9. Brody #2
The fire is raging like a storm, bursting through me, begging to be unleashed.
The need to drive my knife through somebody is so strong.
To feel their breath fade. To release my need for violence.
I close my eyes and take a breath. I need to control my emotions.
I had always been good at that. Until I met Lola.
My legs take me to her house before my brain can catch up. The night sky shields me from sight. A predator in the dark. I stand outside in the shadows, staring at her window from the ground. The light is on, and her silhouette floats through the room.
I remember all too well how to get to her room. Using all my strength, I climb the tree next to the roof. One branch at a time, scrunching my face, trying hard not to fall to the fucking ground.
Before, I would do it to sneak into her room past midnight. I’d crawl under her covers and slip my fingers into her panties. It wouldn’t take long for her to become soaked. I would proceed to make her cum, hushing her moans with kisses.
Now? I don’t plan on giving her pleasure. I plan on breaking her.
With steady feet, I hop onto the roof. I stalk across, crouched low. My palm slides on the grit and catches. Blood slivers line my skin, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the light burning behind her fucking window.
I bang on the window. Two unmerciful knocks.
A pause. Sidestep, shuffle from inside. The curtain jerks back. There she is.
Bambi. My Bambi.
Caught in the white spill of lamplight, hair a mess. Eyes wide, blue-ringed, and almost phosphorescent with fear. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out. She’s fixed to the spot, all prey and horror, and for a second I feel nothing but hunger, the need to have her pinned.
Her hand floats halfway up, trembles, but drops uselessly. She wants to run, but she can’t.
I flatten my palm on the glass. “Let me in.”
Maybe she dreams I’ll vanish, dissolve back into the black, but she unlatches the lock. She’s obedient, always so fucking obedient when it’s me.
She shoves the window open and recoils. I swing a leg over and drop to her carpet without a word. My boots hit hard, the shock rattles her, and she shrinks back.
She stammers, “What are you doing here, Brody?”
Her voice is brittle with panic but it doesn’t hide the thirst in it, either. She’s afraid, but she wants me here. It’s sick. We’re both sick.
I advance, crowd her into the wall, blocking every escape route. She’s cornered. She looks everywhere but at me. My reflection wavers in her pupils, a wolf’s silhouette. She’s not ready for what’s in me tonight.
“You know why I’m here.”
I close in, until there’s nothing between us. My fists clench and unclench. My pulse is a sledgehammer. Richard’s words spin through my skull: she’s in it, she’s in the photos, she’s his little spy.
Her eyes squint in confusion. “What do you mean?”
I take a step closer, looming over her like a raging monster. “Don’t act fucking stupid. Were you at the parking garage? Or the car accident?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Brody.
If you’re here to play games, please don’t.
I’m not in the damn mood.” She tries to push past me, but I grab her elbow and whirl her around.
Before she can protest, I pin her against the wall, similar to how we were at the club.
“Brody, stop,” she says. It’s a low plea. “You’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared,” I tell her. “You should be fucking terrified. Who are you working for, Lola? What did you do?”
She laughs, a quick sound. “What, you think I’m some kind of criminal mastermind now?”
I see the way her arms cross over her chest, the way her fingers dig into her biceps to hold herself together.
“You’re always there,” I say. “Always at the center. You, the company, the same mess every fucking time. Explain that.”
She flushes, red bleeding up her neck. “I don’t owe you shit.”
I brace an arm beside her head, hand flat against the wall. Caging her in.
She flinches, then sets her jaw. “Get out,” she whispers.
I lean closer. “Make me.”
Her eyes go wide. I can hear her heartbeat now, see it flutter under the skin of her throat.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she lies.
“You should be.”
My other hand finds her jaw, tipping her face up. She shudders, but doesn’t pull away.
“You want to know what I think?” I say. “I think you’re hiding something. I think you’re dirty, just like the rest of them. You’ve got blood on your hands, Bambi. You just don’t want to admit it. Maybe you even like it.”
She tries to gain leverage by slamming her knee into my thigh. Useless.
“That’s cute,” I say. “Did Marcus teach you that, or did you pick it up at the club?”
She goes cold, then angry. “Fuck you.”
I chuckle. “Keep telling yourself you’re not like them. Keep pretending you’re not on your knees for the next guy who cuts your check.”
“Fuck. You.”
“Who do you think you are?” she says, voice shaking. “Barging in here, acting like you know anything about my life? You don’t know shit, Brody. You never did.”
I lean in until our lips almost brush. I can taste the heat coming off her. “I know everything I need to,” I murmur. “I know you can’t stop wanting me even when you should. I know you’re a fucking liar, Lola.”
She shoves at my chest. I don’t budge. “You’re insane,” she hisses. “Marcus was right. You really were always just a violent, psycho brute.”
The words hit harder than I want to admit. “Could a violent, psycho brute make you cum like I did?”
She gasps. Outrage, shock, maybe both. Her body betrays her before her mouth does. Her thighs press together. She wants to hate me. Maybe she does, but not enough to stop me.
I slide my hand down, palm rough on her bare hip beneath the thin sweatshirt. Finding the elastic at her waistband, I tug just enough to slip my fingers inside. She fights—one pathetic, useless push—but she’s already melting, already shivering. I crowd her against the wall.
My breath scorches her ear. “Tell me the truth,” I growl. “Tell me who you’re working for. Or I’ll make you beg for it.”
She shakes her head, eyes wet, jaw clenched. “I’m not—stop—”
I plunge two fingers into her, dry at first, then wet with the heat of her.
She’s soaked. Fucking drenched. Her body always knew better than her mouth.
She twists, but I hold her in place. My grip bruises her wrists.
I want her marked. I want her ruined for every other man who ever thought he could own her.
“Liar,” I whisper. “You say you want me gone, but your cunt says otherwise.”
Her hips buck against my hand, movements desperate and wild. Her eyes are murder and hunger at the same time, blue, wide, and fuming.
I feed off it.
I slow down, fingers wet and relentless, just circling her clit, keeping her right on the edge. Teasing, taunting, cruel. Her hips jerk, desperate. She shakes her head, begging without words, throat working on a sob.
“Still not talking?” I spit the words, flexing my grip on her. I want her to cry. I want her to admit it. “What are you hiding, Lola?”
She squeezes her eyes shut. I ram my fingers in fast, then stop. Then repeat. It’s punishment: let her think she’ll get what she wants, then rip it away.
Tears threaten the corners of her eyes, lips trembling. “Brody, please—I’m not, I swear, you’re hurting me, I swear I don’t know anything, please just stop—”
God, she sounds wrecked. Wrecked by me.
“Don’t fucking lie to me.” I snarl. “You want to be treated rough? I can do rough. I can destroy you, Lola.”
My fingers curl inside her, crooking up, hitting exactly where it hurts, where it burns. She chokes out a moan, louder this time, hips jerking. I keep the pressure up, relentless, rooting out every sound she tries to swallow.
She whimpers. The muscles on her thighs clamp around my wrist. She’s right on the edge, shaking, helpless. I stop, pulling my hand back just as she starts to keen. I let her clit throb in the empty air, trembling, desperate, but I give her nothing.
“No,” I say. “You don’t get rewarded for lies. You get nothing.”
She looks at me with sorrow and terror in her eyes. I can almost see my reflection in her gaze. A cold beast. A reaper of the night.
“What happened to you? You’re not Brody anymore, I never thought you’d be the one to treat me like this. Other men, yeah, but never you.” Her fucking voice sounds desperate for an explanation.
I push my body against hers, and my hand glides up her stomach, lingering on her tits, then making a path to her neck. I hold it, ever so slightly, and I force her to look at me.
“Why am I like this? Are you really that dense? Or do you just not care? You fucking broke me. You’re nothing to me, Lola, not anymore. Now you’re just another target.”
“Brody…” she gasps, voice thin and pretty as a broken thing. “Please…”
Please what? Stop? Keep going? I could wring her out until she forgets her own fucking name.
“You think I don’t see it?” My face turns to a scowl. “You think you can fuck around and lie to my face and walk away? That’s not how this works. You’re not special. You’re just mine to use now, Bambi.”
Her hips—fuck, her hips—rub up against my thigh and she’s wet again, wetter than before. Even now, even sobbing, even shamed and pinned.
“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, her voice destroyed. “You’re sick. I hate you.”
I smile and squeeze her cheeks, squeezing her mouth into an O. “Too bad you love how it feels when I’m inside you, Bambi.”
“Let go,” she says, gutted, voice shredded. “You don’t get to do this. Not after what you did to me.”
She thinks she can weaponize the past against me. She thinks she can dress her filth up in victimhood and walk away like I won’t call her on it.
“I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want, Lola, because you’re still mine.”
She shakes her head, sometimes slow, sometimes shuddering. My cock throbs, almost painful. If I wanted, I could have her on all fours, choking, crying, begging for relief. But she doesn’t deserve that. Not yet.