Chapter Eleven
Lyra
Ahand clapping down on my ass is not my preferred method of wake-up call. Especially after the fucking shit day I had yesterday, realizing the depth of everything I’ve lost, and recognizing that even though I’m back in my home country, I’ll probably never get any of those things back.
I fist my hands in the bedsheets, close my eyes, and count each hit Killian lands.
At least it’s my ass and not my pussy this morning.
The spanks sting and burn, but they also cause a different sort of heat to roll through my belly.
Killian must notice, because on the fifth spank, he props my knees up under me and runs a hand through my slit.
A taunting chuckle of amusement escapes him.
I battle the urge to tell him to go fuck himself.
“Beg me to fuck you,” he whispers. “Make it good, and I might commute the rest of your punishment.”
I don’t. He gives me a full minute to comply, then resumes spanking me—this time much harder. He spanks the same spots several times in a row, back and forward, far past the ten times I was expecting. It hurts, and I know it’ll prevent me from sitting comfortably, so I try to crawl away.
He yanks me back and wraps his hand around the nape of my neck.
“Beg me to fuck you, and I’ll stop. Until then, lie still and take it.”
Fucking prick. I try to hold out. Really, I do. But his blows increase in intensity, and I can literally feel bruises starting to form under my skin.
“Stop!” I finally cry.
He does, but only for a heartbeat. “Something to say?” When I don’t respond fast enough, he viciously spanks me again.
“Fuck me!” I cry.
He pauses again. “That wasn’t begging.”
“Please.” The word’s close to a sob. “Please fuck me.”
He pauses. I think he might continue hitting me just for making him wait, but after a beat he nudges my legs apart.
I bury my face in the sheets when his fingers penetrate me, pushing deep. I’m embarrassingly wet. He deprived me of an orgasm yesterday, and I still haven’t quite recovered from it. I squirm, pushing back against his hand, trying to find some pleasure amidst the pain.
“Mm. Remind me how much you hate me?”
His fingers slip out of me, and a cry escapes my lips. A moment later, I feel the broad head of his cock prodding against me. I arch into it like a cat in heat, hating myself, him, and everything about the recent events in my life.
“So much.” The words come out on a moan, which turns into a yelp when Killian spanks me again. My ass is already sore enough that it really hurts now—I can’t take anymore.
“Say it again,” he mutters, voice strained as he pushes inside me. My body tenses and my inner walls clench at the intrusion. I might be soaking, but he’s still too big for me, and it’s been a long time since I was forced to get used to having him inside me several times a week.
“I—hate you.” A shiver wracks through me, and I wince. Fuck, he’s big.
“One more time,” he urges, sinking past my resistance. “Tell me how much you hate me before I fuck your brains out, make you come on my cock, and fill you up until you have more of my DNA inside you than yours.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The visual shouldn’t be arousing. His words should be horrifying, but instead, they make me whimper.
“Is that…” I pause, arching like a cat in heat, “what you’re—trying to achieve?”
“Knocking you up? A man can hope.”
“N-no—” He withdraws and sinks back in, briefly clearing my mind of thought.
“What was that?” he taunts.
“I hate you.” This time, it comes out as a whisper. I’m stuffed so full I feel like I’m halfway to incoherent. I can’t think, can barely breathe. I feel like moving an inch could cause me to combust.
He fists my hair, tugging on it. “Good girl. Now scream for me.”
He snaps his hips back and then thrusts forward with such harshness that I do scream. It hurts so much, but it also feels… unaccountably right. Like he’s exactly where he belongs.
A therapist would have a field day with me.
Killian doesn’t hold back. He fucks in and out of me like his life depends on it, calling me degrading names that make me shudder and clench.
“My gorgeous little masochist,” he grits out, digging his fingernails into my already-reddened bottom. I twist, whining, which only makes him clutch on harder.
“Easy,” I beg. “Please—”
“No.” He’s pitiless, merciless, and absolutely ruthless. What’s worse is that it makes me wetter. The only sounds in the room are the obscene noises of flesh against flesh, my moans, and his grunts. It’s lewd. It’s overwhelming.
I’ve almost missed it.
Killian wraps a hand around the back of my neck. “Fight me,” he taunts. “If you manage to get away, I won’t fill you up with my cum. Go on, Little Bird.”
I know, rationally, that I shouldn’t engage in his twisted little game. It’s rigged; I’ll inevitably lose. Nevertheless, I try to crawl out from beneath him.
He forces me into the mattress and fucks me harder.
I try to roll over and kick him off; his speed only increases, and he releases a growl of pleasure. I buck; he subdues. I kick out; he laughs and taunts me.
“Is that all you’ve got?” he mocks. “The big, bad reporter who thought she could bring me to my knees. Pinned down and taking my cock like she was fucking made to.”
“I fucking hate you!” I hiss, even as my orgasm creeps up on me.
The fight is only pushing me closer. Knowing that Killian’s bigger and stronger only makes me hotter, until I feel like my entire being is about to burst into flames.
I try hard to stave it off, squeezing my eyes shut, struggling, gasping.
He only fucks harder and harder and harder…
until I’m hanging right on the precipice.
But there isn’t quite enough stimulation to push me over the edge; I can’t come from his cock alone.
I’ll be able to hold out.
I haven’t realized I’ve said the words aloud until he laughs, boisterously and mockingly. “Sure about that?” His free hand sneaks around my body and cups my pussy.
Oh, fuck. Killian knows me. He knows exactly what makes me tick.
He’s always loved making me fight and suffer until I orgasmed—and today’s no different.
His fingers pinch and tug my clit hard enough to hurt, and that’s all it takes.
I explode with a vigor that surprises even me.
It hurts, and it feels good, and dear fucking god, the orgasm goes on and on.
Each convulsion siphons another ounce of strength from me, until I’m a melted puddle on the mattress.
But Killian isn’t done. He releases my clit, stroking it a few times as if to soothe, then reaches higher to pinch and twist my nipple.
I come again, so suddenly and thoroughly that it clears my mind of all thought and takes every remaining bit of strength from me. There’s nothing left. I’ve devolved into a shell of my former self, nothing but his little fuck-doll, limp and spent on the mattress.
That’s when he finally comes with a deep grunt that bounces off the walls and echoes through the room long after he’s finished.
“Fuck,” he hisses, almost angrily. Then again, softer, “Fuck, Lyra. Goddamnit.”
He release my neck, pulls out of me, and rolls me onto my back. I go limply, too weak to protest. I’m practically seeing double.
He pushes my damp hair out of my face and glares down at me. Whatever he sees makes his expression soften and his touch gentle. His hands come beneath my knees, pushing them up until they’re touching my chest.
“Stay like this for a bit,” he says softly. “Ten or twenty minutes.”
“Why—” but I don’t have to finish my sentence. The reason dawns on me with the swiftness and suddenness of an executioner’s scythe.
He wants me to cradle my legs and stay lying down… because some studies have suggested that increases chances of pregnancy.
I need to get on birth control, now.
We shower, then eat. Killian lets me sit on my own, and acts like it’s some sort of reward for being such a good girl for him earlier.
I want to tell him to go fuck himself in every imaginable way, but I know it won’t do me any good. He’ll just spank me and fuck me again. While I highly doubt that having sex twice is enough to get me pregnant… it’s probably best not to instigate him.
Nevertheless, my big mouth runs away from me, as it often does.
“You shouldn’t reproduce.”
Killian dabs his mouth with a napkin, not seeming offended in the least. “Oh?”
I don’t respond, biting my lip.
“Why?” he prods.
“Because certain genes should die.”
“And why would you count mine among that pool?” he asks, sounding vaguely amused. “I’m healthy. I’m strong. I’m fit, and I have an excellent immune system. Physically, I’m a pretty ideal candidate for reproduction.”
“Physical doesn’t matter. You’re a psychopath.”
“I thought you were calling me a sociopath earlier?” Is he mocking me?
“Same difference.”
“Not quite, actually. Although the subject of much conjecture, most professionals agree that there’s a distinguishing difference between sociopaths and psychopaths. Psychopaths are born; sociopaths are made.”
My hand grips my knife with unnecessary strength. For a moment, I consider stabbing him in the face.
Wait. What? That… isn’t me. I’m not a violent person by nature. I don’t start fights, and I tend to run away from them when someone else picks one. Nothing’s worth getting needlessly injured or screwed over.
“But both have certain predispositions,” I say, deliberately setting down the knife.
Killian tracks the gesture closely, and smiles. “True,” he allows. “So, what do you think, Little Bird? Am I a sociopath or a psychopath?” he pauses. “Or just an emotionally repressed asshole with a traumatic childhood?”
“I’m not one to speculate.”
“And I’m a virgin.” He rolls his eyes. “You have many thoughts in your pretty head. Feel free to let them out.”
“What, and earn more of your wrath? Thank you, but pass.”
His expression grows very serious, very suddenly.
“You have never and will never be on the receiving end of my wrath,” he tells me curtly.
“If you think you are or ever have been, then you need to open your eyes, Lyra. My enemies don’t have very long lifespans.
You’ve never been powerful enough to be considered an enemy. ”
Fuck. Him.
“How did my expose treat you?” I snap.
“Not very kindly,” he admits freely. “It was an inconvenience… for about a week. The aftereffects were felt on a minor scale for a few more weeks. In the long run, it’s barely a blip on my radar.”
I almost shake with anger in the wake of his admission. He ruined my life on every single front, and some of my best efforts barely made a dent in his? I repeat: Fuck. Him.
“I hate you,” I repeat for the umpteenth time, but there’s something different in my tone now. Something less forgiving and more malicious.
His eyes flash with an odd emotion. “There’s a fine line between love and hate. Both stem from passion.”
“I hate you with the passion of all the burning stars in a galaxy,” I say steadily. “And that’s the only passion you’ll receive from me because I will never, ever care about you.”
Killian takes just a few beats too long to respond, sitting back and rolling a blueberry between his fingers. “Perhaps you’ll never care for me, but you’ll love our children.”
“I’m never having your children. I’d rather cut out my womb than—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Killian hisses. “For your own sake, stop while you’re ahead.”
I fall silent. The threat in his tone penetrates deep.
“Once before, you had my child inside you, and you threatened to abort.” Killian grabs the leg of my chair and drags it closer to him.
I clutch the edges of the seat, afraid to blink or move.
He’s growled and snapped at me plenty of times before, but there’s something different in his tone.
Something so profoundly dangerous it sets my hairs on end.
“Now, as far as I’m aware, you didn’t follow through on that threat.
A series of unfortunate circumstances led to the loss.
” He plants a palm on my thigh, and I gasp.
“But if I even think that you might try to interfere with your pregnancy, I’m going to take extreme measures to ensure that isn’t possible.
You think that your circumstances now are bad?
I will build a space specifically for you and lock you in it.
Shatter-proof windows. No mirrors. A gym for you to get enough exercise.
A personal chef to ensure that you get everything you and our baby need to remain healthy.
Loyal staff to see to your every need, and an in-house doctor to check you daily.
No sharp objects. No distractions. No books other than self-help and parenting.
No access to media.” He leans forward, and I shrink back.
“If you give me even the faintest reason to think you’re a danger to our future family, Lyra, I will take every precaution I can think of to stop you.
If you try to starve yourself, you’ll be manually fed.
If that fails, intravenous. Believe me when I say, you do not want to test me on this point. You’ll blink long before I will.”
“Stop.” The word is a horrified whisper. Fear is a living, breathing being inside me, a demon that’s overtaken my body and turned me into a trembling mess. My eyes water with tears, and images of a future far worse than death crowd my mind.
Killian’s either put significant thought into this, or he’s that insane.
“Don’t fuck with me on this point, and we won’t have an issue. Fight me all you want—I’ll fuck the attitude out of you every single time. But don’t you ever dare forget that every morsel of who you are belongs to me. And I am very protective over my possessions.”
“Please, stop.” The words come out of me on a sob, and I raise a hand to my mouth.
I feel like I’m back in that hotel room in Germany, watching my life crumble around me. Watching pregnancy tests turn up positive, then having Killian inform me that we’re going to get engaged, married, and I would be having his baby.
“Don’t cry.” He wipes away the tears beneath my eyes, ignoring my violent flinch—or not even noticing it. He’s crazed right now. “Be a good girl, and we won’t have any problems.”
No problems in his book is devastation in mine.