9. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Creed
T he basement door is a two-inch slab of steel, painted the color of wet clay.
I built it myself, welded the hinges, anchored it into concrete so it wouldn't give even if a bomb went off. Slade helped. Kairo and Knox were pussies and said they didn’t want any part in it.
They never complained when we needed to make someone disappear, though, so they could go fuck themselves.
The deadbolt sighs when I turn it. Julianna hears the sound, her breath catches, just loud enough to register.
I savor the moment before I step inside.
She stands at the end of the chain like she's guarding the perimeter of a kingdom. Arms crossed over her chest, feet planted wide, her face desperate not to portray her anger as she smooths it over. She’s in the t-shirt I left her, nothing else, legs bare to the thigh, the skin already marked where she’s tried and failed to pry loose from the cuffs.
Even in this lightless bunker, she glows.
Nothing can dim her shine, God-fucking-damn.
"Why?" she says
I ignore the performance and look her over, starting at her face, dropping to the fists bunched at her ribs, the set of her hips, the twitch in her left leg. She’s angry, yes, but not afraid. The difference is important.
"You want an answer?" I keep my voice low, gentle, like I’m reading her the weather report. "You were driving yourself insane. Something had to break the pattern."
She barks a laugh, sudden, sharp. "So your solution is to chain me to a fucking wall?"
I step inside, close the door, and let the lock fall back into place. There’s a way to open it from the inside, but she won’t figure it out. The room is small. Every inch of it is intentional. I walk three paces in, stopping just outside the range of her reach.
"If you could have solved it on your own, you would have," I say. "You needed intervention."
She sets her jaw. The veins at her throat pop, a blue map of refusal. "You're delusional. I don't need anything from you."
"Denial is a stage of grief," I offer. "You’ll move past it."
She tries to pace, but the chain stops her halfway. She turns, furious, and faces me down. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
The question has so many answers, but none worth saying. I let the silence do the talking. In a standoff, silence always wins.
"Let me go." She spits each word like she wants to infect me.
I take a step closer. Not rushed. Not slow. Measured, like gravity has only one setting for me.
"No," I say. "You’re staying here until you see the point."
She glares, teeth bared. "Which is?"
I smile, because it’s always the same question. Always the same answer. "I want you," I say, simply. "You want to be wanted. I’m just more honest about it than you are."
She actually spits at my feet. Childish, but she’s so composed it almost works as theater.
"You're sick," she says.
"Correct," I say. "But at least I’m aware. Seems you try to hide your… affliction. One I rather enjoy, if we’re being honest right now."
I reach for her face. Not a slap, not a threat. Just my hand, cupping her chin. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away. There’s heat in her eyes, but also that curiosity, she wants to know if I’ll hit her, or kiss her, or just snap her neck and be done with it.
I tilt her chin up, forcing her to look at me.
"You could have walked away at any time," I say, quiet.
"But you didn't. You came back, again and again, because you like the game. You knew I was watching you and yet you taunted me. You showed me everything about you. You stayed. You chose me, even if you are currently pretending you didn’t. And Julianna? You chose me because I can give it just as good as I can take it and that’s exactly what you need. "
She hocks spit directly at my face.
It hits my cheek and slides down to the corner of my mouth.
For a moment, I close my eyes and let the sensation register. Warm, viscous, a challenge written in DNA. When I open them, she's still locked to my gaze, chin raised, a tiny smile flickering at the edge of her lips.
I wipe the spit with two fingers. Hold them up between us. There’s a speck of blood in the mucous, she must have bitten the inside of her cheek for the drama. I bring the fingers to my mouth, and lick them clean, slow, making sure she sees every fucking second.
She blinks once. Just once. Her lips twitch like her mouth wants to fall open, but she can’t bring herself to make the motion.
Good thing too. I’d have her on her knees with those lips around my cock.
The energy in the room changes. She wants to hate me for it, but now it’s not so simple. She’s watching for what comes next.
"Better?" I ask.
She turns her face away, but the pulse at her neck triples.
I drop my hand and step back.
"You're fucking twisted," she says, but it's lost its edge. The words sound almost... rehearsed. Like she's running out of real insults.
I nod. "And you’re still here. Even chained, even after all this, you haven't begged or pleaded or even tried to make a deal. You’re a fighter. That’s why I like you."
She doesn't answer, but her breathing is ragged.
"We'll try again tomorrow," I say, and move to leave.
She shouts, "Coward. You can't even finish what you start."
I stop. Turn. Walk back.
This time I don't touch her. I just stand close enough that she can smell me, feel the heat radiating from my skin.
"I could finish you right now, if I wanted," I say, soft. "I could make you choke on my cock until tears well in those perfect eyes, until you’re sobbing. But I won’t. Not unless you get on your knees and beg."
Her lips curl, but not in a smile. "Why me? You could have any pathetic bitch in this city."
"None of them are you." The truth is ugly but simple.
I start to turn again, and she lashes out, trying to kick me, but she’s reached the end of the chain. I grab her ankle, one-handed, and hold it. Her foot is bare, toenails painted a chipped, metallic blue. I run my thumb across the arch, slow, deliberate. Instantly her flesh goosebumps.
"You can try to fight this all you want," I tell her. "I'm not letting go."
I drop her foot, watch her stumble, and leave the room without looking back.
In the hallway, I listen. She sits down on the bed, the chain rattling, then nothing.
Maybe the forced peace will bring her around. She will realize exactly why she needs this.
I let her sit in silence for five hours.
It takes exactly three minutes for her to test the chain again, five more to scream herself raw, and then pace.
Back and forth. I listen from the other side of the door, counting the rotations, eighty-three, before her energy flags and she crumples onto the edge of the bed.
She doesn’t cry. I expected as much. She’s spent her whole life forging herself into an edge sharp enough to cut the world apart, and she’s not about to dull now. While I watch her fiddle, I make her some food. Nothing crazy, but it’ll be enough. Hopefully she likes sandwiches.
When I come back, she’s ready. Her jaw is set. Her arms are bare, bunched and corded. There’s blood dried along her left wrist where she’s tried, and failed, to slip the cuff.
"You can go fuck yourself," she spits as soon as the door opens.
"Good afternoon," I say.
"Let me out, you psychotic bastard." She’s louder now, voice echoing off the concrete.
I close the door behind me, take my time surveying the damage: the bed askew, the water bottle half-drained, the bucket in the corner emptied, courtesy of me. She holds herself like an animal waiting for the killing blow.
"You know you could just talk to me," I offer, stepping into the middle of the room holding out the plate with the sandwich on it.
She narrows her eyes and shakes her head, so I shrug and put the plate down where she can reach. "There's nothing I want from you except the key to these cuffs."
"Not true," I say, calmly. "You want to win. You want me to surrender. Even now."
She laughs, an ugly, serrated sound. "You're projecting."
"I'm observing."
She stands, face-to-face now, inches from me. Even with the chain, she manages to look ten feet tall. "Let me go, Creed. This is your last chance before I start screaming for help again."
"There's no one to hear you," I remind her.
She glances up at the vent. I shake my head. "Too small. I measured. You’re not getting out unless I carry you."
She swallows, lips parted, breathing hard. "So what, you keep me here like a fucking pet? Is that the plan?"
"No," I say, stepping closer. "Pets don't fight back."
Her voice drops, but the bite in it is pure venom. "I will break you," she says.
"Try," I say, and mean it.
She draws her hand back to slap me, but I catch her wrist mid-flight, fingers tight enough to bruise. She tries to twist away, and I use the momentum to pull her against me, chest to chest, heart to heart.
"You want to hurt me, Julianna?" I whisper, leaning close enough that our noses touch. "You want to see what it feels like to actually lose control?"
She bares her teeth, but she doesn't pull away. Her pulse is a metronome gone berserk.
I hold her like that, frozen, until the fight bleeds out of her. The chain clinks. Her hand drops to her side. She meets my gaze, eyes glassy with rage and something darker.
"Go on then," she dares. "Show me what you've got."
So I do.
I close the gap in an instant, pressing my mouth to hers, not gentle, not even a little.
I taste the salt of her sweat, the metallic tang of blood from where her lip is split.
She tries to turn her face, but I follow, matching her angle, refusing to let her break away.
My hands are on her hips, digging in, pulling her up to meet me.
She bites my bottom lip, hard. The pain is sharp, shocking. I taste iron, feel the skin split, and I fucking love it.
What else does my little kitten have in store for me?
I pull back, just enough to see the blood on her teeth. She licks it off, slow, deliberate. Her eyes are black with want.