Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
O liver
Oliver turned the water off and scooped Londyn up from the shower bench.
He carried her out of the shower enclosure, grabbing a couple of towels off the nearby rack as he entered the bedroom. When he’d placed her on the bed, he dried her off, then snatched up a blanket from the bench at the foot of the bed.
As he wrapped it around her shaking body, Londyn stared ahead as if in a daze, her eyes unfocused. Her entire body quivered from an overload of sensations, the tremors rippling through her like invisible shock waves.
Oliver swore under his breath, tucking the extra towel around his waist. He’d pushed her too far. It was too much—the orgasms too quick in succession and too intense. Fuck . He loved seeing her this way, but he should have considered her lack of experience. Should have weighed it against the intensity of everything he’d previously done to her in the playroom. She wasn’t ready for this, and he was a fucking, selfish bastard for forcing it upon her. His next step should be providing true aftercare for her.
The housekeeper had fully stocked the kitchen before his arrival, which meant his favorite chocolate was in the fridge. A few pieces would ensure Londyn did not crash after she emerged from the subspace he’d driven her to. She needed to be kept warm as well. Oliver tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, then passed a hand over her tousled, wet hair.
He was still aroused, having focused all his attention on Londyn while they were in the shower. His plan had been to make her come several times while he jacked himself off, but when she slumped forward in a boneless heap, something inside him snapped.
But why?
Why did he care? This was what he wanted, right? Londyn at his mercy. A toy to play with. An object existing solely for his amusement and to endure anything he wanted. Her feelings, her pain, or even pleasure… none of it mattered. She was there because he paid good money for her. Any inclination to show sympathy or administer care other than the absolute minimum must be squashed.
Oliver ducked into the bathroom, retrieving the knife from the countertop. When he stalked back to the bedroom, he saw Londyn had not moved from where he placed her. She was still in a fog. Good. She probably wouldn’t feel a thing.
Oliver carefully pulled the blanket away from her body before pushing her back against the bedcovers. From there, he rolled her onto her stomach.
Londyn did not resist his arranging her like an inanimate doll. Even when he sliced her skin with a series of superficial tally marks, she didn’t flinch.
Wiping the blood away with the towel used to dry her, Oliver stared at the smooth, creamy skin of Londyn’s lower back. The five straight lines did something unexpected to his insides. Something that felt suspiciously like shame even while his cock thumped so hard it was painful.
God, how he wanted to fuck her. It was a raging need inside him, vying with the urge to take care of her, too. A strange contradiction. One that left him desperate to grant her the sharp bite of pain while also soothing it with overwhelming pleasure.
The warring principles pissed Oliver off. He contemplated fulfilling his base urges when she mumbled something and tried rolling onto her back.
“Don’t.”
The single-word command stopped her. She froze, still on her stomach, damp, thick hair tumbling down her back. It was so pretty, like a mass of dark ink spilling across a cream canvas. Oliver wanted to grab handfuls of it. Let it sift through his fingers like reams of silk and bury his face in the fragrant waves. Instead, he raked his fingers through it, separating it into three sections. He braided her hair into a single, thick plait with quick, efficient motions. Then he ripped a string from one of the blanket’s tassels, tying off the braid to secure it.
“Stay where you are, Londyn. Don’t fucking move a muscle unless I say so.”
A tiny whimper indicated she understood the growled order. Before leaving her, Oliver again swiped fresh droplets of blood from her back with the ruined towel. He traced the wounds with the pad of his thumb. Fucking hell, seeing her marked like this made his cock rock hard.
He planned on giving her more of those lines; only these orgasms would happen while his dick was buried deep in her virgin cunt. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he covered her with the blanket. She would bleed for him, and he would enjoy every second of it.
And if she expected mercy from the Devil, she would be very disappointed.
When Oliver returned from the kitchen, he discovered Londyn had obeyed him. She lay on her belly, face turned toward the headboard, and her cheek pressed to the coverlet. She was so still, so silent, that for a second, he worried he might have pushed her past the point of no return.
But then her legs shifted slightly, and he huffed a sigh of relief. Sitting on the bed, he spread out the items he’d gathered, then pulled the blanket off her. He slid an arm beneath her stomach and tugged her upright so that she leaned against him for support.
“Londyn,” he said softly, watching her gray eyes grow less hazy with every passing second. “I want you to eat this for me. Open your mouth.”
Her brow creased with a frown as she obediently closed her lips around the small bar of mint chocolate. It wasn’t fancy or gourmet. Hell, it wasn’t even very good chocolate. Hotels routinely used candy for turn-down service, but it had been his favorite since childhood. On the rare occasions he had traveled with his parents, his mother always ensured he got the little treats on his pillow. It was one of a few positive memories he’d retained.
After she swallowed the chocolate, Oliver held an open bottle of water to her lips, waiting patiently until she drank her fill. Pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted her head and stared into her eyes. The gray depths were less unfocused now, but her eyelids drooped heavily. Her small body was succumbing to exhaustion, instinctively curling into him and seeking warmth.
Oliver hesitated before chucking the towel still tucked around his waist. Pulling the covers back with one hand while keeping his free arm wrapped around Londyn, he maneuvered her beneath the cool silk sheets. Settling beside her, he propped himself up against the mound of pillows and dragged her closer. She resisted at first, but his hold was unyielding until she gave up, sagging weakly against him.
“I can’t sleep here,” Londyn murmured, her long, thick eyelashes fluttering closed.
“I want you to. For a little while, it’s okay.”
“But only for a little while?” she questioned as his arm tightened around her.
“It isn’t safe,” he admitted begrudgingly. “I might hurt you in my sleep, and that’s a problem.”
Londyn made a little sound in the back of her throat. “Why?”
Oliver’s mouth tipped upward in a smile. “Because I want to be awake and in full control of my faculties when I hurt you.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Londyn grumbled, tilting her head so she could study him. “Why would you hurt me in your sleep?”
He was silent for a moment, then bit out, “I have nightmares.”
She lowered her head once more before whispering, “What kind of nightmares?”
Oliver picked up the braid he’d woven her hair into, winding it around his wrist. The idea of anchoring her to him was appealing. Or you to her… something inside him slyly suggested. “The kind that doesn’t end well for women who spend the night in my bed.”
Londyn huffed out a breath of exasperation. “I have them, too. Everyone does at some point. Tell me about yours. It might help if you talk about them.”
His laughter was cruel. “Trying to psychoanalyze me, little killer? Won’t work. Besides, I guarantee the things haunting me are far more violent and depraved than anything you can imagine or have experienced.”
She shrugged. “What would it hurt? It’s not like I’ll tell your secrets to anyone. Once you’re done with me, anything you say goes with me to my grave.”
Oliver did not respond. Being reminded of the day he would end her life did not sit well with him, especially when her soft body was warm and pliant beside him.
“I woke up once with my hands around a woman’s throat,” he said slowly after several minutes of silence.
Londyn snuggled closer, her voice sleepy. “That doesn’t seem out of character for you, to be honest.”
“Her face was already turning blue. My hands were scratched from her nails. I don’t even know why I woke up when I did. It wasn’t the first time something like that happened, but a few seconds more, and she would have been dead.” His voice turned husky. “I was dreaming… reliving an incident with my father. A flashback to the first time I hurt a woman. He told me what to do, but first, I had to watch him and my half-brother so I wouldn’t fuck it up. Kingston hated it as much as I did but telling my dad ‘no’ wasn’t an option. I wanted to kill him for making me make her scream. “
“Your dad was not a nice man.”
Oliver chuckled at her naivety. “He was a fucking monster. Evil incarnate. An abuser. A cold-blooded murderer. And he passed all those wonderful attributes onto his children. He killed Kingston’s mother. Well, kill is too mild a word for what he did. He fucked her to death and left her to bleed out from a miscarriage when he was done with her. A few years later, he married my mom. After she had me, it only got worse. And when he found out that his firstborn was fucking his stepmother, that’s when the crazy really got out of hand.”
“How old were you when that happened?” Londyn prodded gently.
“Old enough,” Oliver replied cryptically. He wasn’t sure why he was spewing this out to her, but what she said was true. Whatever bullshit he got off his chest in this moment would go no further than this room. Londyn was right about one thing. She would carry this pathetic confession straight to her grave. “I was ten when Kingston started sleeping with her and twelve when she killed our father and herself at the dinner table.”
“You saw that?” A sound of distress escaped her. “That must have been so traumatic to see at such a young age.”
Oliver stared at the vaulted wood-beamed ceiling overhead. No matter how long he lived, he’d never be able to unsee the gaping hole in his father’s head, nor the pieces of tissue that discolored the dining-room wall behind his mother’s chair. “That’s an understatement. And overshadowed by the fact my brother was the one who gave her the gun. I hated Kingston so much for that. Hated him because he promised to protect me, and he failed. Hated him because he loved my mother. Hated him because his adoration wasn’t enough for her. She used us both in different ways to escape our father. I was the one left behind with the pieces.” He sighed heavily. “But I think I hated my father more because he made me just like him. Hard. Cruel. Sadistic.”
“Would you say your nightmares,” Londyn swallowed hard, “are a result of your mother murdering your father and committing suicide in front of you?”
“I’d say they are a direct result of being tutored on torturing and raping women, murdering and disposing of his enemies while my father directed me on the most efficient methods to serve him.” Oliver’s jaw tightened at how easy it was to share these painful memories with Londyn. Somehow, he felt lighter. Less burdened. Which was almost comical, considering how fucked-up he truly was. Telling her his secrets shouldn’t leave him feeling cleansed. He was his father’s son in all ways, and confessing these sins to an innocent and naive girl would not bring absolution.
“Did you… did you love your mother?” Londyn asked softly.
Oliver was silent for a moment, then gruffly replied, “I’m sure at some point I did, but I’d say the answer to that is no. Did you love yours?”
“Sometimes, I did. I felt sorry for her more than anything. She had an abusive childhood and never learned to trust anyone. She didn’t know how to love. How to be caring. It would have been better if she’d never had children, although sometimes, it seemed like she was truly trying to do what she thought was best. I think our mothers were likely very much the same. Scared. Overwhelmed. And betrayed by others. I dream about her sometimes.” Londyn’s voice was growing faint, exhaustion catching up to her. “She kisses my forehead like I’m a little girl and tells me she’s sorry. And I hug her back… then the dream goes black and I’m alone again. Do you ever dream about your mom?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He knew his tone was cruel. He meant it to be because she was bringing feelings and memories to the surface that he had suffocated a long time ago. “Go to sleep, Londyn. Get some rest before we start again. I plan on fucking you until I don’t remember my nightmares. For one night, at least. Maybe you’ll find a reprieve from yours.”
Londyn stiffened, but her body was succumbing to everything he had already done. Slumping against him, her voice was drowsy and full of regret as she said, “Some may be scarier than others, but everyone has nightmares, Oliver. Now, you are one of mine and will be for a long time after this.”