Chapter 28 - Faith #2
I come with a strangled cry that's part pleasure, part recognition. This is my life now. Caught between worlds, lying to everyone except him.
As sleep pulls me under, I feel Luca's hand tighten possessively on my hip, fingers pressing into bruises that are already forming. His body shifts against mine, and I feel him hardening again.
"When you wake, you'll have to lie to your father," he murmurs darkly. "Look him in the eyes and pretend you don't have a killer's blood under your fingernails."
His fingers trace the juices still leaking from me, making me shiver.
"But right now," he continues, his cock pressing insistently against me, "I'm going to fuck you one more time before you sleep. I want you exhausted and dripping with me when dawn comes. Want you to wake knowing exactly what you've chosen."
I try to speak but only manage a pleading sound, part gasp, part broken whimper.
"Shh." His fingers find my clit, circling slowly, coaxing the throb that started at violence and never really stopped. "Save your voice. You'll need it for the lies ahead."
He positions himself behind me, his cock nudging at my entrance.
I'm so wet again, my body programmed for his darkness.
I wonder how long it will take to unlearn this, or if I even want to.
The question dissolves when I feel him slip inside.
The slow, remorseless stretch fills me with a pain that's almost relief—a pain that belongs to me, one I can choose, one that carves out space for something new inside me.
"Show me you understand. Show me you know what you've chosen."
I push back against him, taking him deeper, my body answering what my voice can't. The answer is yes, yes, yes, in every language I never learned to speak. I want this. I need the punishment and the reward, the way it all blurs together in the dark.
"Good girl. My perfect, terrible girl."
He fucks me slowly, keeping me on the edge of consciousness.
Each time my eyes drift closed, he changes angles, makes me gasp back to awareness.
He wants me to remember every second, not to slip away or escape the consequences.
He wants me right here with him, pinned to the moment, helpless and awake and complicit.
He leans over, lips at my ear. "Hours from now," he says conversationally, like he's telling me a bedtime story, "you'll tell your father you're safe while my cum drips down your thighs. You'll promise to see him soon while your throat still aches from what you've done."
The shiver that runs through me is more than arousal—it's dread, it's triumph, it's the realization that I'll never be innocent again.
He keeps fucking me in long, slow strokes, grinding in deep, grinding against every bruise and reminder of violence.
His hands roam my body, mapping out the territory of his victories: my waist, my shoulder, my battered throat.
He grabs my jaw, turns my face so he can see the tears leaking from my eyes, so he can watch as the pleasure and shame and pride all battle for control.
"And when he asks about Neumann's disappearance, you'll act shocked. Concerned. The perfect innocent daughter who knows nothing about the basement where he bled out."
I try to protest, to say I’m not that good at lying, but the words never make it past my lips.
Only a whimper, a shudder. He’s right—by the time my father calls, I’ll be ready, the mask will be perfect, the performance flawless.
The agony and the ecstasy of that truth is almost too much, and the orgasm hits unexpectedly, wave after wave, tearing through me until I’m sobbing into the pillow, eyes pressed shut.
He fucks me through it, relentless, and then flips me onto my back. I’m still shaking, muscles twitching, my vision blurred and salt-stained. But he holds my face in both hands, almost tender, and says, "Look at me. I want to see your face when you realize there's no going back."
His pale blue eyes are almost silver in the pre-dawn darkness, beautiful and terrible and so full of want that it makes my heart clench. I mouth the words since I can't speak them: "Never was."
He smiles, soft and cold. Then he thrusts deep, once, twice, three times, and he comes inside me, hot and heavy. He collapses forward, weight pressing me into the mattress, breath fanning across my cheek.
"Sleep now," he says, finally allowing exhaustion to claim me. "You have hours before facing the world."
But he doesn't let go right away. Instead, he stays inside me, holding me still, as if to keep the violence and the memory locked in place. His hand strokes my hair, then my cheek, fingers gentle.
When he finally withdraws, it’s slow, careful, and I feel every inch of loss.
My body is a ruin, bruised and stretched, the inside of my thighs sticky with his cum.
I let my legs fall open, too tired to care about the mess, and stare at the ceiling.
The city is waking up outside. Horns begin to honk, garbage trucks rattle down the street, and in the blue-gray light everything feels more impossible, more real.
He leaves the room for a moment, returns with a warm, damp towel. He kneels between my legs, cleans me carefully.
I watch him as he finishes, as he tosses the towel aside and crawls in next to me. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close, his body curling around mine like armor. The violence is gone. All that’s left is the aftermath.
I feel his breath slow, his heart steady against my back. I know he's not sleeping—he’s never fully at rest. He’s waiting, always, for the next threat, the next moment when he’ll have to move, to protect, to kill.
But for now, we’re suspended in this liminal space, neither innocent nor damned, just two people tangled up in each other’s ruin.