13. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Harbor
He sits across the room, eyes following me like a curse. This bottled fear gurgles down my throat, warm and numbing, nothing like his icy stare. I hold my breath and watch him back, scared of his intensity, scared to look away. The mask he wore flickers through my mind, something terrible and beautiful that whispered I was prey. In this silence, I can hear his patience, but it’s withering, slowly draining. Half of me wonders if he’s going to snap. To claim me like he wants to. Like I want him to. He wants me to crack. He knows I will.
My drink burns as it slides down my throat, waiting for something to happen. His stillness is terrifying, this calculated quiet more oppressive than any chains. Each second feels like a cold hand squeezing my insides, forcing out anything but his presence. The whiskey doesn’t work; my chest is tight, breath shallow. I watch him through the dark. A tiger ready to pounce. A trap ready to snap. Nothing about him gives anything away, not like the thudding of my pulse, the shifting of my body.
I wonder if this is the game he plays—letting silence stretch until it snaps. Letting fear twist itself into something ugly and... inviting. God, I can't even think straight, can't remember why I'm here or why I let him convince me to come. But he didn’t convince you did he? He opened the door and you stepped right in . My fingers are numb around the glass, and I drink like it'll help. Like it’ll wash away the memory of that mask and its eyes, glittering like a promise.
The fire crackles low, its light flickering over his face. There’s something of a challenge there. Something that says: give in. The longer I sit, the more I unravel. I’m drawn to his danger, wrapped in this sinister allure. I want him. But I don't. But I do.
He hasn't moved, and I realize that's the horror of it. He's so damn certain I'll crack first.
The cabin is empty but for us. It could be miles to anywhere. No sound but the fire, the blood pounding in my ears. Time has no shape here, everything drawn out and aching.
Minutes or hours or lifetimes later, I’m crumbling, whispering I'm going to bed, before retreating to safety that isn't safe.
I don’t even know if I say it out loud or just think it a thousand times—I'm going to bed, to bed, to bed. My voice or my breath or just the sound of my own fear filling this empty space. I rise and move to the bedroom, wondering if he’ll stop me, if I want him to stop me. The floor is uneven beneath my feet, or maybe that’s just me. I lock the door, my fingers fumbling on the latch.
Cold slips under the door, creeping like the rest of this place. Despite the fire, the walls seem to exhale frost, chilling me to the core. It mingles with something else, something that burns and smolders low in my stomach.
His presence is too close, too much. His silence follows me, invades every thought. It wraps around me like the shadows, whispering the things it could do to me if only I let it.
I sit on the bed and let my face fall into my hands. Maybe to cry. Maybe to laugh at the impossibility of it all. I listen for any sign of movement, of him coming for me, and feel the disappointment sting when it doesn’t come. I want it. I want him. I want... escape. It's getting hard to tell the difference.
Minutes slip into hours, or maybe seconds, or maybe I'm losing my mind. Then a sound, finally—deep and heavy.
I hear it back in my mind—prey, prey, prey. Maybe that's all I am now.
As vulnerable as it makes me feel, I can’t stop wanting this. Wanting him to force me to give in, force me to be what he thinks I am. Prey. What I want to be, maybe. Just once, I want someone to know what I need better than I do.
I wrap myself in blankets, not for the cold but to hold myself together. My eyes won’t close. My breath won’t slow. I wait for something to happen, something I’m not even sure I don’t want. And I keep waiting.
If my phone worked, I would call Lila, get her to come pick me up, to shake reason into me. But it doesn’t, so I have to get myself out of here. The longer I stay in his orbit, the deeper my fantasies run.
Giving into them will only bring me trouble. Looking out the window, I spot his car. My escape plan forms.
If I leave, all of this will disappear. I’ll burn this manuscript, go back to writing about my cowboys.
His breath is deep, a lullaby of false safety as my fingers tremble on the lock of my door. I'm silent and barefoot, feeling the chill of the floor bite at my toes, holding my breath so I don't scream. I tell myself I want to run. I tell myself lies. Each creak of wood is loud, each step towards the door a battle with myself. My need to escape, my need for him. I reach it. Locked. Panic blooms. Panic... and a thrill.
Then his hands on me, and I can't pretend. I can't breathe. I'm spinning out, my mind falling into a haze of lust, desire, fear and need . My chest against the door, against him.
“Where do you think you’re going, little rabbit?”
A scream bubble up in my chest and I try fight him off, even as he chuckles and those dark eyes bore into mine. I wanted him to let me go, but not really. I wanted the mask to follow me. I wanted to be caught.
Excitement.
No.
Oh god, yes.
He turns me around so fast, I don't even know I'm moving until my back hits the door. Until he's pressed against me, a wall of heat and muscle and want. "Going somewhere, Harbor?"
I shake my head, the motion half panic, half surrender.
His hands are on me, rough and strong. "Liar."
His voice is a growl in my ear, and I feel it, deep and low. My heart is a fist pounding against his chest. My treacherous pussy is already wet, already excited for the trauma he is about to inflict. The room spins and settles, spins and settles. The key. The door. His arms caging me in.
I'm trapped and I love it, even as I fight it.
He's bigger than I thought, taller, stronger. Every inch of me screams to be let go, to be held tighter.
"You want to leave, baby girl?" He’s taunting me, knowing I don’t, knowing I can’t.
He steps back, just an inch, and I breathe, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel him pull me back, closer, tighter. I gasp, all the air leaving my lungs. "I… I don’t know."
His grip is a bruise. A promise.
I don't fight him. I can't, even as his hand trails down my body, up my thigh and under the shirt I wore to bed. Should have put pants on .
His hands are everywhere, pulling me apart until I'm raw and wanting. Pinching my nipples, twisting them as his mouth leaves open kisses on my collarbone, across my neck. I try to push him back, but he catches my wrists, forces them above my head. My body arches, and his knee presses between my thighs, opening me, exposing me. My body has a mind of it’s own as I grind down on his thigh, seeking friction, seeking relief.
Fingers thrust inside me, filling me, relentless and bruising. I’m fighting, squirming, helpless. He runs his thumb over my clit and a spark blooms across my stomach. Fuck, this is everything I should hate and everything I don’t.
I’m gasping for air, for him. My back hits the door again and again, my need for him and need to escape bleeding into one frantic beat. A brutal kiss, teeth on skin, and I’m begging.
"You want this," he says, and it's not a question. It's an accusation, a taunt.
His voice is a low growl that matches the wild tempo of my heartbeat.
I bite his lip. I taste blood, and I'm drowning in it. "Fuck you." I spit it back at him, even as I pull him closer, even as my breath tangles with his and I don’t know which one of us is lying.
His fingers are slick, ruthless, inside me. His other hand tightens on my wrists.
“Oh, baby, I see it. The fucking need in your eyes. Such a pretty little liar.” His laughter is dark and thick. I’m ready to hate him for it, ready to give in, ready to need this more than air.
And then I'm the one laughing, half mad, half gone. Maybe all gone. Maybe I want to be. "You don’t know me."
“I know you better than you know yourself, Harbor.”
He doesn't. He's rough, relentless, and I'm burning with the friction, with the need for more, more, more. I'm not the only one unhinged. He's coming undone too, trying desperately to take his time, even as his pants tent, even as he brings me to my first orgasm and I’m spasming around his fingers.
“Fuuuuck, you look so pretty when you come.”
And then I’m lost. I can’t take it anymore and I’m begging. “Please…”
“Please, what?”
“Ugh, FUCK ME. Please. For the love of God, just fuck me. End my misery.” I’m screaming as he chuckles, taking his fingers out of me and licking them with a smirk.
Then he’s spinning me around, slamming my face against the door and pulling my hips out towards him. The air is cold as he lifts my shirt over my ass and a hard smack registers in my ears before the pain does.
He pushes inside, thick and hard, and I know nothing but him. His name, like a sob, like surrender. "Kairo."
"God, I fucking love it when you scream like that. Love your little bruises.”
I scream again as he thrusts into me, filling me so deep I see stars. Love it as much as he loves bruising me, doing it again before using the same hand to grab a fistful of my hair.
I cry out at the same time he does, and I know he won’t last long.
I won’t either.
He uses my hair to pull me back towards him as he thrusts into me, ruthless and fucking perfect.
He chokes me with the other hand, and I can’t breathe, but I don’t want to. Everything about him has invaded my senses, my body responding to his like it’s a stranger I’ve only just met. How is this me? How am I making these noises? Getting off to this?
There’s no time to second guess as he squeezes my neck, forcing mt to breathe through a pinhole.
Seconds before I think I might pass out, he lets go, pinning me to the door and fucking me with even more force, more urgency.
As the pressure builds and builds I don’t know if my screams are from pain or pleasure. I don’t care.
It’s everything.
It’s too much.
It’s not enough.
I’m ready to collapse when I feel his hand on my clit and he moans in my ear.
“Come for me, Harbor.”
His fingers are ruthless, and I do.
I come hard, my knees buckling beneath me, my whole body going stiff and then limp all at once as he holds me up and spills into me, swearing and whispering and groaning like he’s an animal. Like I’m his prey.
He holds me there,
He thrusts one more time and I swear to God the man is still hard. My pussy is on fire and I’m sucking in deep lungful’s of air, trying to breathe as he pulls out and turns me.
His eyes study me, my body, stopping on the red marks that will become bruises.
"I’m sorry I hurt you.” And for a moment, I catch something genuine. Something sorrowful.
It throws me off, my cheeks flushing a deep red as my eyes drop to the floor, watching as our come mixes in a pool underneath me. “I’m not.”
His mouth crushes mine, hard and unyielding. Teeth on teeth, skin on skin, and I melt into it. Into him. Into the person he makes me, the person I never knew I was. I'm so damn close to letting go of everything I ever was an allowing him to mold me into everything he needs. I can taste it. Feel it. For the first time in my introverted little life, I’m alive. Something more than my words, or someone else’s, is making me feel .
I didn't think it could be like this. I didn't think I'd ever feel... enough. This is everything. I'm full. I'm whole. I'm shameless.
He’s brutal, wild, beautiful, devouring my lips until all I know is his heat, his pressure, his perfect, violent rhythm. He owns me and he knows it. He owns me and I do, too.
And then I'm gone, and he's still there. My world. My perfect, unholy world. I feel it hit him too, sudden and sharp, and he stiffens, pulls me so close I think I'll break, and I hear the thump, thump, thump of his heart.
“You’re mine, Harbor.”
The sound he makes. I've never heard anything like it. I want to hear it a thousand times. I want to hear it forever.
This is just post sex regret… that’s all this is. I cannot possibly fall for him. He is… dangerous.
And then he's holding me, carrying me to the bed, and I don't want to let him, but I do. I don't want this to be over, and it's not. I don't want it to end. And it won't.
Because he knows what I want.
He knows what I am.
Steps from insanity, surely.
He knows what I'll be, what I already am. And so do I.
Laying me on the bed, he watches me for a moment. Almost as if he is unsure what to do now. Like he wants to ask to stay, but doesn’t know how. But I need time. I need to process what the fuck just happened and why, suddenly, it feels like we’ve done this before. Like I’ve had his cock inside me before. Like he’s not a stranger, but someone that I crave.
Desire.
I push away from him, legs trembling and weak, skin marked with his fingers, his lips, his bruising desire. And I want more. Even now, I want more. Even now, I hate myself for wanting it. My body's wet, aching, filthy. I'm a mess of contradictions, beautiful and sick. The sheets are scratchy as I force myself up against the wall, curling up to hold myself together. I ask for space. I ask for a chance to understand how I loved it so much. He just nods.
His eyes follow me. I feel their weight on every bruise, every place I didn't know could hurt, every inch of me that feels alive for the first time, and I shiver. I wrap my arms around myself, clinging to this new and terrifying truth.
He doesn't push, but he doesn't back off. "I need... I just need a minute," I whisper. I can't meet his gaze. I can’t hold myself together and let him in all at once. It's too much.
As soon as he leaves I slip into the bathroom, closing the door with shaking hands. Not locking it, even though I want to, even though I should.
Not locking it, because maybe I want him to push through and take me again. The thought is a rush. The thought is an anchor.
I turn on the water, the sound almost drowning out the wild rush in my head. Almost. I step in, let it cascade over me, feel it soak into my hair, my skin, the bruises I admire and abhor. They’re beautiful. I hate them. But they look beautiful, turning my too-pale canvas into something that looks a lot like a field of wildflowers.
His fingerprints bloom dark and tender along my arms, my throat, and I trace them with trembling fingers.
I'm filthy, so filthy, and I wash myself slowly, loving the way the water mixes with him and turns the edges of my mind soft and liquid and warm.
How long will I have before he pulls me back into that world, before I beg him to?
A fluffy towel absorbs the wetness from my skin as I step out, drying myself gently. It’s a few steps to the bed and I slide in.
Half of me feels sick that I didn’t bother to put clothes on. The other half knows that he’s the one who left me all those little gifts back ta my apartment. The one who left the mess between my legs.
And I want that again. There’s something about being helpless, allowing someone to infiltrate all sense in my body and push out the fear that’s addicting.
I should lock the door. I should lock my heart, my body, my sick and wanting need.
But I don’t.
I don’t know how long I can last like this, unsure if I want him to stay away, knowing that I don't. This is Stockholm Syndrome, and I should see a psychologist and perhaps be locked in an asylum. But even as I think it, all that goes through my mind is that I hoped he’d find me there and take me. I curl into a ball, into a mess of limbs and thoughts and crazy, beautiful, awful desire. I fall into sleep that’s too full of dreams, too empty of him.
The bed dips behind me, the creak of the springs loud, and in the haze of dirty dreams and shock, I welcome his presence. The mattress groans under us. Cold air hits my skin as he lifts the blankets and grunts, his hands trailing my bare skin.
But he doesn’t make a move. He just plays with my hair, his fingertips tickling my shoulder before running down my arm.
He slides behind me, into me, all around me. His warmth fills the empty spaces. His body pulls mine close, and I let him, I let go, I let everything slip away.
“You were made for me,” he whispers, kissing my shoulder before wrapping his arm around my stomach, his fingers tracing lazy circles across my tight skin. “From the moment I saw you… I knew you were mine. Everything I’ve done, it’s been for you. You may feel this is fast, that this is the beginning, but for me, it’s the end. Sleep tight, baby girl, don’t be surprised if you awake to my cock buried in that pretty pink pussy.”
I should try to run again.
But I don’t…
Because somehow, what he says…
Just makes sense.
For now, anyway.
As the dark swallows me, a small voice in the back of my head is warning me to escape before he pulls me in too deep.