10. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Roman
O nce my little junkie passes out, I carry her inside, her limp body feeling weightless in my arms. Fuck, is she skinny. I glance down at her—she’s always been petite, her ass literally the biggest part of her, but now she’s fragile. A shadow of the viper I remember. The storm outside howls like a beast, but here, it’s quiet—too quiet. The only sounds are the dripping water from the faucet I just turned on and the ragged breaths she fights to take in.
I gently place her in the tub, her head lolling back, eyes half-open, lost somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. And still stunning. Not even the drugs or the hard life has taken the beauty out of her.
I strip off my clothes, the fabric sticking to my skin, still damp with sweat and blood. The water is warm, steam rising from the tub as I ease myself in. Her body shivers against the heat, and I find myself brushing a strand of hair away from her face. God, she’s beautiful—even like this, especially like this.
"Time to wake up," I whisper, gently smacking her face. She opens her eyes for a brief second before they close again. I smack her a little harder this time. "Stay awake or drown," I say, my voice firm.
Her eyes snap open, teary and tired. "Drowning doesn’t sound too bad right now," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
My black little heart does that thing again—it tugs. Her words almost make me feel something. Almost.
"How long have you been out?" she asks, her voice cracking with the remnants of the drug haze. She turns to face me, her eyes search mine, but I don’t give her anything to hold on to, just a smirk that doesn’t reach my eyes. I grab the shampoo, squirting some into my hand.
"Long enough," I say, as I run my fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp. The feel of her under my hands, the vulnerability in this moment, stirs something deep inside me. But I shove it down, burying it like I’ve done with everything else.
I’m sitting behind her, cradling her in the tub, and memories rush in like a flood. The warmth of the water, the intimacy of the act—it takes me back. Back to the first time I slipped inside her, back to us doing this. I craved this very moment, the way I held onto her like she was the air I needed to breathe.
I wanted to break her, convinced she had a happy life—a life without me in it. But now, she’s a shell. And one thing about me? I would break her. I was rough, but I always put her back together, always took care of her. It’s just who I am. But it doesn’t matter how broken she is, I will finish the job until the pieces fall and I can put them back together how I want them.
But as I relax, sinking into the moment, memories of my father creep in, uninvited.
My father was a kind and weak man who loved me more than I deserved. He even loved the cheating whore that was my mother more than she deserved. It’s a good thing she died , forcing him to move on. He was a good man, but too soft, too trusting. And in the end, I broke him too. Just like I’m going to break her. The irony is almost poetic.
Xena stirs, turning her body to face me. She snaps me back to the present. She’s coming back to herself, and I can see the panic setting in. "Roman," she whispers, her voice trembling, eyes wide as realization dawns on her. "You killed Marcos… Did you kill Jimmy too? "
I don’t respond, just nod. There’s no reason to say it out loud; she knows what happens to those who touch what’s mine. Her reaction is immediate—rage, fear, desperation. She smacks me, hard, across the face, and I don’t stop her. I let her get it out, the tears, the anger.
"How am I going to get my fix now? You ruined everything, Roman! Everything!" Her voice breaks, and I can see the cracks forming in her resolve, just like I knew they would. She’s spiraling, losing control, and that’s exactly what I need.
After smacking me, cursing me, and crying, she stands and leaves the bathroom. I follow right behind her, not caring to dry myself off as I follow her back into her room. I yank the Christmas lights wrapped around her window and stalk toward her, still naked.
"I’m not in the mood," she says, but I don’t give a fuck. This isn’t a negotiation, and I’m not giving her a choice.
"Who says I care about your moods?" I growl, grabbing her wrists and pulling them behind her back.
Using the Christmas lights, I bind her wrists tightly enough that she can’t escape but not so tight that it cuts off circulation. She struggles, but she’s weak, exhausted from the fight I choked out of her earlier.
"Be a good little junkie… and take the fix I’m about to give you," I whisper, leaning closer. My lips brush over hers as my hand grabs her ass, guiding her toward the bed.
"Lay down," I order, my voice thick with desire. She complies, her body trembling. I use more lights to spread her legs apart, tying each ankle to a separate bedpost. Now she’s open wide and aroused there’s no denying the way her pretty pussy weeps for me. Now for the fun part.
"Ro," she whispers as I turn to walk toward her dresser. "I need my oxy’s or just hand me the pills inside the dresser," she says nonchalantly, causing me to pause and look at her over my shoulder .
"I told you, my dick is the only drug you need," I reply, my tone dark.
"ROMAN!" she screams, thrashing against the bindings. "Ro, please." That fucking word almost makes me give in, but I can’t. I won’t. I need her here, with me. I’ll only break her when she’s sober.
"Do you remember Christmas… ten years ago?"
She stops thrashing… ahh, she does. Good.
"Why?"
I almost laugh at how innocent she sounds in that moment. But I’m done talking. Opening the drawer on the nightstand, I pull out a rose-shaped vibrator with a dick-shaped tail. I’m not sure what it does, but we’re about to find out.
"What are you doing, Ro? Give me my pills," she demands, her voice filled with anger. But her curses stop when I sit on the bed, my fingers spreading her lips apart. A soft moan escapes her lips, even though she tries to stifle it. My thumb slowly circles her clit as I plunge two fingers inside her. Like riding a bike, it comes naturally—the pace, the rhythm, the pressure. She clenches around my digits, whimpering in both pleasure and frustration.
I smirk at her. "How do you like that?" I ask, working a third finger into her heat. Her breath hitches; she’s so close. Too bad she won’t be coming—not today.
"How do I work this?" I ask, showing her the vibrator.
She shakes her head, defiance flashing in her eyes. "I have all the patience in the world. I can make this painful or pleasurable," I warn, my voice dropping to a dangerous purr.
She clenches her jaw, her eyes hardening with resistance. "Neither you sick bastard," she hisses through gritted teeth. But there’s no real conviction behind her words. It’s just another act of rebellion against my control.
Chuckling, I curl my fingers inside her, bringing her to the edge. I feel her cunt growing wetter, swollen, and pulsating against my fingers, her body desperate for release .
"You want it, don’t you?" I whisper in her ear, my voice dripping with satisfaction.
"No… no, please," she pleads, but the ragged breaths and shaking legs betray her words. I withdraw my fingers, watching as she tries to clench her thighs together, needing more. But she can’t. Her legs remain spread.
"Tell me what I want, and I’ll give you what you want," I lie, but it does the job. She motions toward the nightstand with her head.
"My phone controls it," she mutters.
A smile spreads across my face as I grab her phone. Modern technology sure has advanced since I got locked up.
"Pills," she demands again, but I shake my head. "Not until you finish your part. Show me."
She sighs but explains how to unlock her phone using her face, the app, and what to do next.
"Pills," she insists again, this time with more desperation. I kiss her rough and long, my tongue tangling with hers, effectively quieting her demand. I edge her once again, my fingers finding that sweet spot, driving her to the brink and pulling her back. By the time I’m done she’s a trembling mess, begging for release. But I don’t give it to her. Not yet. Not until she’s completely broken, conditioned to my touch, to my control. I pull away, leaving her dazed and breathless.
"In due time," I whisper, raking a hand through her disheveled hair.
I shift my focus to the device in my hand, navigating through the app she showed me. Once I’m ready, I slide the dick shape- tail part inside her. Adjusting the settings, the vibrator springs to life. Causing her to arch off the bed, writhing, and moaning. I’ll push her to the brink, but never letting her fall over the edge completely. The beauty of this game is in its anticipation, the slow, torturous build. I watch her gasp. her body continue to arch and twitch as the vibrator whirs inside her. Her brown eyes widen in surprise, then narrow as she tries to fight the pleasure, but it’s a losing battle. Her eyes roll back as the orgasm begins to build. To be fair, I’m also working my rose part on her clit, keeping her on the edge. She’s a fucking beautiful mess.
Minutes stretch into nearly two hours of relentless edging. Her body convulses, sweat glistening on her skin. Her eyes, hooded and desperate, plead with me to give her what she wants, promising anything in return. My enjoyment is palpable, and the control is intoxicating.
"Please," she sobs, her voice hoarse from the strain. But I don’t relent, not until she stops mentioning the pills and her body is utterly spent from exhaustion.
I read about this in prison—how to condition someone and that’s exactly what I intend to do. It’s all psychological, really. But first things first: I need to get her sober. No more drugs, no more crutches. Just me, her, and this twisted game we’re playing.
When she finally passes out, I know the real work has just begun. I suppress a smirk and take a moment to appreciate the sight of her: disheveled, vulnerable, and absolutely beautiful. For now, I’ll let her sleep. Soft snores escape her lips as I walk toward the door, turning off the light behind me.