Chapter 26
Stop Looking At It
brIGIT
"Uhhh," I toss my towel onto the couch that's been inexplicably moved over the puddle I'm trying my hardest not to look at. "No."
He raises a brow, "No?"
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
It feels utterly ridiculous to be having this conversation with him. while we're like 90% undressed, but he saw me 100% naked in the shower and didn't make it a thing, so I'm not going to either.
Though right about now, I'm wondering if maybe I should.
The way he's looking at me is all animal, similar to that day he was cornered by the press, but far scarier.
This isn't a frightened mouse in a corner, aiming to lash out.
The man before me is pure predator, a cold, wicked smile tugging at his mouth, the amber in his eyes all but suffocated by the black. Even the slight tilt of his head to the side feels like a fucking fox as his gaze licks hungrily across my skin.
"Brigit," he says my name, his mouth forming the syllables of my name in a slow drip, like he wants to taste every fucking letter as he says them.
"If you want to play this game, honey, we can.
I can coerce you, if that's what you want.
I'm sure I could find something dangerous around here to keep you from misbehaving. And, if it comes down to it, I’ll happily throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here. "
My heartbeat pounds against my chest, threatening to burst out.
Sitting at my barstool in nothing but his underwear, all his tattoos are on display for the first time. The few I've seen glimpses of across his abs and chest, the one I've looked at a thousand times on his neck.
And against my will, my gaze falls further, painfully trying to ignore the dark line of hair sitting just above his— my mouth goes dry as I skip over that, down to a giant octopus-like monster in full color, right on his muscular thigh.
There's a horrible, painful buzzing in my fingers and toes, an energy that needs to be released that, unfortunately, echoes painfully between my thighs the longer I look at him.
Adrenaline, maybe? All the fear and fight I didn't need to use still feels trapped beneath the surface.
As much as I hate to admit it, Cormac can make the fear, the overwhelming terror, into something palatable. Enjoyable even. He makes being afraid a safe space to let myself go. He's the only reliable truth I know, even when he's unrecognizable.
And I fucking hate it.
A serial killer shouldn't be the only constant in my life.
A serial killer that has inserted himself into it time and time again.
Tears well in my eyes, but I can't bear to let them fall.
Anger is safer. Easier.
"I'm not going anywhere with you," I repeat. "I think I've been forced into enough of your seedy fucking life. It's taken everything from me."
"Really?" he taunts. "Everything?"
I nod, furious, "Starting with the privacy of my home. Then the only vice I've allowed myself for years. Just this morning, I lost my fucking job because of you," I can't stop my voice from cracking. "And now..."
"Now what?"
"Now, you and your fucking friend have not only proof of everything else bad I've done, but video evidence that I shot and killed someone to add to your collection of fucking blackmail and keep me under your control for the rest of my life."
His brows slightly furrow in confusion, but he doesn't argue or deny that he keeps blackmail on everyone he knows.
"You said it yourself," I pant, barely keeping my emotions in check, "This is extortion.
I've done everything you've asked of me, you've extorted all of it.
And this," I gesture to the spot on my wooden floor that's turned maroon in the dim light.
"Just solidifies all of it. So I'm done.
Turn me in. I'll probably get out of it since he attacked me in my own home.
I don't mind rebuilding my life from nothing.
I've had to before. But I'm done. Because if it doesn't end now, when does it?
If I agree to represent Balor? If I let you fuck me? "
A twisted, wicked laugh slips into the air between us, the sound sending a shiver up my spine.
"You keep using words like let and agree, Brigit," he taunts. "Neither of those words apply when it comes to us."
For the first time since we've met, I feel as if I'm meeting the moniker, Dark Death, and not the Cormac I've seen so far.
I don't know how to respond to this version of him, so far away from the warmth and playfulness I'm used to.
Even when he was holding weapons, brandishing them like an extension of himself rather than an object, that was nothing compared to this.
The dark, caustic taunting burrows under my skin, reminding me of who he really is and what he's capable of, as if the proof wasn't hidden under my couch right now.
Easing up from his chair, he stalks toward me, watching me with the eyes of a predator honing in on his target. I angle myself away from him, trying to keep something between us. One of my couches, a coffee table, anything.
It puts me at a major disadvantage to go on the defensive like this, but I can't think about anything other than creating distance between me and the monster trying to crawl out of Cormac's skin right now.
He laughs, slow and sardonic, his eyes dripping over my frame, "Don't run, Brig. You can pretend otherwise all you like, but you want me to catch you."
"No, I don't," I lie. As much as this Hyde version of him scares me, there's a part of me that's curious what it would be like to be caught by him. He would never hurt me. I know that, at least. But not knowing how far he would go is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.
His answering smile is downright feral, "I thought you knew better than to lie to me by now." His voice turns into a mocking plea, a playful pout pulling on his lips, "Come on, Bunny, let me catch you. I'll only bite a little bit."
I'm drowning in the sea of madness that is Cormac Fomori. His pupils have swallowed his irises altogether, and every movement is so precise, so meticulously silent that I can almost convince myself he's a hallucination and not a living, breathing man.
Another step back, and another of his towards me, shrinking the divide.
His eyes flick down to my feet, and his wicked smile grows. With every attempt at getting further from him, he only advances on me.
Before I even get around the newly rearranged living room, he's within arm's reach, his expression almost gloating at this victory, at another piece of my fight chipped away because, regardless of my thoughts on the matter, I can't make myself afraid of him enough to actually trigger some kind of fucking survival instinct.
Maybe it's his gorgeous face, maybe it's because I met him before he became this monster, maybe it even has something to do with the way my body responds to him, but my inability to be objective around him is going to end in disaster.
"Let's be clear," he grins, closing the gap, "If I wanted to use what I know to make you come work for Balor, I would."
Before I can formulate a response, he lashes out, unceremoniously shoving me onto my couch, pinning me to it with his warm, strong body, one hand roughly cradling my jaw and the other on the cushion beside my head.
A startled yelp slips from my mouth as the sudden motion of us landing on the couch makes it scrape along the wooden floor.
"And," he coos, spreading my legs roughly with his knee.
Leaning down and sinking his teeth into my neck just as his strong, tattooed thigh lands at the juncture of my legs, he pulls a mangled cry from my throat.
With a chuckle, he continues, "If I wanted to pin you—right here and now— and fuck you senseless, take everything from you and this delicious, decadent body, I would," he glances down between my legs where I'm only barely stopping myself from grinding down on his thigh, the little red tentacles pressing against my unbearably wet core.
"So why don't you?" All of my senses are filled with him and the high of surviving a murder attempt, and it's making me stupid.
That's the only explanation for the reckless decision to call his bluff.
I can feel the evidence of how badly he wants me pressing against my hip.
But no matter how wicked his tastes run, no matter the terrible things he's done, there are some lines he would never cross.
His brows dart up in challenge, grinding his hard length against me, his thigh rubbing my barely covered pussy, "Is that what you need, Brigit? You need me to hold you down, rip your panties off, and force you to take this cock?"
"No," I bite, his grip on my jaw muffling everything I say. Between my heart racing, the undeniable ache between my thighs, and the drive to press our bodies together, I can't even think up anything else to say in protest.
"No?" he leans down to run his tongue along the wildly pumping pulse on my neck. "Is that the only way my poor little bunny can enjoy it? If we keep pretending, just a little bit longer, that I would have to make you spread those pretty legs and come screaming wrapped around me?"
He moves his hand from my face, letting his fingers dance along the front of my throat, drifting lower, over the curve of my chest, lower still.
I'm completely frozen, my eyes fluttering from the barely there sensation.
"Oh, look at that," he taunts, snapping my thong against my hip. "You're fucking drenched, Brigit. You do need this, huh?”
My brows furrow, the mocking in his tone and the insistent pressure of his thigh right against my cunt making me hot all over.
His teeth sink into my neck again, and I cry out, my hips moving against him, finally finding some relief in the pressure his muscled leg provides.
"There it is," he groans. “Come on, honey, do it again. Rub that pussy against me."
I try not to. Try to think and not fall prey to Cormac's expert touch and the desire I've been fruitlessly fighting for weeks.
But it fucking aches not to.