Chapter 6
Mila
Fuck him!
Did I say that? Yeah. I snapped and stepped out of the role of the perfect smiling doll.
Why?
I don ’ t know. He just made me.
That terrifies me.
I ’ m so good at ‘ taking it, ’ ignoring. Why couldn ’ t I ignore Dash?
Turning, I grab the door, but his fist slams against it, trapping me inside.A whoosh of adrenaline enters my blood, making me feel crazed and dizzy.
“ Open the door,” I demand as I pound my fist against it. A bead of sweat drips down my back, not from fear. I ’ m not scared of pain. Sometimes, I enjoy it because it ’ s the only thing I feel.
I ’ m terrified because this stranger saw what no one else has. He saw something I ’ ve hidden. Not the bruises. He saw my cracks and then proceeded to probe them. I can usually hide it with my wide smile and cute dimples.
“ I asked you a question.”He leisurely purrs as he drums his fingers against the door.
I spin around, preparing to go nuclear, but his hand grabs my throat, pinning me to the door. I didn ’ t really look at him before. I was too busy maintaining my fake smile for Miss. Hawthorne. However, when your air supply is in the hands of a psycho, you tend to soak in the details. He ’ s tall, one of the tallest guys here, which will make him popular amongst the girls. His high cheekbones are wrapped in pale skin, but it ’ s his hair that makes me blink. It ’ s blonde but not golden; it ’ s arctic.
Dangerous. Nature ’ s warning sign to stay the hell away from him.
So why do I want to reach out and ask him if it ’ s his natural color?
Am I one of those idiots who tries to play petting zoo with wild, feral animals? I guess living among them for so long at Silverstone has turned me into one.
My breath catches, my throat pressing against his hand, warm and firm around my neck. He relaxes his fingers then clenches them as I exhale, as if this was as natural as the ebb and flow of tranquil ocean waters.
His head tilts, highlighting the shine on his high cheekbones. Damn, he ’ s so pretty. Men shouldn ’ t be called that; they already get to rule the world, they don ’ t need more attributes. His gaze moves over me leisurely, like a stem breaking free from the soil and feeling the heat of the sun on its leaves for the first time.
I blush under his scrutiny. I force myself to swallow, desperately trying to suppress the buzzing feeling in my bones, as if a swarm of bees is trapped within.
Sparks.
Oh no! Why do those feral, scary eyes make me feel giddy?
Not him! No, what about a simple nobody with a kind boy next door smile?
“ Do you fight them like you are fighting me?” Dash questions. “ Or is your relationship just one-sided abuse?” His voice is deep and stern. Confident like a strong wildfire, not a flickering ember in a lingering campfire.
“ W-what?” I gasp as I blink wildly.
A twist of his palm forces my neck to move in tandem. “ I need to make sure you ’ re strong. I hate weakness.”
Seriously, what the fuck! He ’ s deranged, yet so intelligent he saw through my smile into my darkness.
“ I know it ’ s not your parents who hit you. Your shock was real. So I ’ m guessing whoever you fuck likes to get rough with you. Do you like that?”
A blush creeps up my cheeks as I try to swallow, but his hand over my throat stops it from freely rolling down. “ I ’ m not in a relationship.” I gasp through stolen inhales.
“ You don ’ t have to be in a relationship to fuck, Mila.”
I try to shake my head, but my movements are limited. “ No.”
“ No, to what?” He replies, his tone amused.
“ No, I ’ m not fucking anyone. No, I ’ m not in a relationship, and,” Let me breathe you bastard!
“ No, I don ’ t like pain from them.”
His eye twitches having caught my clue. I like pain, just not from other ’ s hands. Ballet is pain; maybe I only put up with it because I feel something at the end of the day.
Sometimes, it is so hard to feel. Other times, it ’ s overwhelming.
If anyone heard me think this, they would commit me, but in reality, we all love pain in some form. Runners feel pain when they run; they also get a high from that discomfort. Students feel pain when they over study, but some keep pushing themselves to study more. Even an old grandma feels pain when she over mixes a cake batter, flaring up her arthritis, but she continues to bake.
What defines bad pain from good? You tell me and do so without casting judgment.
“ So who hits you, Mila?” Dash persists.
Jared, sometimes. It ’ s not hits per se, more like rough grabs that leave bruises. I ’ m the one who hurts me deeper now. How can Dash see that?
He whispers my name like a monster under my bed, calling to me, begging me to step just one tiny toe out from under the covers. “ Mila,” a tug of his lips reveals his delight.
The way Dash speaks sends a chill up my spine like he ’ s a god granting life into a simple word, attempting to awaken me, to make me react, to snap, and not be the ballerina stuck dancing for others.
He makes me feel like I should dance for myself.
How can a stranger make me feel that?
His fingers tighten. The tips are hot. Burning. Or is it my walls set aflame that he is torching away?
“ Do you fight back when they leave their marks on you?” He brings his face closer to mine. “ Or are you too scared to admit you like it?”
I like it when I ’ m in control of the pain.
“ Why are you asking me this?” I beg, my eyes fix on his arms, desperately hoping to slip under him and escape.
He pauses so long that I become relaxed in his hold. My back slumps into the door as if I ’ m the one with a crutch and not him.
“ My father requested you be my guide. Why?”
“ I don ’ t know!” I hiss.
His eyes narrow before widening to examine me closely. It ’ s then that I notice the exquisite and distinctive beauty of the monster ’ s eyes. Blue and hazel combined, two distinct forces vying for dominance. The hazel around his pupil creates a warm and welcoming appearance, but the blue encircling it traps and cages it, prompting you to reflect and step back. The blue deepens, causing my adrenaline pump wildly, like rain falling from the sky, cleansing you.
“ I think it means you ’ re important to him.”
“ I ’ ve never met your father.”
His nostrils flare. “ But you know who he is.”
“ You ’ re a King .” I snort. My deep inhale reminds me of his hand still around my neck. “ Of course, I heard the whispers that a King was coming to attend Silverstone.”
That makes him smile.
“ Yet you fought me,” he casually notes. Meanwhile, I feel like I ’ m on the stand and about to be sentenced to life without parole.
I shrug. Do it, take control. Try! I reach up and wrap my cold hands around his hand on my throat. Those hostile eyes watch my fingers grasp his. He flinches, like he ’ s never been touched tenderly before.
His tongue run over his teeth, unsure if he ’ s going to rip into my jugular for touching him. “ Why did you fight back?”
“ That ’ s a good question.”
“ So answer it.” He challenges me.
I slip my fingers under his hand breaking his contact with my neck. “ Because you ’ re not my king,” I reply as confidently as I can. I wish I sounded colder, more soulless. Instead, I fear I sound like a telemarketer trying to beg for a moment of his time.
He weighs my reply, then grins slowly. Predatory.
“ Who is?” His fingers loosen, but instead of releasing me, his hand glides up my neck to my jaw, cupping it like a custom-made frame for a precious photo.It ’ s almost like a caress. My legs clench as a need enters my core. I know he can feel the heat radiating through my cheeks.
Why does his touch feel so… good? Pleasurable. Because I ’ m letting him do this. I could fight him, but I ’ m not. I don ’ t know why. It ’ s different from others controlling me.
Everyone who touches me seems to want something. Mr.Leblanc wants my performance as a dancer. Jared wants my heart. What does Dash King want from me?
His thumb tugs on my bottom lip, parting my mouth. I almost moan from the sensation, my body leaning closer.
What am I doing?
Feeling something other than pain.
“ Answer me.” He leans closer. This close, he loses some of the predatory look. Instead, his masculine, chiseled features appear more ethereal.
Am I turned on? Am I so scared that I ’ m no longer able to discern sanity from insanity?
Yes!
I have no king, no loyalty to anyone. Being loyal means you're willing to fight to the death. I haven't fought at all. I just accept. “ No one,” I reply honestly.
Then he kisses me!