55. Venetia
I ’m a burning ember against the cool silence of the moon, the scorching sensation cascading through every fiber of my body, cutting through the dense haze of sleep. As my eyes squeeze away the blurred darkness, I open them and find the source of my fire.
His ice-blue gaze pierces through the shadows like moonlit glass as he leans against my doorframe. Tendrils of fear coil around me, sinking into the pit of my stomach. I stare back at him, frozen, as he detaches from the doorframe and stalks toward me. Words churn on the tip of my tongue—I want to call his name, to ask questions—but they never leave my lips. My eyes narrow when I notice the small boxes in his hands.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers, settling onto my bed. The mattress sinks beneath his weight as I try to discern what he’s holding. “You were sleeping so heavily, I thought you wouldn’t notice me.”
I remain silent for a moment, my mind still foggy with sleep. “W-what is this?” I ask, rubbing a hand across my face to dispel the last remnants of the haze. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Can I turn on a light?” he asks, his voice laced with caution. I nod, though uncertainty lingers within me. I’m unsure whether I truly want him to proceed. Fear still holds me captive, a heavy weight that his presence causes.
It’s the kind of fear that makes me want to run, hoping he’ll catch me again, to feel the thrill that is as painful as it is blissful.
As he switches on the bright light by the nightstand, I squint, the harsh glow burning my eyes. I reach out for the top box and take it from his hands. My gaze sweeps across the surface, and I blink several times to ensure I’m not imagining things. I glance to the side, seeing the same on the second box, and realize that I’m not hallucinating. Each of them has a name scrawled in white marker on top.
Logan and Joseph.
As my hand closes around the edge of Logan’s box and I begin to open it, the weight in my gut twists sharply. The moment I see the contents, sleep evaporates, replaced by an unsettling clarity.
Severed hands.
‘I can still feel their touch on me.’
In disbelief, I open the second box and see the same sight—equally cut and clean, not a stain of blood or grime on them.
The warmth begins in my lower belly, a simmering fire that spirals up, igniting my heart with a million burning pinpricks. I close my eyes, surrendering to the heat, basking in its delicious intensity.
West did this. For me. It’s not the first time he’s done something completely insane for my sake, but this time feels different—too personal. I’ve never opened up about what happened to anyone in my life, and frankly, after sharing everything with him, I expected him to be disgusted by me. Instead, he offered nothing but support.
And what he did feels like… love. Yes, a love tainted by sickness, twisted and depraved, just like everything about us.
I thought he would step over the fragments of my jagged soul, but instead, he knelt, picked them up, and fused them with his own. No documents, vows, or pictures could ever capture what has transpired between us. What began as a reluctant, strained connection has transformed into a maddening, sick obsession. He sees me completely and is willing to burn the world down for me—just as I’ve always dreamed.
After checking each of them, I grab the boxes and set them down on the floor before tucking them under the bed, allowing the sheet to conceal them. I can sense his eyes on me from the corner of my vision as I switch off the light and straighten my back, my gaze locked on the wall in front of us.
Words fail me, unable to capture the emotions flooding through. A scream threatens to escape from the overwhelming sensations building inside, yet I also want to hold them in, letting them intensify further.
God, I’ve never felt so fucking good. So free, so seen, so accepted, so obsessed . I am completely consumed by him and everything he’s done for me.
Shifting my position, I drape my leg over him and settle into his lap. His hands instinctively find my waist, and I gasp at the warmth of his touch. It seeps through the thin fabric of my nightdress, enveloping me in the comfort I’ve lacked for so long. His grip tightens, and I sink into him, allowing the pleasure to consume me completely.
There’s nothing in this world that compares to his touch. It’s always possessive and a little rough, yet so soft and magically comforting.
It belongs to me.
The time we’ve spent together has revealed a side of him I never knew existed. Beneath the tough facade and constant anger lies a broken man who gives selflessly, without expecting anything in return. He does it effortlessly.
I wanted to hurt him so many times, and I did, unapologetically saying and doing things to tear him down even more. Yet, despite it all, he still carries that spark that shines for me.
And me alone.
I graze the edge of his lips with a feather-light kiss before claiming his mouth in a slow, deliberate embrace. He shivers as I press closer, his warmth seeping into me.
I want to lose myself in him, to become one.
The kiss ignites a supernova, a million burning stars exploding behind my closed eyes. We drown in its intensity, time suspended, the world dissolving into a blur of sensation. I feel his pleasure—a sweet symphony against my lips—and pull him closer, our bodies melding into one in the heat of the moment.
His breathing quickens, but he matches my measured pace. His hands roam up and down my body, exploring, touching, asserting control. The slight power I held a moment ago fades away as he brushes his hands across me, tugging at the delicate fabric of my dress.
I can feel myself growing wetter, needier for him, but I don’t want this to follow the usual route. I want to be intoxicated by his lips, drunk by the kisses he gives me. I crave everything and nothing all at once, and I sense he feels the same way. If he wanted just one thing, he would have torn this dress off me a long time ago.
I pull back to catch my breath as he gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Our eyes lock, filled with the raw hunger that binds us together.
I cup the side of his face, my thumb brushing across his cheek as my gaze sweeps over his perfect features. I see him every day, but those moments when I can truly appreciate him are few and far between. The dusty freckles scattered across his skin, the barely noticeable blush that appears when he’s aroused, and those perfect lips that give kisses I wish I could imprint on my mouth—everything about him takes my breath away.
For a moment, I simply observe him, letting my fingers glide over his features like an artist crafting a masterpiece. But his smile pulls me back—the way his eyes crinkle, stripping away the last of my sanity and leaving me weak all over. Before I realize it, a smile of my own forms, mirroring his amusement, just as his hand snakes into my hair. Grabbing a handful of my locks, he pulls my mouth back to his.
It’s a stark, vivid contrast to the… well, the horrors he committed before coming here—torturing and murdering those two men. Still, I can’t force myself to care, allowing the tenderness he gives me to drown out everything else. I know, deep down, that I’m the only one who will ever see this side of him.
And I’ll be the only one who never passes judgment on the ways he proves his intentions.
Time fades away as our lips meet in bruising kisses, his fingers tracing over my body, pulling undeniable pleasure from every touch. I savor the burn that spreads from where we connect, a unique bloom blossoming from the perfect balance we share.
I never realized how much I needed him, or how deeply I’ve fallen for him, until now. I never understood just how completely he occupies every inch of my mind.
This is my toxic, possessive, completely insane, and unapologetic West. A villain to the core, he only saves his own, indifferent to the rest of the world.
It’s a world that never cared about us, so why should we bother with it?