7. Reth
RETH
“No.” Everything inside me shatters. Not in a clean way, but in a way that peels flesh from bone.
“No. No. No. What have you done?”
She’s naked. Straddling me. My dick still half-hard and softening inside her.
“What the fuck have you done!”
She rolls her hips in a slow, deliberate circle, and the slick walls of her cunt drag along my softening cock like a warm, wet trap that refuses to release me.
I try to move. “Get off me!” Try to buck and thrash to get her off, but my legs feel like they’re submerged in warm tar, heavy and sluggish, refusing to obey the screaming from my brain.
The drugs are thick in my veins, turning every desperate move into a pathetic tremor. I can only manage a weak, shuddering jerk of my hips, enough to feel her cunt clench around my cock again, and a fresh wave of nausea makes my head spin.
“Get the fuck off me! Jesus Christ, no.” I shut my eyes, feel every ripple, every involuntary flutter of her inner muscles squeezing around me, the sticky warmth of my release being pushed deeper inside her with every lazy roll.
Greedy hands, sharp nails drag down my chest. “You were in here moaning like you’re having a wet dream, and I just couldn’t resist,” she purrs.
“It was her! Not you.” I desperately try to thrash. “Not! Fucking! You!”
The betrayal is so complete, so vile, that bile burns me from the inside out. I can feel her disgusting wetness coating me, dripping down my balls, and the revulsion is instantaneous and violent.
My skin crawls. My stomach heaves. I want to rip my own cock off rather than leave it inside her for one more goddamn second.
“I’ll admit, I didn’t like the part where you said her name. But everything else was perfect.”
No. This can’t be fucking happening. This is not happening.
Oh, God. The smell of it—her, me, sex, violation…fuck!
Rage explodes out of me in a roar that rips my throat raw.
I lunge for her throat with every ounce of strength I have, teeth bared, fingers curled into claws, desperate to crush her windpipe and watch the life drain from her eyes.
But the chains snap taut with a violent rattle around my wrists, yanking my arms back hard above my head.
“Get the fuck off me!” My scream rips out of my throat like torn meat. “Get off get off get off!”
“Oh, calm down,” she taunts. “You came, too. You enjoyed it.”
“Get the fuck away from me!” My voice cracks, half drugged and half feral, manacles cutting into my flesh. “You piece of shit, motherfucking cunt!”
Fire explodes on my cheek as she slaps me. The sting tears through my face, lancing through my locked jaw. “Show some goddamn respect when you speak to me.”
“Fuck you!” Wild, hot tears spill down my cheeks. But it’s not sadness. It’s horror. Bone-chilling, marrow-melting horror that makes me want to peel off my own skin.
“I told you, Nazareth.” She moves back, her hands on my knees now, spreads her legs wide, and my cock finally slithers out of her with an obscene wet sound. “I always get what I want.”
Thick, white ropes of my own cum ooze out of her cunt immediately—slow, heavy drips sliding from her swollen, used pussy and running down her inner thighs in sticky trails.
My dick is coated in it—in her—a disgusting mix of her slick and my unwilling release smeared all over my shaft, shiny and filthy and disgusting.
“Look at what you did.” Her voice is silk. “You gave me your cum.”
Instantly, the picture of Sophia on the kitchen counter in Paris flashes before me—hot, beautiful, perfect—only to be plucked away and replaced by Valeria gloating. Cunt gaping, drooling a pulpy mess of satisfaction and me.
The revulsion is instantaneous and violent. My stomach heaves. Bile surges up my throat so fast I nearly choke on it.
“Oh, God… fuck… no. Please, God,” I plead, voice breaking as I stare at the mess, praying this is all a nightmare.
“Not God,” she says, moving, and now leaning down, dark hair that cuts draped across my chest. “Me. It’s always been me, Nazareth.”
“No,” I breathe. “No.”
“Oh, yes.” Her lips are like blades on my flesh as she kisses my collarbone, and I groan with disgust when she reaches down, wrapping long fingers around my limp dick, her mouth brushing along my ear. “You were such a good boy for me.”
I snap.
My head jerks sideways with every ounce of strength left in my ruined body. My teeth sink into the soft flesh of her ear—cartilage and skin giving way with a wet, sickening crunch.
She screams, high and shocked, trying to pull back, but I lock my jaw like a rabid dog and tear.
Blood floods my mouth, hot and metallic. I don’t get the whole ear. I get a thick, ragged chunk—the top curve of it ripping off in one vicious shake of my head. The wedge of flesh comes free between my teeth with a wet rip, and I spit it at her face with a guttural snarl.
Valeria reels back, hand clamped to the side of her head, blood pouring between her fingers in thick sheets. Her scream cuts off into a sharp, stunned gasp, eyes wide with genuine shock as she stares at the ragged chunk of her own ear lying bloody on the floor.
For a long second, she doesn’t move—just stands there, breathing hard, visibly shaken.
A savage, vicious satisfaction floods through me at the sight. Her blood. Finally. Running down her perfect, arrogant face in thick, crimson trails, dripping onto the floor in fat drops like the monster she is finally paying in kind.
It’s not enough—it will never be enough—but for one bright, burning moment, it feels like the first real victory I’ve had in decades. Like a tiny piece of the debt she owes me is finally being paid in red.
I want more.
I want rivers of it.
I want to bathe in it while she screams.
Valeria straightens. Slowly. Deliberately. She presses her palm tighter to the wound, jaw clenched, visibly fighting for control. The elegant mask cracks, then smooths back into place with visible effort.
It’s all evil. She’s all evil.
I bit her ear in half, she’s bleeding all over the fucking place, yet she has the strength to act like it’s nothing more than a tiny nick.
When she speaks, her voice is slightly unsteady but already regaining that velvet poison I know too well.
“You chose this.” She moves like a feline, stepping closer, voice velvet over broken glass.
“Your body knew exactly what it wanted. You were so hard for me, Nazareth, thrusting into my cunt like you’d die without it.
Do you think Sophia will forgive you when she finds out?
When she learns her precious monster came so sweetly for the woman who destroyed him? ”
“Shut up,” I spit. “Shut the fuck up!”
But she doesn’t. She never does. This is how she tortures. Not with violence. With words. With a smile. With a lie. With the surgical precision of a monster who spent centuries dismantling people without spilling a drop of blood. That’s why she has me. To the spill blood for her. I’m her violence.
She leans down just enough that a fresh drop of her blood lands on my lips. I taste it again, and my stomach revolts so violently I convulse, chains rattling like mad.
“You’ll never wash this off,” she whispers. “Every time she touches you, every time she lets you inside her, you’ll remember how eagerly you filled me. How your cock twitched and spilled like it belonged there. How you begged for it with every helpless thrust.”
I scream—a broken, animal howl that echoes off the stone walls.
Valeria watches me with that calm, satisfied expression, even as blood continues to trickle down the side of her neck. She’s furious underneath—I can see it in the tightness around her eyes—but she’s enjoying this more. My complete unraveling. My filth. My shame.
"I hate you," I choke out. "I fucking hate you!"
"I know," she says softly. "And still you came so beautifully for me."
The words are a second violation. Worse than the first.
"I'm going to kill you." My voice has gone somewhere very quiet and very certain. "If it's the last thing I do in this life, Valeria, I will kill you."
She tilts her head. Studies me the way she has always studied me—the way a collector studies something they own, cataloguing its condition, its value, its damage.
Then she crouches beside me, dark eyes level with mine, blood still running freely down her neck and dripping from her jaw onto the stone floor between us.
“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But you’ll never be free of me, Nazareth. Even if I’m buried or burned to ash, you’ll always have me—” her bloody finger taps against my temple “—here.”
I jerk away with everything I have. The chains hold.
"Look at you." Her finger drags through the blood on my cheek almost tenderly.
"My beautiful, broken thing. Do you know what I love most about you, Nazareth?
" She doesn't wait for an answer. "You keep surviving.
Every time I think I've found the limit of you—every time I think this is the thing that finally hollows you out completely—you survive.
" A pause. "It's the most exquisite quality you have.”
"Get your hands off me—"
"She can't save you." Said conversationally. Like she’s not bleeding, and we’re discussing the weather.
"Your little therapist. Your pretty Sophia Sinclair.
" The name in her mouth is obscene. "Whatever you think you have with her—whatever small, soft thing you've been building in secret—it won't survive what I've turned you into.
" She releases my face. Stands. "Love is very fragile, Nazareth.
It doesn't hold up well under sustained pressure.
And I have been applying pressure to things you love from the very moment you stepped into my home. "
She stands, peels her hand from her ear, glances at the blood between her fingers. Considers it with mild interest. "Naughty boy." She presses her palm back to her ear, unhurried. "Next time, I'll tape your mouth shut."
The words land like ice water down my spine.
Next time.
"No." Terror slides into every bone.
She can do it again. She will do it again.
Anytime she wants. While I’m chained. While I’m drugged. While I’m too weak or too high to stop her. She can straddle me, take what she wants, force my body to betray me while my mind screams for Sophia. She can make me come inside her again and again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
The realization sinks its teeth in and won’t let go. My stomach convulses. I try to hold it back, but I can’t.
I retch, body jerking against the chains as everything comes up at once.
Hot, sour vomit explodes out of me in thick, uncontrollable waves, splattering across my own chest, my neck, my face. It burns my throat and nose, drips down my chin and mixes with the sweat and tears already there.
Another heave and more comes, splashing onto my stomach, running down my sides, pooling in the hollow of my collarbones. The stench of it—acid and bile and the lingering taste of whatever drug she pumped into me—makes me gag again, even as I’m still throwing up.
I’m covered in it. My own sick. My own cum still glistening on my softening cock. Valeria’s wetness. Her blood.
Valeria stands over me, completely unbothered, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips as she watches me choke and retch on my own mess.
“Such a pretty boy,” she murmurs, almost tenderly. “Even when you’re vomiting all over yourself.”
“Fuck you!” I scream through the vomit, voice hoarse and ragged, spit and bile flying from my lips. “Fuck you!”
"By the time I'm done with you, you won't remember her name.
" She moves to the corner of the room. Pauses.
And the look on her face is almost tender, which is the worst thing about it.
"You'll remember mine. Only mine. The way you did when you were a little boy and I was the only warmth you had in the dark.
" A beat. "We always come back to what we were made from, Nazareth. Always."
She crosses back to me.
I strain against the chains. "Don't. Don't you come near me, don't you—"
She crouches beside me with something in her hand. The needle. Her needle, not mine, the kind she controls the dosage of, and her movements are practiced and calm and completely indifferent to my screaming.
A cold hand finds my neck with the ease of someone who has done this a thousand times, who knows exactly where, exactly how much.
"Sleep," she says softly. Almost gently. Like a mother. Like the thing she performed at being for years.
The prick.
The spread.
The warmth moving through my veins like something that was always going to win.
I fight it. I keep fighting it. I say her name into the dark—Sophia, Sophia, Sophia—trying to hold the gold of her hair in my mind before the murk takes it, before Valeria takes that too—
The ceiling crack blurs.
Branches once.
Stops short.
I close my eyes, my heartbeat quietening, until there’s only one clear thought left through the haze…
I hope I die.