Chapter 47
Forty Seven
Aria
The squeal of the tires is the first sound that registers.
The second is the violent slam of the gearshift as Cassian throws the car into park.
We are on a precipice, a scenic overlook high in the hills, the sprawling, glittering expanse of the city laid out below us like a carpet of fallen stars. A kingdom he just rejected for my sake.
The engine ticks, a frantic, cooling heartbeat in the sudden, suffocating silence.
I can’t breathe. The air in the car is thick with the ghosts of what just happened; The sound of bone breaking.
The high, thin scream of a man in agony.
The low, guttural roar of my stepfather’s fury.
And beneath it all, the steady, terrifying drum of Cassian’s voice claiming me. Mine.
I stare out the window, but I don’t see the lights, I see the blood on the white marble floor.
I should be horrified, I should be sickened.
A part of me, the ghost of the girl who used to paint is screaming in a distant, soundproofed room.
But the woman sitting here, the wraith he created feels nothing but a terrifying, electric hum.
He did that. He unleashed that apocalypse. For me.
This isn’t a rescue. This is a claiming. He didn’t save me from his father; he stole me. He saw a shiny, broken object in his father’s house and decided it belonged in his collection.
I feel his eyes on me, burning a hole in the side of my face.
I force myself to turn and look at him. His face is a mask of dark, beautiful fury.
His knuckles are split and bloody on the steering wheel.
A small cut on his cheek from my studio has reopened.
His chest rises and falls in deep, ragged breaths.
He is not a man. He is a storm contained in a suit, and the pressure in the car is about to shatter the windows.
I didn't want a hero, I didn't want a knight. I wanted a monster who would kill for me, and he was here. He was real.
“Aria,” he says, and my name is a piece of gravel in his throat.
It’s the only word he needs to say. It’s the spark that ignites the gasoline-soaked air.
He moves. One hand comes up, not to my face but to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tight.
He pulls me across the center console, my body clumsy and weightless against his strength.
There is no tenderness. It is the brutal, efficient motion of a predator claiming its kill.
His mouth crashes down on mine.
It is not a kiss, it is a collision. It is the violent, desperate punctuation to a day of chaos.
His lips are hard, demanding, punishing.
He tastes of adrenaline, rage, and a darkness that calls to the same void inside of me.
He is trying to consume me, to brand me, to erase the scent of his father’s house from my skin.
And I am letting him. I am not just letting him; I am meeting him.
My hands come up, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, pulling him closer though there is no more space to give.
I kiss him back with all the terror, fury, and shattered pieces of myself.
I am a queen of ashes, he is the king of the fire, and we are burning together in the wreckage of our lives.
This is not about love. It is about survival.
It is about two people so full of violent energy that the only way to release it is to crash into each other.
He groans, a low, guttural sound of frustration and need, and breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down my throat. His teeth graze the sensitive skin and I cry out, a sound that is half pain, half pleasure. It isn’t pain. It is a promise. A brand. He is marking his territory.
“You lit the match,” he snarls against my skin, his voice a raw, ragged whisper. “Now we burn.”
His hand leaves my hair and goes to the buttons of my coat, his movements rough and impatient. He is not undressing me. He is excavating me. A button pops, skittering into the darkness of the car. I don't care. Nothing exists but his hands, his mouth and the overwhelming, possessive heat of him.
He pulls back, his eyes boring into mine. They are black holes in the dim light of the dashboard, pupils blown wide with a savage, unrestrained need.
Cassian looks at me, really looks at me, and a shiver racks my body. This is not the cold, calculating captor from the loft. This is not the furious predator from the warehouse, this is something else entirely. Cassian is a man stripped bare of everything but his most basic, possessive instincts.
“You walked into my father’s house,” he says, his hands gripping my hips, his thumbs pressing into the bone, holding me in place. “You have no idea what you did.”
“I knew you would come,” I whisper, and the admission hangs in the air, a confession of my own complicity.
A dark, dangerous smile touches his lips. “Did you?” His hands move from my hips, one sliding up my stomach while the other goes to the hem of my jeans, his fingers hooking into the waistband. “Did you know I would do this?”
He rips the button of my jeans open with a single, violent tug. The sound of the zipper being torn down is brutally loud in the silence. My breath hitches.
He leans forward, his forehead pressing against mine, his eyes still locked on me.
“I saw his man reach for you,” he whispers, and the rage is back in his voice, a low, simmering inferno.
“And I wanted to burn the world to the ground. I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands. I wanted to show them all that you are not theirs to touch. That you are not even your own. You are mine.”
His hand slides under the waistband of my underwear, his fingers finding me and I gasp as a bolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shoots through me. He is rough, impatient, his touch a claim, not an exploration. He is reminding me of what he just declared to his father, to the world.
I am a chaotic mess of tangled clothes and raw nerves, but I have never felt more focused.
I meet his gaze, my own desperation mirroring his.
I reach down, my hands clumsy and unbuckle his belt, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his trousers.
He doesn’t help me. He just watches, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning.
The air is electric, thick with the scent of his cologne, my perfume, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood from his knuckles. It is the scent of us. Violence and obsession.
When he is free, I guide him to me. He lifts me slightly, his hands like iron on my hips, and then he crashes into me.
The invasion is brutal, a searing stretch that borders on pain. It is the violence he wanted to unleash on the world, focused now into a single, driving point of contact. I cry out, and he swallows it with another punishing kiss.
“Fuck,” he groans against my mouth, stilling for a moment, letting me adjust to the sheer, punishing size of him. He feels massive, an overwhelming presence that fills me completely, stretching me to my limits. “You feel so good. So fucking tight. This pussy was made for me.”
He starts to move then, a brutal, unforgiving rhythm that sends jolts of sensation through my body.
Each thrust is a statement, a brand, a violent declaration of ownership.
The car rocks with the force of it, the world outside shrinking to the confines of this space, the only sounds are the harsh slap of skin on skin, our ragged breaths, and the filthy, beautiful words that pour from his lips.
“Tell me who this belongs to,” he snarls, one of his hands leaving my hip to wrap around my throat.
His fingers press against my windpipe, not hard enough to cut off my air completely, but enough to make me feel the fragility of my own life in his hands. The pressure is a dizzying, intoxicating cocktail of fear and pleasure, a rush that makes my head spin and my cunt clench around him.
“You,” I gasp, the word a choked, desperate sound. “It belongs to you.”
A dark, triumphant grin spreads across his face. “That’s right. This cunt is mine. This throat is mine. And you, my sweet little ghost, you are mine.”
He tightens his grip slightly and my vision starts to swim, the edges blurring into a haze of black and silver. I am completely at his mercy, a puppet on a string, and the feeling is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. I am utterly and completely owned.
He watches me, his gaze a mixture of savage satisfaction and raw, unguarded need. Cassian is not just fucking me. He is possessing me, body and soul, claiming me in the most primal way possible. And I am letting him, not with reluctance, but with a desperate, eager acceptance.
He releases my throat, and I drag in a ragged, desperate breath, my lungs burning for air.
But the reprieve is short-lived. He shifts, pulling out of me with a slick, wet sound that leaves me feeling achingly empty.
Before I can protest, he’s lifting me, setting me down on the passenger seat with a rough, dismissive strength.
“Turn around,” he commands, his voice tight with control. “Hands on the dash. Arch your back. Show me that pretty little ass.”
My limbs feel like lead, but I obey, my body trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. I position myself on my knees, my hands flat against the cool leather of the dashboard, my back arched just the way he likes it. I am completely exposed, vulnerable, and at his mercy.
He runs a hand over my exposed flesh, a slow, possessive caress.
“Such a perfect fucking view,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the curve of my spine.
Then without warning, he brings his hand down in a sharp, stinging slap on my ass cheek.
The impact sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure-pain through me, and I cry out, a ragged, broken sound.
“Like that?” he asks, his voice a low, mocking taunt. “Like being spanked like a naughty little girl?”
“Yes,” I gasp, my fingers digging into the dashboard. “Yes, I like it.”
He does it again, harder this time, the sound echoing in the confined space of the car. “That’s what I thought,” he growls. “You love being put in your place. You love being my little slut.”
He enters me from behind in a single, powerful thrust that steals my breath. He’s even deeper this way, the angle hitting a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. He sets a punishing pace, the slap of his skin against mine a sharp, rhythmic percussion in the small space.
One of his hands fists in my hair, pulling my head back, stretching my throat. The other wraps around the front of my neck, his thumb pressing against my pulse. The dual sensation is overwhelming, a dizzying cocktail of pleasure and pain.
“This is what you are,” he snarls, his thrusts growing more erratic, more forceful. “A filthy little whore, soaking my cock. This cunt is mine to use, whenever I want, however I want.”
His words are a humiliating, thrilling balm and I can feel myself spiraling, the pressure inside me building to an unbearable peak. He’s driving me toward a cliff, and he’s not letting up. He’s going to make me jump.
“Cassian,” I gasp, my voice breaking.
“Beg for it,” he commands, his grip on my throat tightening, his thrusts becoming almost brutal. “Beg me to let you come.”
“Please,” I gasp, the word a choked, desperate plea. “Please, let me come. I need it. I need you.”
“Look at me,” he orders. I manage to twist my head, my gaze locking with his in the rearview mirror. His face is a mask of raw, untamed emotion, his eyes blazing with a dark, possessive fire. “This is who you belong to. Say it.”
“I belong to you,” I cry out, the pressure inside me reaching its breaking point. “I’m yours. My body is yours. My cunt is yours. Please, let me come for you!”
A dark, triumphant grin splits his bruised lips. The command breaks something inside me. “Come for me,” he snarls, his thrusts growing more erratic, more forceful. “Come all over my fucking cock. Now.”
The dam bursts. A tidal wave of pleasure crashes over me, so intense it borders on pain. My back arches, a silent scream tearing from my throat as my body convulses around him, the spasms so strong they steal my breath. I feel my gushing hot fluid soaking him, me, the seat beneath me.
“Fuck, yeah,” he growls, a raw, ragged sound of satisfaction. “That’s it. Soak my fucking cock. Good girl.”
He doesn’t stop. He continues to pound into me, drawing out the pleasure until it’s almost too much, a blinding, overwhelming force.
My body is a limp, quivering mass, but he’s not done with me yet.
His grip on my throat loosens, but he doesn’t let go.
He pulls out and I feel a moment of loss, of emptiness.
He slumps back into the driver’s seat, breathing heavily. I can feel the sticky mess on my skin, the ache in my muscles, the delicious soreness between my legs. I’ve never felt more used, more claimed, or more alive.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, his voice a low rasp.
“No,” I breathe, and it is the truest word I have ever spoken.