18. Mila
MILA
S mile for the camera, little whore.”
My head whips to the side as a fist connects with my cheek, and pain explodes behind my eyes.
“Fucking bitch,” the man inside me growls, the rotten face of his clown mask looming over me in the dimly lit basement.
I can’t speak around my gag, but my cries come out muffled and garbled from behind the piece of dirty cloth.
Not that anyone would hear me, anyway. He made sure of that.
Just let me slip away . . .
Let me close my eyes and not wake up again . . .
“So fucking tight,” the man raping me grits between his teeth, his head kicked back towards the ceiling as he thrusts between my legs.
His knife digs deeper into my flesh, and my back arches as my body desperately fights to get away, but it’s no use.
“You fucking love this, don’t you? Want me to cut you again?”
Another slice comes, and this one feels like he’s tearing me in half. The pain is excruciating, unlike anything I’ve ever felt, as he carves my body with his sins for the world to see. I scream, but no sound comes out, like I’m under the surface of the ocean, drowning as water fills my lungs.
This is how they’ll find me—carved and bound to a mattress in a dirty basement.
I’m going to die down here.
I shriek, my head thrashing back into the bed as tears slip uncontrollably down my cheeks. I can’t move from the rope securing my wrists above my head. I lost feeling in my arms ages ago.
“Mila.” The voice is sharp, tinged with the agony I feel as the man between my legs comes, covering my blood-soaked stomach with his vile seed.
“Oh, fuck . . .” he groans when he slips back inside me, his fingers tracing the open wounds on my stomach. “Fuck you’re tight for a whore.”
He wastes no time, stabbing into the flesh right beside the first letter, and my vision goes dark as the pain blinds me.
“Mila, baby. Wake up.”
I crane my neck, trying to force my eyes to open at the voice, but I can’t. I can’t move. I can’t fight. I can’t even fucking breathe.
He’s going to kill me.
Please , kill me.
“That’s it, little whore,” he chuckles, the large, overpainted lips of his mask curled into a sneering smile. “Let them know how much you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Mila,” the voice growls in my ear, and I scream, fighting back at the hands that reach for me. I fly away from their touch, crashing to the floor from the bed in a painful tumble. A dark silhouette looms over me from the darkness of my bedroom, and I throw myself back into the side of the bed.
“No!” My voice is hoarse when they reach for me, clawing at the man in the darkness with everything I have.
Not again . . .
“Mila,” a gruff voice sounds, and hands clasp around my wrists, holding them against a hard chest.
“Please,” I beg silently, my heart feeling like it’s going to burst through my ribcage as the agony drags through me like hot coals.
It’s him. He’s found me.
“It’s me, little devil.”
Reality washes over me like a cold bucket of ice water when I smell the familiar scent of leather, whiskey, and the forest.
He found me.
I want to push him away. I don’t want him to see me like this, but I can’t shove him away. Not when he’s a shining beacon while I’m lost in the storm of a century.
“They’re going to kill me,” I croak, my eyes blurry from the tears clogging my vision. My chest seizes as the invisible hands wrap around my throat, bleeding the life from my body until I can’t hold on anymore.
“Never.” It’s rough and violent. A dark promise that some twisted part of me knows he’d keep. “Come here.”
I can’t even fight it. Not when he falls to his knees in front of me and not even when he tugs me into his lap, his arms banding around me to crush me against his chest. My throat burns, my heart beats a mile a minute, and my vision swims with hot tears.
Christian sits back against the side of the bed, his hand on the back of my head when I bury my face in his neck. He doesn’t move save for the soft strokes of his fingers down the ends of my hair and the movements of his chest beneath my cheek.
I cling to him, my arms around his neck and my body shaking with the force of the violent sobs that refuse to stop. My fingers fist the material of his T-shirt like he’s a life raft out at sea, and I’m on the verge of drowning. He makes a rough noise with the sound of the hoarse cry that leaves my lips, and a tremor moves through him as he holds me tighter.
“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his lips against my hair and I can’t escape the way he says it. Like if I were to stop, I’d be unleashing the darkest depths of hell on the world.
As if his own life depends on it.
A clap of thunder sounds outside, but here in his arms, I don’t even jump. Not when this is all a dream, and I’ll wake up alone tomorrow morning.
I’m not the final girl. I’m not the girl who gets what she wants. This isn’t a romance book where he comes in and confesses his undying love for me. This is a dream that my mind formed to save me from the nightmare my scars created.
So I soak him in, allowing myself to give into the fantasy that I could be his and he could be mine. The voices can’t reach me here. The hands can’t reach me in his embrace. It’s just me and him, wrapped in each other’s arms in the quiet solitude of a sleepy cottage while I shatter into a million pieces in his lap.
He may be harsh. He may hate me for the bullet still lodged in his chest. He may be the devil, himself outside of my dreams . . . None of that matters when he’s the one thing that chases my demons away amid the warzone my mind has become.
He presses his lips against the scar on my forehead. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers, his voice vehement and dark beneath the pouring rain outside, and in this dream, I actually believe it.
A shiver moves through me, and I sink into him, soaking in his warmth as it bleeds into my soul. I don’t know how long we stay there, but the tears fade. His hand running soothing circles over my back doesn’t. It’s not until he slowly stands, carrying me over to the bed, that I even realize I’d fallen asleep.
When he lays me back against the sheets, something sharp and agonizing aches in my chest.
“Please?” I whisper, my throat in danger of collapsing again. “Please don’t leave me.”
I know it’s weak. I know it will only blur the lines in my head when I see him tomorrow. I also know I can’t stop it. Real Christian would tell me I’m pathetic and to grow up. Stop being afraid of the dark like a child. Dream Christian climbs into the bed beside me, pulling me back into his chest before covering us with the comforter.
“Never, little devil.”
And then he presses a rough kiss to my cheek with a quiet “Sleep” and holds me like it’s his dying wish.
Like I’m his.
The unfortunate difference between actual Christian and dream Christian, though?
When I wake up, only one’s real. And I’m in bed alone.
The morning after my Christian-infested nightmare, I’m in a foul mood by the time I make it down to eat breakfast.
To make matters worse, Christian has chosen today, of all days, to not retreat to his office the moment dawn crests on the horizon.
And he doesn’t have a shirt on.
When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I freeze when he regards me indifferently over a pan of scrambled eggs and bacon.
We’ve come to a sort of truce in the last couple days, but with the rain dredging outside and his incessant need to be . . . here , I can feel the tendrils of my sanity starting to shred, one by one.
“You’re here.”
He cocks a brow, loading the two plates in front of him.
“I am.”
Fuck.
“Why?”
“Because I live here.”
Double fuck.
“Eat.”
“I’m pleased to see you’re as chipper as ever,” I grumble, padding across the kitchen barefoot in just his gigantic T-shirt toward the coffee he’d brewed. He looks down at my toes as I walk, probably noting the red polish Paulina brought me before he shakes his head and takes his seat.
I fill my coffee mug, adding enough cream and sugar that there’s barely any coffee in it before I begrudgingly sit across from him.
“Sleep well?” he asks, not even bothering to look up from his food.
“Like a baby,” I lie, praying to God I didn’t make any noise mid-nightmare. That’s not a conversation I want to have.
“You’re in a fine mood this morning.”
I smile sweetly, hoping he can see the glimmer of hate in my eyes.
“Captivity has a way of dampening the soul,” I reply, sipping my coffee loudly.
His eyes darken, and it looks like he can’t decide if he’d rather spank me or kill me.
Please let it be the latter.
“Are you bored?” he mocks. “Need me to find some chores for you, sweetheart?”
“No thanks. My schedule’s pretty packed between self-loathing and loathing you . I’m finding it difficult to manage as it is.”
“Right, I wouldn’t want you to stress yourself out between your hobbies of backstabbing and dirty motel hopping.”
I smile sweetly, hoping my voice is laced with as much venom as what’s coating my heart.
“As opposed to kidnapping and world domination.”
He takes a bite of eggs, his eyes glinting wickedly.
“The only thing I plan to conquer is what’s between your legs.”
I can’t fight the blush on my cheeks nor the dip in my stomach that makes it feel like I’m standing in an electrified pool. I also can’t fight the stubborn streak my mother always hated.
“What’s between my legs is none of your concern. I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.”
“That right?” Christian smirks, flashing that cocky grin at me that always got me before.
Unfortunately, it still works.
“I’d be willing to give you some pointers if you need help getting laid. You could start with your incessant need to kill innocent creatures.”
“That what you want? Want me to bring a girl home and fuck her in the same bed you sleep in.”
Bitter jealousy slips down my throat right along with my coffee. I know I brought it on myself, but thinking of him with another woman fills me with a sense of betrayal.
“Do whatever you want.” I shrug, though warmth burns in the backs of my eyes. Stupid tear ducts. “I’m just a prisoner here, right?”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
I push my empty plate back from me, leaning back in my chair.
“You can say whatever you want to me. I’m past caring.”
“Is that so?” he challenges, a hint of a wicked smile on his lips. “No fight for me this morning?”
“I’m done fighting. It’s not like anything that happened between us meant anything, anyway. I was just the easy, idiotic whore who thought she could save you and ended up almost dead because of it.”
And then I realize what I’d said.
Fucking way to go, Mila .
I’ve never seen someone’s face get so red, so fast.
“Want to run that by me again, Mila?.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I grab my coffee and move to stand, but his boot hooks in the bottom of my chair, dragging it back to the table so fast that I almost fall out of it.
I can’t help but glare at him, even if he is looking at me with a darkness that sends a shiver of fear down my spine.
God, I hope he didn’t hear what I said.
“Repeat what the fuck you just said,” he grits, his tone conveying my little slip-up, in fact, did not go over his head.
“Which part?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Mila.”
“Or what?” I counter, forcing my chair back and standing. Heat rushes through my blood, my temper flaring. “You’re going to kidnap me? Drug me? Use me? I don’t care anymore, Christian. I stopped caring the moment you walked out in the middle of the night and didn’t come back until you felt sorry for me.”
He regards me with that same bored stare, but there’s something else lingering beneath the surface. Something heavy and thick and dark that swallows all the air from my lungs and makes ignoring the fluttering in my stomach impossible to ignore.
“Felt sorry for you? Is that what you thought?”
“It’s what I know,” I growl.
“That the angle you want to play it?” He cocks a brow. “The unfeeling little brat and not the damsel in distress now?”
“No one asked you to step in and try to save me.”
“No? Would have saved a lot of fucking headaches in the long run if I’d left you to wonder the streets.”
My breath catches in my throat. Violence slips through me in waves. I suddenly want to hurt him as badly as he’d hurt me when he left without a word.
With a snap of my wrist, my coffee soaks his face.
There’s a clock ticking somewhere nearby. I know this because it’s the only sound while Christian and I stare at each other in the seconds that follow.
“Mila . . .” he starts, cracking his neck while beige-colored coffee runs down his cheek.
I don’t like how calm he is. Somehow, he’s never looked more terrifying than he does when his gaze locks with mine.
“Run.”
I don’t think, I just dart. Fear bubbles up in my chest when I hear his heavy footfalls on the floor behind me. I make it to the back door, only to nearly sink to my knees and beg for forgiveness when it rebounds off his boot, sending it smacking back into the wall with a harsh crack.
“Please—“ I try, but it’s lost on him. I’m well and truly fucked now. I try to skirt past him, but he catches me around the waist, hauling my back to his front and picking me up, carrying me straight inside towards the bathroom.
Is he going to drown me?
“What’s the matter, little devil?” he sneers in my ear, his breathing just as heavy as mine when he drops me on my feet in the shower and climbs in behind me. He spins me around, pinning my hands above my head with one of his, and reaches for the faucet. “Afraid to get a little wet?”
I scream when the ice-cold water from the showerhead cascades over us, drenching us both down to the bone. He doesn’t seem to care, too pissed off to worry about the frigid arctic waters spilling from the taps.
“Christian,” I growl, surging against him, but he doesn’t release me, pinning me with his entire front molded to mine. I can feel his cock digging into my stomach.
Oh my God . . . is he turned on?
He cocks his head to the side, his gaze darkening when my tongue darts out to capture a water droplet on my lip. A shiver moves through me, but despite my struggle, something warm settles in my core with the brush of his knee pressed between mine.
Oh my God . . . am I turned on?
“Let me go,” I growl, despite the heaviness settling between my legs.
“Play with fire, sweetheart, you’re going to get burnt,” he rasps, water running down the side of his face and over his scar.
I surge forward, and for a split second, my hands are free before he pins them back to the tile. In the process, my leg wraps around his hip in an effort to try and throw him off, but it only opens me up to feeling the friction of his jeans brushing against the cotton-covered center of my thighs.
Please, God. Anyone but him.
He pauses when he sees my reaction, his gaze dark as sin.
In a millisecond of a moment, he readjusts, and my eyes flutter closed at the overwhelming sense of longing I haven’t felt in nearly a year. My blood vibrates in my veins, the rush of adrenaline sliding down my spine and heading straight to where his thigh brushes against me.
All the fight leaves my body, replaced with a fire that laps at my skin. He repeats the motion, and my head falls forward to rest on his shoulder from the moment of shame that envelops me.
“No,” he grits, so quiet, I can barely hear him. “You look at me.”
He pushes me back, releasing my wrists, and the blood tingles as it rushes back through them.
I should push him away. I should call him every name under the sun for what he said in the kitchen.
In that moment, though, all I can think about is how good the friction of his thigh feels against my clit.
His hand goes to my hip, kneading the flesh, before he moves me over his leg. I bite back the desperate whimper that tries to claw its way free, holding his gaze as he does.
“Mila,” he grits, his voice rough and uncontained when I grind against him. He repeats the motion with his hand on my hip, and this time, a shudder ripples through me as the burning hot lust ignites in my stomach. “What do you want?”
It just had to be him.
“I want you to shut up,” I whisper. He presses his lips to the hollow where my shoulder meets my neck, and a shiver rolls through me. My nails dig into his shoulders, soaking wet from the icy water long forgotten overtop of us. His hand tightens to bruising strength on my hip, his other sliding up to fist the curled ends of my hair and drag my head to the side to grant him more access.
A soft whimper leaves my throat while we grind together shamelessly, neither of us speaking past hushed groans that rumble through his chest and the soft sighs that slip from my lips.
My eyes flutter closed, my pulse racing in my throat, and I lean my forehead against his shoulder in an effort to survive whatever this is that’s happening between us.
When a moan claws its way from my lips, he pushes me back against the wall, his body crowding over mine and his hand slipping down to my thigh. He lifts my leg, and my arms go around his shoulders, allowing him to roll his hips into me and draw out the pleasure burning through me.
His tongue slips up the side of my neck, a quiet groan leaving him while we rock together. He nips and sucks a path up the smooth column of my throat, along my jaw, to rim the shell of my ear. Goosebumps pebble on my flesh, and I arch my neck to give him more access, my teeth grazing his shoulder to silence his name, leaving my lips.
He’s going to make me come, and we’re still fully clothed.
My teeth sink into his shoulder, and he rocks against me harder, a growl on his tongue and my orgasm in the palm of his hands.
“That’s it, Mila. Make yourself come.”
“Please,” I pant desperately against the side of his neck, unsure if I’m begging to come or for death at this point.
“Whose pussy is this, Mila?”
God, I hate him.
“Christian . . .” I growl, but his hands grip me tighter, aligning his hips to brush against my clit at the perfect angle. My eyes roll back, my mouth watering, and my nipples hardened peaks against his chest.
“Whose pussy is this?” he repeats. “Answer the question, Mila.”
God have mercy on me.
“Yours.” My eyes screw shut as the lightest waves of my orgasm start to trickle through me.
“You get off on my darkness, don’t you, sweetheart?”
I can barely hear what he’s saying over the rush of blood in my ears, but at this point, I’d be willing to call him daddy if it got me what I want.
“Yeah, you going to come on my cock?”
“Yes,” I groan, my head kicking back and my eyes clenching shut. The breath is stolen from my lungs, and I fall into him, my teeth nipping at his neck while he growls above me. Everything in me tightens, shattering from the pleasure that courses through me, a white-hot light shooting behind my eyes.
“Fuck, that’s a good girl,” he grits, drawing out my orgasm with the brush of his thigh. He pulls back, moving to capture my lips, but at the last second, I evade his kiss. Kissing Christian will only further the depravity in which I want him.
An orgasm is bad enough. Kissing him would be a fall from grace.
The moment my orgasm fades, reality comes rushing back in the form of cold water and post-coital shame.
I just ground shamelessly against the man who broke my heart, used me for years, and kidnapped me for revenge against God knows who.
The same thoughts seem to hit Christian at equal time. He pauses, both of us watching each other in the chill from the shower above, and a shiver moves through me that’s actually from the cold this time and not the heat of his body grinding against mine.
He doesn’t say a word as he places me on my feet and reaches over to cut the shower to warm, and neither do I.
“Get dressed. Rudy and Paulina will be here soon,” he murmurs like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t the least bit affected by what we just did. He steps out of the shower while the warm water starts to heat me from the inside out, but it can’t replace the heat left behind by his touch on my body.
He gives me one look that says everything. That can’t happen again.
Then he walks away, quietly exiting my room and leaving me standing in the shower, shivering from the fire he’d just awoken in my blood.