Chapter 40 Willow
WILLOW
I stand in the middle of the kitchen, my heart beating out a heavy rhythm as I stare at the door Vic just disappeared through. I can’t move, can barely even think, stunned by what just happened. My lips are still kiss bruised, and my body is buzzing.
It was so hot. Possibly the hottest kiss of my life.
There was so much pent up need in it, so many things leading up to that moment. I’ve been wanting to kiss Victor for so long, wanting to feel him touch me, to be connected to him like that. And it was amazing to finally get to feel it.
But then… he shut down again.
It makes sense, in a way. He’s so regimented, relying on rules and routines to get him through the day and keep him from spiraling. He already broke those rules once tonight, jerking off on a day that he wasn’t meant to, just because I begged him to.
And now this.
I chew on my lip, remembering what he told me about his dad and how his father abused him. All of those habits Vic has are just his way of coping with that.
Shit. Maybe I pushed him too hard. Maybe it went too far. The last thing I want is for him to start avoiding me now. Just thinking about that possibility makes my heart hurt.
Part of me wants to go after him, but a bigger part of me isn’t sure I should. If I push for him to talk to me now, I might only make it worse, and that isn’t what I want to do. He’s not good at talking about stuff like this, and he probably needs the space.
I chew my lip for a moment, then pick up my phone from where I left it on the table and send him a text. It’s always been easier for us to talk like this, and I really, really hope that will be true this time too.
ME: Thank you for the French toast. It made me feel better.
I feel like I’m holding my breath, waiting to see if he’s going to respond.
Three dots appear at the bottom of the screen, proof that he’s there, that he’s typing something.
Then they disappear. Then reappear again.
I can just imagine him back in his room, safe in the glow of his screens, typing and deleting several messages before he lands on what he wants to say.
Finally, my phone buzzes with a message.
VICTOR: You’re welcome. I don’t like seeing you sad.
As I’m reading that text, another one comes through.
VICTOR: Goodnight, butterfly.
I gaze at the two messages, feeling so many things as I read them over and over. There’s so much in my head and on my heart, I almost wonder how my body can contain it all.
The food—and Vic’s company—really did make me feel better. It’s late, and even though I’m not tired at all, I should probably at least try to get more sleep. I move to head back upstairs, but as I make my way across the living room, Malice comes down the steps.
The tightness in his face eases when he sees me standing there.
“I saw that you weren’t in Ransom’s room,” he murmurs. “I got worried.”
Warmth spreads through me to hear him admit that.
I like that the brothers worry about me, and it hits me in a rush how cared for I feel when I’m with them.
Ransom carried me up to bed earlier. Vic made me food because he knew I’d be hungry, and Malice came to check that I was okay.
They care, and they each show it in their own little ways.
“Sorry,” I whisper back. “I just… couldn’t sleep.”
Malice nods. “Do you want to go back to bed?”
I shake my head. “No. I feel like my mind is going too fast to sleep.”
“I get that,” he says. “Come on.”
He joins me in the living room, picking up the bottle of whiskey by the neck as we settle next to each other on the couch. He takes a swig and then passes it to me, and I follow suit.
I never was much of a drinker before, but I’m starting to get used to the way this whiskey burns going down, lighting a fire in my belly.
“You alright?” he asks, tipping his head to look at me. It’s different from the way Ransom and Vic check on me, but I can feel the sincerity in it all the same. He’s gruff, but that doesn’t stop him from giving a shit.
I shrug. “I guess. Vic made me food.”
Malice snorts. “He does that. When in doubt, cook something.”
I debate if I should tell him what happened with Vic, but Malice probably knows him better than anyone.
They’re twins, and I know they share a special bond because of that.
They’ve gone through so much together, so he can probably tell me if I need to be worried that Vic is going to freeze me out now.
“Can I… ask you something?” I whisper.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“When Vic was down here earlier, we… something happened between us. Something that’s never happened before. And he seemed like he was upset when he left. I’m just worried that I might have messed things up with him, which I really don’t want to do.”
Malice is quiet for a second, and then he shakes his head. “You didn’t mess up. Vic’s got a whole shitload of demons he’s dealing with, and that’s just how life is for him. But he cares about you, and nothing’s gonna change that. Same goes for all of us.”
I swallow hard, my heart clenching. My stomach flutters a bit at the straightforward way he said that, and I look up at him to find him staring right back at me. Something wordless passes between us, full of feelings and a sense of security that I’ve never really felt before.
“Thanks,” I murmur softly.
He shrugs a shoulder. Then he cocks his head, arching a brow. “When I’ve got too much shit on my mind, I work on my tattoo. That’s the thing that usually helps. Do you want me to add to yours?”
I feel a pulse of nervousness at the question, but I already know my answer. “Yes. Please.”
Malice smiles, something a bit softer than his usual sharp-edged grin, then goes to get his tattoo gun. It takes him a minute to set things up, and when he’s ready, gestures to me. “Shirt off, Solnyshka.”
I pull my shirt over my head, sitting back on the couch. My heart pounds, because I remember how much it hurt the first time, but I don’t flinch away when Malice comes near me with the buzzing gun.
“You never told me what the 24 means,” I murmur, clutching the couch cushion with one hand as the burn of the needle jabbing into me starts up.
For a second, I think he’s not going to answer. His eyes are focused, his hand steady as he moves the tattoo gun over my skin. Then he starts to speak.
“After that prison gang tried to kill me, I went after their leader and killed him,” he says.
It comes out matter-of-fact, and I’m struck all over again by what brutal lives the Voronin brothers have lived.
“That’s what saved me in prison. I made a name for myself, made people realize they shouldn’t fuck with me.
After I killed him, I spent twenty-four days in solitary.
It was fucking awful, but when I got out, people respected me. ”
“Oh,” I breathe, tightening my grip on the couch. “So that number must mean a lot to you.”
He nods. “It’s a symbol of that moment. The day I decided I was never going to be a victim again and took my shit into my own hands.”
I swallow hard, knowing how much it must mean for him to be telling me this. The first time I asked, he wouldn’t say why he’d chosen that design, and I’m glad to know the whole story, as dark as it is.
“Thanks for telling me,” I murmur. “It makes me like the tattoo even more.”
A hint of a smile flickers over his face, and he pauses to wipe away some of the blood and ink so that he can see the new addition to my tattoo more clearly.
When he puts the gun back to my skin, I wince, the pain starting up again. When he goes over the same patch a few times, I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning in pain, and I take deep, even breaths, trying to get myself to relax.
“Touch yourself,” Malice instructs, his eyes darting up to meet mine, looking almost black in the dim light. “It’ll take your mind off the pain, just like it did the first time.”
My heart thunders, a million memories flashing through my mind all at once. I release my grip on the couch to do as he says, but he catches my wrist with his free hand, holding my gaze for just a second.
“Don’t let yourself come,” he adds. “Not until I’m finished.”
I nod, licking my lips when he releases me. It’s still so odd to be turned on from this, but as soon as my hand snakes its way down to my pussy, the spark of heat in my veins bursts into an inferno.
My clit throbs, and I start to get wet. I take my time, sliding fingers along my folds and teasing my clit lightly.
I feel debauched, doing this right here in the living room with Malice on his knees in front of me, adding to the tattoo on my chest. But at the same time, I feel beautiful too. And empowered, doing this thing that would have brought me so much shame before.
My body hums right along with the tattoo gun as I touch myself, teasing my clit in slow circles that make my breath catch. I fight to keep my hips still, not wanting to jerk too much and ruin the lines and curves of Malice’s work.
A whimper spills from my lips as I press one finger inside myself, keeping it shallow enough to be a tease, but deep enough that I can feel it.
“Good girl,” Malice says, his voice husky and low as he keeps his eyes on his work. “Tell me how it feels.”
“G-good,” I stammer. I let my eyes drift closed, using my own wetness to slick the slide of my fingers against my clit as I rub it. “Fuck, it feels so good.”
I bite back a moan when he goes over another sore spot, pressing harder on my clit to combat the pain with pleasure.
“Are you close?” he asks.
“Almost,” I breathe back, my fingers moving faster.
It would be so easy to tip myself over the edge, but he told me not to come until he gives me permission, and I want to wait, even if it’s driving me crazy.
Every time I get to the brink of falling apart, I pull back, touching myself more slowly and easing up the pressure until it’s feather-light.
Pleasure and pain mingle together the same way they did the first time Malice tattooed me.
They each serve as a counterpoint to the other, ramping each other higher and higher, and before I know it, I’m a whimpering mess.
I keep holding back, but the tension builds and builds, keeping me poised right there on the edge of it. My breath shudders out of me, and I chew on my lip, working hard to stay still.
Finally, Malice lifts the tattoo gun away from my skin.
“Come for me,” he orders. “Now.”
That’s all I need to hear. I plunge my fingers deeper into my pussy, fucking myself with them as the heel of my hand grinds against my clit. Malice leans in, catching my lips in a kiss, and he swallows my sharp cry as my orgasm breaks over me.
I shudder against him, riding out the waves of it as white hot pleasure make its way through my body until I’m left spent.
When our lips separate, I’m breathing hard, and I slump back against the couch. The place where he tattooed me stings, throbbing in time with my heartbeat, but I don’t mind the dull ache—especially when I look down and see what he added to the ink on my chest.
Interwoven with the 2 and the 4 are three sets of initials: MV, RV, and VV.
Malice tangles his fingers in my hair, resting his forehead against mine. He’s so close that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with the dark, musky spice of his aftershave.
“I never wanted a woman to be mine before,” he murmurs gruffly. “Never wanted a woman to be ours. Until I met you.”