Chapter 8
The Monster
I hated saying all of that to her. Watching her break is never something I’ve been able to do, but this time, it was necessary. All of it was true, and she needed to hear it.
I won’t always be around to protect her, no matter how much I want to be. And as much as I hated saying all of it to her, it was the only thing I could think of to truly rile her up. Everything that happened to her, happened because of me. I’m selfish for not letting her live her life without me, especially after she made it out of that hell. But, if being selfish is what it takes to keep her by my side, then I’ll be the most selfish man alive.
When I brought her here, my plan was to hold her in my arms the entire week. Laying in bed, watching movies on the couch, taking baths together. All of that was on the list.
When she woke up and told me about her dream last night, things changed. I still wanted her in my arms, but I wanted her to be able to break out of them, too. I trust my head of security to keep her safe if I’m not around, but teaching her some self defense will make me feel even better. Especially if she’s taken again.
I have no doubt that she’ll use the skills I teach her to escape from me, but I also know my girl. She has a soft spot for me. She hates hurting me as much as I hate hurting her.
Yeah, right, scream the aches across my body where her tiny fists landed. She has some power with her punches, I’ll give her that. I’m sure she’ll be even stronger with adrenaline running through her system, rather than just anger.
Her sobs slow as I hold her to my naked chest and whisper soothing words into her hair. Words that completely contradict everything I just said to her, but none of it is a surprise to her. She knows exactly how I feel when it comes to her.
When she told me she wanted to hit me, I wanted to see what she could do. I knew I needed to make her angry enough to hit me, but when the words started coming, they spilled out of me. I couldn’t stop them. Whether it was to make her mad or to remind myself of how guilty I am, both of us needed to hear it.
As much as I want her back with me, I need her to know this life isn’t all sunshine and flowers. There’s danger, death, and more trauma than any one person should have to deal with. All of it will follow me, but I want her to hold my hand through it all.
“Let’s take a break,” I tell her as she sniffles and wipes her tears from her cheeks. Together, we walk back upstairs where I set her on the couch and choose a funny movie for her to watch. I don’t expect her to really watch it, but I hope it’ll make her feel a little better.
I want to stay and hold her to make her feel better, but I know I’m not the right person. Guilt is still bleeding out of me, and the last thing she needs is to be trying to comfort me while dealing with the turmoil inside of herself.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, but she doesn’t even hear me, too consumed in the ghosts of the past.
I leave her there, not wanting to be more of a burden as I deal with my own turmoil. I climb the steps two at a time, rushing to get upstairs into my bedroom. There’s only one thing that will help me feel better right now.
As soon as I’m in my bedroom, I throw my mask on the bed and rummage around on the nightstand to find my knife.
Once I have the knife and I’m standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, I put the sharp edge to my skin and carve. Up, down, and across gives me a bloody A close to my right hip. The sting barely registers, but I can feel the guilt leaking out of me as blood trickles down my skin, soaking into my sweatpants.
One long stroke up and two small strokes across turns the I from a bright pink to a dark red. Now the pain is setting in, but I don’t let it stop me.
Next comes the N. A long stroke up, a slanted stroke down, and another stroke up. Then comes the S. This is the hardest letter, because the knife doesn’t curve the way it should in my skin to form the letter properly. It’s a box letter, with many different strokes. Once it’s complete, I breathe a sigh of relief. Halfway there, and already I feel better. She’s here with me. I haven’t forgotten why I’m seeking revenge, I’m only waiting for the opportunity to present itself.
One long stroke down and a shorter stroke to the left. Two more letters to go. She’s stronger than I think she is. She’ll get through this.
One long stroke down, and three strokes to the left, getting closer to the other side of my hips. The waistband is covered in blood now as it drips down in straight lines from the wounds I’ve caused myself. I’ve never understood why pain helps me heal, but when I started doing this, I didn’t question it.
Two short, slanted strokes finished by adding a long stroke down, and there it is. Her name, written across my abdomen, the blood making it hard to read as it leaves trails down to my waistband. It’s almost beautiful in its gruesomeness. The bright flow of blood contrasting my pale white skin.
“Are you in here?”
The sweet voice calls as I hear her footsteps whispering across the floor of my bedroom, seeking me out. Looking around frantically for something to hide the mess I’ve just made, I end up grabbing one of the towels we used only a few minutes ago when we got out of the bath. I wrap it around myself just as her head pops through the bathroom door and finds me.
Her eyebrows scrunch as she sees the towel wrapped around my waist, not understanding why it’s there. Especially since she’s only ever seen me wrap towels around my hips, and definitely not with pants on underneath. She looks around the room for clues, and I watch as she finally spots the bloody knife I threw haphazardly on the sink.
Without a word, she storms over to me and rips the towel off of me, revealing the bloody mess left behind. She inspects every inch, from the jagged lines to the blood-soaked waistband of my pants, and still says nothing.
“Ainsley -” I start, feeling nervous and needing to explain, but she cuts me off with a glare.
As I watch, she pulls her sweatshirt over her head and tosses it to the side, followed by her sports bra, leaving her torso bare to me. Still, without uttering a single syllable, she turns to the sink and grabs the knife. As she hands it to me, it’s my turn to look at her with confusion.
“My turn.”
Horror washes over my features as she turns her back to me and grips onto the sink for support. Our eyes clash through the mirror, hers unwavering in their determination and mine full of confusion.
“Does it make you feel better?” she asks, holding my eyes to catch my reaction. Slowly, I nod. It does make me feel better, even if it only lasts until the knife is out of my skin. “Then I want to feel better. So, it’s my turn.”
“Ainsley, it’s not some pretty butterfly that everyone’s going to compliment in the years to come, it’s a jagged scar that will always be a reminder.”
Her unwavering determination turns to anger as I speak. “Did I fucking stutter? If you think it’s okay to carve my name into your skin, then carve your name into mine.”
I want to tell her no. The thought of her having such an ugly scar on her is like a punch to the gut, but there’s also a twisted part of me that loves the idea of marking her forever, so every man will know she’s mine. It’s that part of me that eventually wins my internal battle.
“And which name will that be, little one? Monster or Cain?”
She gives me a devilish smirk, knowing exactly what game I’m trying to play and refusing to play along. “You only have a handful of days left with me. Which would you prefer to see on my skin?”
I give her a devilish smirk back, imagining her with her ass pointed up, taking my cock while my name stares up at me from her back. It’s a pretty easy decision.
My name is much shorter than hers, so I can make this quick for her. As I raise the knife to touch the skin below her shoulders, she drops her head to stare into the sink, stretching the skin even more.
With one long stroke down and two strokes to the right, the first letter is done. She hasn’t made a sound or even flinched away from the pain, taking it like it’s helping her as much as it’s helped me. Two long slants and a small one across, matching the first letter I reopened on myself, and half of my name is already on her skin.
One long stroke down with two shorter strokes on the top and the bottom, and her back looks like a masterpiece as blood trickles down her porcelain skin. Her grip has gotten tighter on the counter as she tries to keep herself from squirming away from the pain, accepting the punishment she’s giving herself.
“Almost done,” I assure her. “You’re doing such a good job, little one.”
I watch as her body visibly relaxes from my praise, and then dive in for the last letter. A long stroke up, a long, slanted stroke down, and another long stroke up.
There it is. My name, forever carved into her skin for everyone to see. It’s such a beautiful sight to behold. I’ve never been one of those people that was into blood play, though I’ve never found anyone I wanted to experiment with. As I raise the knife and watch the light dance off the mixture of her blood and mine, I understand why people would find this enticing.
As her eyes lift to meet mine in the mirror, exhausted but lighter than when she walked in, I lift the knife to my mouth. Her eyes track my movements as my tongue darts out, licking along the edge of the blade and tasting the blood gathered there.
It tastes like what I would expect a penny to taste like, but something about it is oddly intimate. Her eyes are hooded as she watches me do it again, cleaning the blade with my tongue.
When the metal once again shines under the light, I set it down on the counter next to her and instruct her not to move. I rummage through the closet with the towels until I find a washcloth, and when I get back, I open up the cabinet under the sink and pull out antibiotic ointment and some bandages.
She lets me clean her up and take care of her, but this time she can’t hide the pain. The worst is when I wipe the washcloth across the fresh wounds. As I place the bandages across her back, closing up the wounds to keep infections out, she allows her breathing to become more steady.
“My turn,” she announces as she whirls around and pulls the washcloth off the sink. She gives me the same treatment, washing my skin and bandaging me up. The bandage feels weird and tight on my skin, but it’s more of a reminder of her presence than the scar itself. She didn’t want me to feel this pain, and wanted to do what she could to take it away.
“You can spend all day down there if you want to, little one,” I try to tease her, but she doesn’t take the bait. The air between us is still too thick with tension after everything that’s happened today. Funny, it probably hasn’t even been more than an hour since our bath together, yet it feels like an entire day has passed already.
“Talk to me,” I tell her, needing to hear her say something. Anything. What just happened isn’t something that can just be brushed off and forgotten. She just made me carve my name into her skin. It’s something she’ll never get rid of, and every time she sees it, she’ll be reminded of me. It’s a bold action for someone so determined to be done with me.
“And say what?” she asks as she turns her back to me and rinses the washcloth out in the sink. It’s clear that something is bothering her, but I won’t be able to pinpoint what it is until she tells me.
“Anything,” I answer. “Tell me how you feel about what just happened.”
“Which part? The part where I caught you covered in blood from where you were pushing a knife through your skin, or the part where I made you do the same thing to me? Or should we talk about how I just watched you lick our blood from a knife and the way it made me feel is definitely not something I should be feeling?”
There’s so much to unpack with all of this, but I want her to unpack it with me. I want to feel her burdens, to know that she trusts me even if she can’t trust herself. I want to be the one person she can open up to, no matter what.
Instead of answering, I take the washcloth from her hands and throw it in the sink, forcing her to focus on our conversation. “Come to bed with me,” I tell her as I tug on her hand, pulling her out of the bathroom.
“Seriously? I don’t want to get naked with you right now,” she sighs, misinterpreting what I meant. Though, I’m still a little hurt, because I never have a problem getting naked with her.
Pointedly, I look between my naked chest and hers, reminding her we’re already halfway there. “I wasn’t going to take off anymore clothes, I just want to lie down,” I tell her.
She relaxes and lets me guide her out of the bathroom and to our bed. I let her get settled before climbing in myself, facing her so she can’t hide from me.
“How does your back feel?” I ask, starting with a simple question so she might be more willing to open up to me.
“Like it’s on fire, but not in a bad way,” she answers. When I scrunch my brows, asking a silent question, she explains what she means. “I know it should hurt, and it does, but it almost feels like a source of pride. Like getting a tattoo, I guess. You knew it was going to hurt, but in the end, you have a beautiful piece of art.”
“Except it’s not a beautiful piece of art,” I remind her. “It’s my name in jagged, crooked lines across your back. A name you can’t even bring yourself to say.”
She takes a few minutes to process that, to really understand what just happened and how irreversible it is. In a year, when she graduates, my name will be carved into her back. In five years, when we’re married and having babies, my name will still be carved into her back. And in thirty years when we’re growing old and visiting our grandchildren, my name will still be there, a token of our time here.
“It’s beautiful to me,” she answers. “It’s a reminder of the time we spent together. Even though it can’t last, I don’t regret it. It feels almost right to have your name there, where anyone could see it.”
Her admission sends pleasure straight through me. Even if she won’t admit it to herself, she’s softening toward me all over again, much quicker than she did last time. By the end of the week, she won’t be able to deny that she belongs to me.
“And what about the rest of it, little one?” I ask, referring to what she said about me licking the knife. Even I’m not sure how I feel about the whole experience. I can’t decide if I liked it or not, but I definitely liked the way she was looking at me while I was doing it.
“I don’t understand it,” she admits as she casts her eyes around, looking everywhere but at me. “I know I should have been disgusted, and part of me was, but it also kind of turned me on.”
I nod my head, even though she’s not looking at me, just to acknowledge what she said.
“Why did you do it?” Her eyes finally snap to mine, wanting to see my reaction to her question.
“The reason is lost on me,” I answer honestly. It was one of those impulsive thoughts that I just couldn’t get out of my head, and I didn’t want to get it out of my head. I wanted to see what it would be like.
She nods, mimicking my acknowledgement of her answer. As I brush a strand of hair behind her ear, I let my hand wander further until it’s reaching around her head and pulling the band out of her hair.
“You’ve had a tough day, little one. Rest. I’ll stay with you to keep the nightmares away,” I promise her. At this point, I think we’re both in need of a few extra hours of sleep. Both of us were woken from nightmares last night, and then we were awake when her dream caused her to slide onto my cock.
She tries to fight it, but eventually the exhaustion from not sleeping well and the trauma to her back catch up to her, and we fall asleep in each other’s arms. This is exactly how it should be between us.