Chapter 22 #2
I don’t know how to live in the light. Darkness is all I’ve ever known, and Thora is supposed to die there because of me before I return to the only life that has ever made sense.
Except now, the darkness no longer feels like home.
I capture her hand and bring it to my mouth, kissing her knuckles before following the delicate line of her wrist to her shoulder, then her neck. A soft sigh leaves her as her fingers close around my nape and draw me nearer, feeding the need consuming me.
My cock slides through her wetness as I roll my hips, tormenting us both. A broken moan spills from her while her nails rake down my back, leaving the only scars I would ever beg for.
She presses against my chest until I fall onto my back, then rises above me, staring down at me with a hunger in her eyes. I reach for her, trailing my knuckles along her jaw as she closes her fingers around my cock and guides the crown inside.
Her breath brushes my lips when she leans over me, near enough that I could kiss her right now.
Then she sinks lower, taking more of me.
The moment her cunt clenches around me, a guttural sound tears from my throat.
I brace her nape and press my forehead to hers as I drive fully inside, drawing a sharp cry from her.
“Oh God, yes. Just like that.”
She rocks above me, riding my cock and taking whatever she wants while holding my stare, daring me to look anywhere else.
My palm closes over her breast; the instant my thumb passes across her nipple, she arches with a broken gasp that makes me do it again.
I slip my other hand between her thighs and stroke her clit in time with each roll of her hips.
Her cunt grips me harder, dragging a rough grunt from my chest.
She quickens her pace, but it still isn’t enough. I flip her onto her back, hook her legs over my shoulders, and plunge into her until there’s nowhere left for me to go.
“Oh fuck, that feels good.” Her fingers clamp around my bicep, my muscles flexing beneath them. “Harder, please.”
“Ya dam tebe vso, detka.” I’ll give you everything, baby.
I answer by pounding into her with enough force to shake the bed. Part of me wants to drag this out, but the rest needs it to end because it’s too damn much. Those eyes. The tenderness of her touch and the dangerous realization that I’m beginning to need her.
My fingers return to her clit, determined to take her with me. Her spine curves away from the mattress, and the tremors running through her tell me she’s close. I increase the pressure, and her eyes roll back as she cries out, squirting around my cock.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
I keep pistoning through her release, chasing my own while her moans grow louder. Her cunt continues pulsing around me, greedy for more. Two fingers press against her clit again, rubbing tight circles until her fists twist in the sheets and another plea breaks from her parted lips.
“Oh God, Anton, don’t stop.”
“Squirt for me again.”
I grip her throat as I fuck her rougher, watching her lose herself. Her body locks, then shatters, soaking the bed as a scream tears from her.
“Vso moyo,” I growl. Everything’s mine.
One final thrust sends me over the edge. I bury myself inside her and come with a desperate grunt, holding her beneath me while the question I’ve been avoiding crashes through my mind.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with her now?
THORA
His arm remains wrapped around me long after we’re done, my cheek resting against the warmth of his chest while his fingers drift lazily along my spine. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the gentle patter of rain against the windows.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Anton this relaxed.
Moving carefully, I trace a scar stretching across one of his pecs.
There are so many. Some are thin and faded, while others are thicker and misshapen, their edges rough under my fingertips, as though whatever caused them tore through him so badly his skin never healed properly.
They continue over his shoulders and across his torso, one mark overlapping another.
Who did this to him? And why? All I can think about is how much it must have hurt and how alone he must have been while it happened.
I know a little about his family. How his mom died when he was young, how cruel his father was to all of them.
Pain gathers in my chest. This poor man and what he must’ve gone through. I want to know what happened to him, to understand the pain he still carries and find some way to ease it. I can’t undo what was done to that little boy, but maybe if he lets me get close enough, I can help the man he became.
My fingertips pass over another scar. “How did you get these?”
I’m afraid the question will ruin this moment, but I can’t keep it inside any longer.
His hand stills against my back, and regret hits me immediately. I’ve crossed a line.
Then his fingertips begin drifting up again, tracing circles over my skin while the silence stretches until I’m certain he won’t answer.
“Dogs,” he says at last.
I lift my head from his chest. “Dogs? What do you mean?”
These scars couldn’t have come from one animal. They look as though he was trapped with a pack of them and left to survive.
Please don’t let that be what happened.
His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. “My father used to make me fight them when I was a kid.”
My brain refuses to put the words together in that order. Refuses to picture Anton as a child in the same sentence as something that cruel.
“What?” Tears sting my eyes.
“It was either them or me.” He sounds almost absent, as though part of him has gone back there. “He would lock me in a room with one and refuse to open the door until I was the only one still breathing. He did it every week. I killed so many dogs, I eventually stopped counting.”
Anton…
A painful knot swells in my throat. I’m close to bursting into tears. But I can’t let him see me cry.
“They weren’t small dogs,” he continues, his fingertips still traveling along my back. “They were vicious and trained to kill.” A humorless breath leaves him. “Angrier than my father, even. But I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t afraid of anything.”
My chest burns, tears brimming as I picture him small, fighting off dogs tearing into his flesh.
Oh God.
“They stood no chance against me. I couldn’t let them win.” His eyes seem almost angry, daring me to hate him.
But I don’t see a killer. I see a little boy who survived what no child should ever have been forced to endure, and the heartbreak nearly kills me.
“How old were you?”
I fear the answer.
“It started when I was nine.” His thumb brushes the top of my hand. “Lasted years.”
Nine?
More emotions clog up my throat, so fast I choke on them.
I want to hold him. Tell him none of that should’ve happened to him. But I’m afraid any sign of pity will make him retreat. And after everything he’s survived, who can blame him?
“I’m sorry.” It’s the only thing I can manage around the lump in my throat.
A shadow crosses his face, so quick I almost miss it.
“I need to…” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “I need to run to the bathroom for a minute.”
His brows pull in. “Okay.”
I climb out of bed, grab the shirt I left on the floor, and tug it over my head before hurrying into the bathroom. The second the door shuts, I press my back against it and cover my mouth as a sob spills out.
All I can see is a child desperate for affection, desperate for someone to protect him. Instead, he was given cruelty.
And suddenly, I understand why he got Volchok. Maybe it was his way of making peace with a past that was never his fault to begin with. Maybe taking care of that dog is the closest thing to forgiveness Anton has ever allowed himself.