Chapter 12
twelve
-Serena-
I wake up in the morning with Set’s hand tucked between my legs, like he’s guarding his damn property—reminding me of what happened last night.
I can't even begin to list everything that’s wrong with me right now.
I blame it on being scared, vulnerable and completely fucked in the head.
And I'm sore everywhere. Actually, it's so bad I can't even pay attention to the headache I woke up with.
The tension low in my body is unbearable.
My whole core feels twisted, knotted with pressure and a kind of anguish that has no chance of finding any ease—despite the fact that I still have a hand resting between my legs.
I mentally scream just thinking about last night. The memory claws at me, sharp and painful, and I chase it away before it can twist the knife deeper in my stomach.
I haven't been myself since I found out there’s a hit out on me.
Nick put me in just about every dangerous situation he could.
Still, I didn't have a literal contract on my head before—at least, not one I knew of. But I can’t be sure if this is tied to Set, the break-ins, or Nick’s gambling debts.
Yet, since Set’s the only one still standing—and he's the reason Nick is dead—I think it's only fair to hold him responsible.
Then again, the fact that Nick’s dead has been lingering on my mind all day. Especially since I'm the one who killed him. I'm a killer because of Set, and now he’s brought me back to finish his twisted creation.
Funny how every one of my deepest fears collided the moment I saw Set walk back through the door last night.
I shouldn't have said the things I did last night.
I regret most of them, especially since he did have a point.
None of the people I killed were good. They hurt me so badly that I'll never heal from the scars.
And still, I keep telling myself I shouldn't be with Set because he's not a good person—but neither am I.
My only real fear is that when I’m with him, parts of me—I didn't even know existed—begin to surface.
I let him do all those things to me last night.
And I want more. I want him in the most vile, depraved ways imaginable.
I want him to test my limits and go beyond them when we're in bed.
And honestly, I don't even think I can go through with his punishment.
Because my body hurts in ways it never has before.
It's not just my wrists, it's like my body's punishing me, turning on itself because I dared to leave Set.
And even if I understood why he wanted to teach me a lesson, this was a very painful one.
I only managed to fall asleep last night because I hadn't closed an eye yesterday while he was away.
Maybe that's why I was so bitchy to him—not that he deserved any better. The man’s an animal.
And he proved that to me by marking me, because I know that's what he was doing, like a damn alpha, tracing his property lines.
I just wish I weren't so fucking turned on by wearing his marks. By belonging to him.
I try to move and break free from the phone cord, but as Set feels me moving, he pulls me onto him, and throws a heavy arm around me. "Ten more minutes," he groans, keeping me prisoner under his weight until I can hardly breathe.
Well, that's not entirely true. I'm just pissed off that I'm tied up, which gives me a reason to protest. "You're too heavy, I'm suffocating." I squirm under his arm, struggling to break free, hoping he's not serious about keeping me tied like this.
"Suffocating?" he teases, his voice slightly amused, "I haven't even tried to properly choke you," he says, stretching his arms like a lazy bear fresh out of hibernation.
I do hope he's joking.
Okay, maybe deep down I don't, but I force myself not to provoke him.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say—I don't really. I just want him to untie me.
He takes a few seconds to get back to his senses, and with eyes half open, he pulls on the cord, struggling with the knot a little. "You have two minutes," he warns as I leave the bed.
"Two minutes? I want to take a shower," I snap back since I'm still covered in his release.
"Two minutes, and you're back in bed," he gives me what's supposed to be an ultimatum, and I don't argue with him because next thing I know, I might not be allowed to use the toilet.
I just let the door close behind me with the loud thump, and return to the bedroom wearing one of the robes I found in the bathroom—before his precious minutes run out.
I crawl back in bed, but don't go back to sleep since my body’s still wrecked, especially my head.
.. and whatever the hell counts as my internal balance.
Oh, and I forgot about the knee. But strangely enough, Set didn't seem to forget. Once he’s fully awake, he moves to my side, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and pushing my robe up so he can inspect the wound.
"Let me take a look at that," he says, his voice so much softer this morning.
Maybe he's just sleepy, I tell myself, unwilling to give him the benefit of the doubt that he might actually have a decent bone in his body.
And, like he’s purposely trying to prove me wrong, he's careful not to hurt me in any way while he inspects my wound. I still find that difficult to process, considering my ass cheeks are still sore from his palm—the good kind of sore, I have to admit.
Extra careful, he starts moving my leg back and forth, just the way he did on the plane, bending my knee like he's checking for something. "Does this still hurt?" he asks, gently pressing his fingers on the back of my knee.
"Just a little. It's much better now," I answer, slightly impressed by how thoughtful he acts, though I’m doing my best not to let it show.
He repeats that movement, making my leg curl and stretch a few times. "That popping sound’s gone, so I think everything’s in place. It should heal fine now. But I'm still taking you for an X-ray later."
"Can I have an Advil or something? I don't know where to find one. I looked in the bathroom cabinet, but I couldn't find anything." Truth is, I couldn't find a single pill—not even supplements. Nothing. And come on, he has to take something to look like that.
"I thought you said it stopped hurting?" he asks, confused since that’s what I just told him.
"I have a headache... and..." I don't finish the sentence, just rest a hand over my lower stomach.
That immediately gets his attention, and I see him shift to sit higher on the bed.
"Is my pussy sore?" he asks, untying the cord of my robe.
"Have I edged her too hard?" he arches a brow, clearly expecting me to confirm the damage he’s done. I’ll never willingly admit that to him, but his hand sneaks beneath the robe and gently massages my lower stomach.
The warmth is welcome, but honestly, I don't know if it helps, or if it's just making it worse because my body seems to be reacting all over again to him.
"Stay in bed for a few more minutes. I'll go get you a pill, then we’ll go into the shower to wash," he says, leaving the room—fully naked.
Yeah, he definitely made it worse.
It takes him a few minutes to return, and I’m pretty sure I heard someone at the door, which makes me think he had it sent up from downstairs.
He’s still naked when he comes back. I don't even want to imagine how he answered the door to get the pill, considering the fact that he's wearing no clothes whatsoever.
I take the Advil with the water he also brought, while he goes and turns on the shower—just as he said he would.
He then returns to take me to the bathroom, where he starts washing me from head to toe.
And I don't mean it in a sexual way. He's actually washing me, meticulously cleaning his juices off me, like a serial killer does to a murder scene. My body is the murder scene, it’s just too spelled to realize it, because every place he touches comes alive under his fingers.
At least Set doesn't seem to react. That makes me somehow happy. I'm certain I can't deal with more torture today—not without suffering internal damage.
"Turn," he says, and proceeds to wash my hair as soon as I turn my back to him. His fingers gently massage my scalp, and I could faint right here and now. Still, he’s acting so unbothered that I’m starting to think he’s bipolar.
He works in some conditioner, then trails a sponge down my back while it sets for a couple of minutes.
Set seems to have adopted a different kind of torture—emotional. And I'm starting to think it's working even better than edging me until my ovaries feel like they're about to explode.
I think he washed himself as well while the conditioner did its thing. I can’t tell because I have my back to him, but by the time I'm all rinsed, he's ready too and walks behind me as I return to the room.
I wait for him while he gets dressed, then follow him to my old room so he can grab my clothes.
"Let's get you dressed. You're coming with me today.
There's no way in hell I'm leaving you alone in the house after what I came home to last night.
" It seems he's really doing this—he's claiming control over every aspect of my life. But as much as I’d love to say he must be fucked up in the head to do something like this, it feels so right.
And that makes me fucked up in the head too.
He doesn't pick anything too dressy for me, just a casual pair of sleek black joggers—both comfortable and stylish enough to go anywhere without looking sloppy, a pair of matching sneakers, and a black roll-sleeve T-shirt that seems simple but put together like he planned every detail.
And the designer labels on the clothes reinforce that thought.