miraculously win in books or movies, but in real life, we always get the short end of the stick. Our fate is to lose… it’s just the magnitude of losses that differ.
“Did you eat dinner?” he wonders.
“Strangely enough, being kidnapped and forced into your territory—on one of the worst days of the year for me—wasn’t kind to my appetite.”
“No issue. We’ll eat now.”
I don’t know if he deliberately chooses to misunderstand me, or if he’s just that obtuse. I do know that fighting is futile. I need to compose myself and make a plan. I know I won’t think as well on an empty stomach.
He lets me shower—though he stays in the bathroom with me—then gives me a silk bathrobe to wear, which serves as flimsy protection from his gaze, and his touch should he decide that he hasn’t had enough for one night.
Being back in his apartment brings about memories that I’d much rather avoid altogether.
The night Killian drugged me—which, despite being so wrong it’s almost incomprehensible, was also probably the best sex of my life.
The night I was mugged. All the nights I was summoned here for a marathon of pain and pleasure.
Instead of taking me to the dining room, Killian brings me to the kitchen. There are several dishes sitting on a heating plate next to the stove; steak, some sort of pasta, and sautéed vegetables.
“No formal setup tonight?” I question mildly.
“I don’t see a need for one. It’s late, and we’re both tired.”
“Yes, I imagine you’ve had an exhausting day. What, with chasing me and everything.”
“Now that you mention it, I have,” Killian nods.