Chapter 22
Haven
The crack of Kai’s skull against the granite floor is the worst sound I’ve ever heard.
Bastian’s fist connects with Kai’s face again. And again. Blood sprays across the stone, black in the dim light, and Kai’s not even fighting back anymore—his arms have gone limp, his head lolling with each impact.
He’s going to kill him.
And I’m just standing here like a useless pile of garbage.
Nope.
Fuck that.
A scream rips out of my throat as I launch myself at Bastian’s back.
“Get off him!”
I pummel my fists into his head, but it’s only when my nails rake down his cheek that he roars and rears back. I use the momentum to wrench him off of Kai and onto the cold stone floor.
“Christ!”
He flips over, trying to grab my wrists, but I’m attacking him like a rabid ferret, straddling his chest, clawing at anything within reach—his face, his throat.
“You leave him alone!”
I want—fucking need—to hurt him the way he’s hurt Kai. Make him bleed the way he’s made me bleed, over and over. Physically, mentally, every fucking which way.
“Haven—” Again, he tries to grab me. Again, I move too fast.
My nail catches his eyebrow, splitting the skin. Blood oozes into his eye.
“You’re a fucking monster!”
I go for his eyes next.
I have every intention of blinding him. To dig my thumbs into those dark, calculating eyes and gouge them out until there’s nothing but hollow, bloody sockets left.
His hand locks on my throat, and the panic is instantaneous. This is nothing like when he held me pressed against the wall.
I. Can’t. Fucking. Breathe.
The world spins.
My back slams against the granite hard enough to knock out what little air was left in my lungs. I’m skidding across the floor before I even register that he threw me—actually threw me—across the room.
My shoulder slams into the edge of the sarcophagus. Sharp pain explodes down my arm, wrenching a yell from me just as I’ve dragged air back into my lungs.
I try to get up.
Try to scramble back toward Kai, toward Bastian, but my body won’t cooperate. My lungs are burning, desperate for air. My shoulder throbs in time with my heartbeat. And when I finally manage to lift my head, what I see freezes me in place.
Bastian is on his feet.
Blood streams down his face from the gouges I left—four parallel lines scoring his cheek, another splitting his eyebrow, his neck a mess of scratches. He looks like he lost a fight with a combine.
And he’s still handsome enough to make my mouth go dry.
He touches his face and stares at the blood smeared on his fingers, almost wonderingly, like he can’t quite believe the damage I did.
When his eyes find mine, the cold rage is still there. But beneath it, burning bright—
He wants me more now than he did before I tried to claw his eyes out.
And fuck, some awful, broken part of me wants him too.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t even know if Kai has a concussion or brain damage…and all I can think is how much I want Bastian to fuck me against this sarcophagus.
I finally manage to drag air into my lungs and push myself up onto shaking arms. My shoulder screams in protest, but I ignore it, my eyes darting to Kai’s crumpled form.
Oh, thank God. He’s breathing. I can see his chest rising and falling.
But he’s still unconscious, and I have no way of knowing when he’ll come to.
It’s just me and the monster now.
Bastian takes a step toward me, and that’s when—centuries too late—I realize that there’s no way I can win this fight. Not with strength. Not with violence. He’s bigger, faster, meaner. If he wants to hurt me, there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
I should be terrified.
“Get up,” he grates.
I plant my palm against the floor, forcing myself upright. My legs are shaking, but I refuse to cower.
“Want to make sure you don’t leave any witnesses behind?” I mutter, although fuck knows where I get the courage.
“He’ll live.” Bastian spits blood onto the stone. “But he’ll wish he hadn’t when I’m done with you two.”
“Fuck you.”
He smiles. It’s grotesque—all that blood turning his teeth pink, those gouges on his face still weeping.
“You drew blood.” He sounds almost impressed. “No one’s done that in a long time.”
“Not even Melissa?”
He pauses in the act of fingering his lip, a wry smile pulling at his mouth. “She came at me with a fire poker, actually.”
“Good for her,” I say, shuffling back a step when he comes closer. “Pity she didn’t kill you, though. Would have been doing the world a favor.”
“Careful, girl,” he murmurs, slowing his movements like he’s trying to approach a skittish animal he plans to trap. “Or have you forgotten I can put Kai away for years just like—” he snaps his fingers “—that.”
Resignation weighs down on me at his words.
The dean made it pretty fucking clear just how much influence Bastian has at the college. I assume the same could be said of every other organization in this town—law enforcement included.
We could have sent Bastian to jail weeks ago…if Kai hadn’t deleted the video off his phone. If Bastian hadn’t forced him to—because I know Kai wouldn’t have done it willingly.
Now the only ammo we have against our professor would be our word against his. And in a game of ‘he said, she said’, someone like Bastian will always win.
He notices my surrender, head tilting as he takes another slow step forward.
“Now that you’re done showing me your claws, I’m going to need you to spread your legs for me like the desperate little whore we both know you are.”
My face burns, but my cunt clenches.
I fucking hate him.
But I hate myself more.
“Wait. Just—just wait.” I hold up my hands, palms out, like I’m somehow going to stop the goddamn monstrosity that is Bastian Rooke. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Talk?” he scoffs. “You want to talk? After you fucking attacked me?”
“You were going to kill him!”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He says it so glibly, it knocks the air out of my lungs. I get machismo, but this isn’t Bastian proving how tough he is. Killing Kai literally wouldn’t mean a thing to him.
What about killing me? Would he be just as offhand about it?
I can’t believe that.
Or maybe I just don’t want to.
“But he—he’s your—“ I choke on the word. What is Kai to Bastian? A victim? A plaything? An annoyance?
“He’s ours,” I finish weakly.
Bastian stops moving.
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Blood dripping. Chest heaving. Those dark eyes boring into mine like he’s trying to read my soul.
“Ours,” he repeats.
It’s not a question.
But it’s not quite agreement either.
He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne and sweat and the coppery hint of blood. Close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in his throat, the way his hands are trembling at his sides.
Because even now, even with Kai unconscious on the floor and Bastian looking at me like he wants to devour me whole, some sick part of me wants this.
Wants him.
“If he’s ours, then you’re mine, Haven.” His hand closes around my throat—not squeezing this time, just claiming. “Say it.”
“Fuck you.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
His grip tightens. “Wrong answer, my pretty little slut.”
I bring my knee up—hard.
He twists away, the impact landing on his thigh instead of his balls, but it still throws him off balance. I shove at his chest, ducking under his arm, scrambling toward—
Where? The door? Kai? There’s nowhere to go, nowhere safe, and he’s already recovering, spinning to face me with a snarl that shows too many teeth.
I grab the oil lantern from its niche and hurl it at his head.
He dodges. The glass shatters against the wall behind him, oil splashing across the granite, the flame guttering but not dying.
“That could have started a fire,” he states dryly.
“Good.” I’m panting as I scan the crypt for anything else I can use as a weapon. “I hope it burns this whole fucking place down with you in it.”
One second Bastian’s across the room, the next he’s got my wrist in a crushing grip, spinning me around and slamming me face-first down on the sarcophagus. The granite is cold against my bare stomach, my cheek, and my palms as I try to push myself up.
He presses his full weight against my back, pinning me.
“I’ve been patient with you.” His breath is hot against my ear. “So fucking patient. But even I have my limits, girl.”
“Get off me!”
I buck and writhe against him, but he’s too heavy, too strong. My nails scrape uselessly against the stone as I try to find purchase.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” His hips grind against my ass, and fuck, I can’t believe how hard he is. “All that fighting, all that running. Just wanted someone to catch you.”
“No—”
“Liar.” His hand snakes around my hip, sliding between my thighs. “You’re soaking wet.”
I am.
Fuck me, I am.
His fingers find my clit, and despite everything—despite the fear, the fury, the unconscious boy on the floor—my body arches into his touch.
“That’s it.” His voice drops to a purr. “Stop fighting. You know you want this.”
Fuck!
I am a fucking freak.
I want him. I have wanted him since the first time he looked at me like I was a rare delicacy he couldn’t wait to devour.
But I also want to hurt him.
I slam my head backward.
The crack of my skull against his nose is so deeply satisfying.
“Fuck!” He stumbles back, hand flying to his face, blood streaming between his fingers.
I spin around, chest heaving, adrenaline screaming through my veins.
He looks at the blood on his hand. Then at me.
He smiles.
And lunges.
I try to dodge, but he’s faster. I go down so hard that I bite my tongue. Then we’re both on the ground, rolling, fighting for dominance. His hands are everywhere, grabbing, restraining. I’m clawing at his face, his arms, anything within reach.
“Stop fighting me!” he snarls.
“Fuck you!”
He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, his body settling between my thighs. The position is obscene—him on top of me, my legs spread around his hips, both of us panting and bloody and half-dressed.