Chapter 2 #2
“Are you going to shut the fuck up? Or shall I give you a real reason to scream? There’s no getting away from me.
It’ll never happen, Jolie. Never. I’ll never let you slip away again.
You are mine. Always have been.” His tone was sinister, promising.
“Nothing you do will ever change that; do you understand?” his inflection altered as he moved closer, nuzzling into my neck.
I cringed but ignored him as best as I could.
For all of a minute.
My fingers felt over my new injury, gently rubbing my swollen knuckles.
I didn’t answer his questions, I just tried to wiggle away.
. . anywhere away from him, but I couldn’t slip his grip.
He had control; it was a gift from his father, given when he ceased to exist. An inheritance no one should want.
“Let me go,” I pleaded.
“Jolie, I will never let you go.” His voice was sensual, coated in the charms of a powerful magician, one I was luckily, immune to.
“I own you. I own your mind. . .” his fingers wandered through my hair, small circles drawn by his index and middle finger placed invisible designs on my scalp as if he was massaging the words into my brain.
I tried hard not to focus on what he was doing, on his method of hypnosis. He was right–he was already in my head.
I fucking hated that.
His fingers moved away; his hand dropped to the hem of my dress—the open jacket of his that he’d dressed me in. It still smelt like him, both sweet and sour. He smelt like dead roses–not flowers past their sell-by date, but floral, with a dark edge. . . hypnotic.
He smoothed through my curls, not the ones on my head, the ones between my legs. As a sexless slave, a worthless whore, I didn’t get the honor of a razor. Though, I didn’t want it.
The valued ones never got to shave themselves.
I felt more tears sting my eyes as a familiar shame crept over my body, keeping me warm.
. . too warm. I felt sick, and I had to swallow hard to hold that feeling at bay.
Three fingers forced their way inside me.
No warning, no gentleness. Nothing but brutality in the place of intimacy.
A feeling I was all too familiar with, thanks to him.
I jumped back, trying to escape the pain. With my fingers still holding my swollen hand, I silently counted the fractures in my bones to distract myself from my groaning in agony.
My body pressed against his, and I felt it—the swelling of his crotch digging into my spine.
He was enjoying this.
Enjoying me and my pain while my body struggled to remove his invading fingers.
He fucked me hard; he fucked me deep, losing his fingers inside my uncooperative body.
He moaned into my ear as he found the ridge inside of me that had me moaning, too, in a new kind of way, and whispered, “I own your body.” He pulled his fingers out of me and moved them to his mouth.
I heard the sound as he licked my taste from his digits. “I own your fucking soul.”
He threw me into the distance, and I crawled into a corner where I found a little comfort in the cold memories that didn’t involve him.
Corners were familiar. I lived in them, unworthy of a bed, shielding within a daydream, hiding from reality–a place so much darker than my worst nightmares.
Darker than this. And then the walls of my mind that were blocking him out, crashed to rubble when he unbuckled his belt and moved towards me.
Memories scurried to the surface of my skin, reminding me I had survived this pain before.
I’d survived worse.
I kept my eyes low, submissive and dedicated to the commands I didn’t want to obey, and the pleasure I didn’t want to give, in exchange for my pain.
His pure white shirt landed in front of me, in a crumpled position on the cherry-red carpet.
A carpet that would hide minimal bloodstains should I misbehave or fail to please him.
My heart hammered when his trousers dropped to join his shirt, his boxers falling, too. The heavy buckle of his belt hit the carpet, face down, buried in the bright fibers, just like mine was about to be.
His socks were still on–something that always bothered me, but I couldn’t place why. . . maybe I just wanted more reasons to hate him, even if I didn’t need them.
Cold tears slipped from my eyes; tears for my pain; the ones I was already experiencing and pains yet to come.
I cringed again when his fingers brushed my skin.
The cloud of confusion that overcast my thoughts whenever he granted a touch that didn’t bring physical pain was around me.
A tender touch, that instead, crippled my emotions.
But this touch wasn’t like that. It was painful. Bruising.
His tenderness lasted no more than a second.
His brash hardness was back with vengeance.
His dark shadow, the presence of evil, loomed over my back as he dragged me from the safety of my dark corner.
I scratched at the walls, trying to hold on to something, but there was nothing to save me as he tossed me into the center of the room, out into the open with nowhere to hide.
My scars burned against the carpet as my head hit the ground. My instincts kicked in. My hands, even with all their injuries, pushed me from the ground, and I lurched to my feet.
My legs rushed me to the floor-length window; I wasn’t stupid enough to try the door. I knew I couldn’t escape, but I still had small remainders of my destroyed hope. Hope that I could draw attention. . . hope that I could encourage a good Samaritan to be my savior.
I pounded the window with heavy fists, my stress levels rising with my fear. My injuries worsened with each thud, causing whimpers I didn’t want to vocalize.
“Help. Someone, please, please help me!” my scream vacated my mouth, sounding no more than a whisper.
I was too high to gain anyone’s attention.
At least five floors above the ground. A balcony occupied the space on the other side of the glass.
I wondered, if I could get out, would I be able to throw myself into the crowd who were enjoying frolicking in the pool below?
Would I be able to end the misery brought to me by the promise of a future with Hell.
I didn’t have time to search for such answers, never mind find them.
Hell’s arm locked around my waist; his shadow sealed me to the window, sealing my fate.
His strong hand moved to my hair, his fingers entwining around my strands, reminding me of how his family had stolen the last thing I had—my subconscious action of comfort. And tainted it forever.
“Do you know why I’m doing this?”
I sniffled, trying hard to hold back my tears. He had already collected enough of them over the years to drown us both.
“Please, stop.” My words fogged the window. A desperate plea, created in the mist.
“I told you to stop. Do you remember?”
I nodded. I did remember. “You told me to stop when I was running away. I asked you to stop so many times before that.”
“And yet neither of us listened to the other. That word holds no power.” His words were close to my ear, carving into my brain. The kiss that followed, burned into my skin like the acid I’d previously been washed in. “You don’t deserve empathy.”
I did. . . I deserved empathy, freedom, and a life worth living.
I deserved all the things that were snatched away when I first became his possession.
But I didn’t argue over my worth. . . I knew there was no point, he’d never see it.
He never had. He was blinded. . . by rage, by an upbringing that had brought out the worst in him.
“This is a punishment. One that I will only have to dish out once if you quickly learn how the fuck to behave! This is karma for what we went through while you weren’t around.”
“I’ve learned. I have. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for whatever you went through.” I prayed with every ounce of my being that he wouldn’t see through my lies. I prayed his eyes were as sightless to my fabrications, as his ears were deaf to my pleas.
“It’s too late to apologize.” He kissed the crook of my neck, and I shivered under the touch of his perfect lips, hating his sensual kiss.
“It’s not too late. God believes in forgiveness.” I tried in desperation to reach a deeper part of him. I’d have searched his eyes for a part of his soul yet to be tarnished if I could see through the thickness of my hair and if any innocence at all still lived within him.
“I’m not God.”
“You’re my God.” I tried to get into his head, the way his father used to, but the words—the lie—made me feel violently ill.
“You never believed that. You only saw the bad. . . in every fucking situation. You never saw how much I craved you after one taste.”
“I will in the future. You said there were choices. I choose the easy way. You can be forgiven.” Another lie materialized.
“Is it not too late to change?”
“No. . .”
“Good. . . remember that!” His cold tone stabbed into my ear, loud and threatening; it promised my pain.
“Woodrow. . .” I shook my head, fear wrapping around me with his arms.
“Shut the fuck up; you know I don’t go by that name.” His tone altered, sharpened, ready to cause me more pain if I forced him to mouth more words.
His strong hand dropped from my hair, but like the perfect submissive, I didn’t fight him. My past had already proved I couldn’t. I was no match.
His mouth slipped away from my ear, but his sounds still echoed inside me, heavy above the music from the next room, proliferating all my attempts of building up my mental walls to shield him out.
He pulled his jacket up over my shoulders and forced my arms free. I fell away from him, my naked breasts pressing into the glass window.
He licked his hand, making me wonder what the fuck he was doing. “It’s not too late,” I repeated the words, over and over again, trying and failing to be something close to convincing. . . “It’s not too late.”
It was too late.