Chapter Fifteen #2
No. “Yes. I’ve never had a public outburst, I’ve never embarrassed myself, I’ve never come close to stabbing someone in a fucking bar.”
Dorian isn’t offended at my jab. “I did come close to stabbing someone because of you,” he freely admits.
“Then, I composed myself by punishing you. I’m giving you free leave to do the same.
Scratch me, bite me, whatever. I have not been easy on you, and that won’t change.
If you need to claw at me to lift some of the pressure building inside of you, do it. ”
I swallow as I gaze at him. I do want to hurt him.
I’m remarkably pissed at him, at what he’s put me through, at the way he treats me like his property, and most of all, at the way he sees me.
He looks beneath the surface and peers right into my soul.
It’s alarming, disconcerting, and remarkably infuriating.
I don’t want to be seen, I want to be left alone, and with him, I don’t have that option.
Maybe it would make me feel better to just… let it all out. Let everything loose.
“Take off your shirt,” I say raggedly, my hands curling into fists.
I only catch the barest glimpse of Dorian’s victorious smile before he releases me, pulls his shirt over his head, and slowly lays back on the pillow.
I stare at the smooth, unblemished skin of his chest, imagining what it would be like to see my scratch marks and bite marks on it.
I envision him wincing tomorrow when he moves at a certain angle, remembering me.
The thoughts send a pulse of arousal straight to my core.
“Do your worst, Mira,” he invites softly.
I don’t go at him like a caged animal. Instead, I place my fingernails on his chest, just under his collarbones, and very slowly, very deliberately rake them downwards.
I don’t apply enough pressure to break skin, but enough to leave red marks that stand brightly against his pale flesh.
Dorian sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel his cock twitch beneath me.
Upper lip curling, I shift forward, away from his growing erection.
I don’t want to be turned on by him right now; I want to hurt him right now.
“Really?” I question lowly. “You’re getting hard now?”
“You’re on top of me, digging your fingernails into my chest,” Dorian says coolly. “What did you expect would happen?”
“God, you are so irritating.”
“That’s not going to stop or change,” he warns me.
“I am going to get turned on by you. Eventually, I am going to fuck you, and you’re going to like it.
Until then, I’ll continue indulging myself by playing with your body like it’s my favorite instrument.
Like it’s an object that exists solely to please me. ”
I know he’s taunting me, trying to get me to lose control.
Logically, I know it. Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain isn’t at the wheel right now.
My emotions are steering me right now, so his taunt works.
I claw him again, gouging deep with a low growl, then slap his chest. My vision turns red as sheer rage overtakes me; I don’t even realize what I’m doing.
I slap, claw, even lean down to bite him like I’m a vampire, wanting to do anything that’ll bring him pain.
I want him to be as uncomfortable in his own skin as he makes me.
And, somewhere deep down, I think I might want to mark him as much as he wants to mark me.
Eventually, hot tears start rolling down my cheeks, and my attacks turn from vehement and crazed to sloppy and pathetic.
I cry for many things; not just the indefinite loss of freedom I’m experiencing because I had the misfortune of crossing Dorian’s path, but also grief for just how hard I had to fight to earn that freedom in the first place.
Every day was a battle for survival with my stepfather, and the fact that I came out alive is a miracle.
I barely slept, I barely ate. I never ended up making it to my science fair because he broke my leg so badly, I spent the next week in the hospital.
I got out from under Clyde’s control, never to return, only to find myself under Dorian’s control just a few years later.
I deserve to be free. I deserve to be able to live my life.
I’ve earned that right through bloodshed and hardship, and yet, it’s nowhere within reach.
Each time I think I’ve finally achieved freedom, something happens that ends up proving the opposite.
Freedom is a finely-spun web of illusion.
If I’m not beholden to my stepfather, then I’m beholden to the whims of the United States’ broken education system.
Beholden to the control of men like Dorian.
There’s a catch everywhere, nothing is free, and I am sick of it.
If I could feasibly run away into the forest and live out my days in nature, with a pack of wild animals, I suspect I’d be far happier than I am now.
“Shh,” Dorian soothes, cutting through the whirlwind of thoughts cluttering my mind. “Shh, Mira. You’re alright. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Dimly, I realize that he’s sat up once again, and he’s holding me. My eyes are squeezed shut and I’m hitting his shoulders with my fists, but the gestures are weak. Mostly, I’m just sobbing, mourning.
What really sucks is that this feels better than my usual routine of isolating until I can make the anger and rage go away.
Dorian was right, this is a genuine release, and I hate him all the more for it.
What happened before was merely creating problems for later, pushing my emotions down until they became humongous and built to a boiling point.
Now, I feel lighter. It’s not a happy lightness, though.
It’s merely an absence of weight. Really, it’s just…
numbness, emptiness that carries vague whispers of cold with it.
Dorian chases away the cold with his own warmth and presence, invading the emptiness with himself. His scent, his energy, the feeling of him holding me tight.
“I hate you,” I whisper. “I hate you so much.”
“You don’t,” he disagrees gently, stroking my back as if I’m a child he’s trying to soothe. “You should, but you don’t. I like that a lot, you know that?”
“I don’t care what you like,” I sniffle.
“I know,” he says, sounding vaguely amused.
“You don’t have to dislike me, though. That’s a choice you make.
I wish you didn’t.” He pauses for a long, long moment.
Exhausted, I let my head slump forward, my cheek resting in the crook of his neck, my gaze trained on the moon beams spilling through the window.
“You could like me, Mira. You could allow yourself to like me. I’m not like your stepfather.
I do not hurt little girls and leave them to fend for themselves.
Choose me, be mine, and I’ll give you the entire world.
I’ll lay it at your feet. I’ll deliver your stepfather’s head to you on a silver platter. ”
“I want you to leave me alone,” I murmur. “I want to get through this particular trial that life has seen fit to throw at me in one piece. I want to… be free.”
“You’re not my prisoner.”
A soft, sardonic puff of laughter escapes me. “Can I go back to dorms, then?”
“No. But you can choose to be here. You can enjoy being here.”
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I admit quietly.
“I just want you,” he says. The declaration is simple, quietly spoken, and absolute. It almost sounds like a foregone conclusion; he wants me, so he’ll have me.
“I’ll never be yours,” I say. “I’ll never belong to anyone but myself.”
Dorian places a tender, gentle, misleadingly affectionate kiss on my head. “We’ll see about that.”