Chapter Thirteen - Karmia #2
The terror isn’t just that he holds me captive, it’s that I am becoming like him.
My anger, my hardness, my need to lash out just to feel anything but shame.
It’s not just his ring or his orders binding me.
It’s this darkness, creeping into me, molding me into a reflection of the man I thought I could hate from a safe distance.
I mumble another apology, but the words sound hollow. I sit, fists clenched, promising myself I will not let this house, this life, strip away the last of who I am. Even as I wonder if it’s already too late.
Holding in a sob, I stand from the table and slip into the cool hallway.
The walls close in, every corridor stretching too long, every polished surface reflecting my own frantic eyes back at me.
Even when the house is full of silence, I feel watched by the guards at every doorway, by the weight of the chandeliers above, by the ghost of Rostya’s presence in every gilded shadow.
Every door I try is locked, every window too high, every breath caught in my chest like a bird desperate to escape.
I pace through the halls, hands clenched, jaw tight. I hate this place. I hate the endless rooms with no exit, the endless reminders that I am not free. But what curdles deepest isn’t just hatred for my cage or for Rostya, it’s the way my body aches for him even as my mind screams rebellion.
I press a hand to my ribs, cursing the heat that won’t fade.
“I hate you,” I whisper into the empty corridor, but the echo is weak.
The truth is worse than hatred. Laced through the anger is something sharp and aching. I want his attention, his eyes burning into me. I want him to see me again, to want me the way he did last night, even if it’s only with that brutal, punishing hunger.
I hate myself for it. For craving his fire, for missing the way his hands made me forget everything except him. The ache in my chest won’t leave, no matter how tightly I grip my own arms.
I imagine screaming at him, letting the anger boil over. In my mind I storm into his office, slam my fists into his chest.
“You don’t own me!” I shout at the memory, my voice bouncing back off the marble. I picture myself demanding, “Let me go! Give me back my life!”
The fantasy is sweet for a second—until I see his face, see the twist of his mouth, the way he’d catch my wrists, yank me flush against him.
And then I imagine what would come next.
His grip bruising, his mouth crashing onto mine, the taste of violence and surrender blurring together until I’m lost again.
Both fantasies—freedom and surrender—choke me.
I want to hate him, want to break free, but the memory of his touch is a chain I can’t shake loose.
I slide down against the wall, knees hugged to my chest. My breath shakes. “I hate you,” I say again, louder this time, wishing he could hear it. Wishing he would come, furious or hungry, just to prove I still exist to him.
The ache doesn’t leave. Neither does the craving. I press my forehead to my knees, torn between the urge to run and the urge to be caught. All I can do is sit in the silence, the fire and the fury burning a hole straight through me, not sure which would hurt more—to win or to lose.
***
Night drags slow, each minute stretching into hours that refuse to end. I lie awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, the bed beneath me too large, the sheets too soft, the emptiness too sharp. I turn over, again and again, but I can’t get comfortable. I can’t get warm.
Last night, his body was fire, a storm that devoured every thought. Now there’s nothing but the echo of that heat and the cold left behind.
The silence in the room throbs with memory. I remember his mouth on mine, the bruising grip of his hands at my waist. I remember the rough scrape of his voice when he said my name, the way his fucked me into the wall until I forgot my own name.
It replays, over and over, each time twisting tighter, growing heavier with every recall. The moment in the warehouse creeps in too—when he shielded me from bullets with his own body, when his arms made the world feel terrifyingly small and safe all at once.
I press my hands over my eyes, willing the memories away. “I hate him,” I whisper, my voice soft as a bruise.
“I’ll never forgive him.” I say it again, and again, like a prayer, a lifeline meant to pull me back from the edge. If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it. Maybe it will be true.
Under the words, my heart betrays me. Desire hums in my blood, low and insistent. My body aches for his hands, his mouth, his heat.
The need is a traitor, humming through my veins, refusing to yield to anger or sense. No matter how I curse him, no matter how I remind myself of what he’s done, I can’t kill the wanting. I know sleep won’t come. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
I curl tighter into the sheets, tucking my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself like I can build a shield out of cotton and skin. Alone in the dark, I tremble, not sure if it’s from fear or shame or the ache of longing that refuses to die. My war with Rostya is no longer just with him.
It’s a war I’m losing with myself.