Chapter 10 #2
I take her violently. Over and over again for an hour until I'm panting, spent, and practically screaming out my release when I pump her pink pussy full of my cum. I thrust in, and in, and in, trying to stop myself but failing, even after I’ve blown my load inside of her. I’m still rock-hard craving more.
I thrust into her a few more times, loving the feeling of fucking my cum into her. Marking her from the inside as I have on the outside with palms that I’m sure have left bruises.
It’s too bad I fucked her until she passed out.
With the willpower of a saint, I pull out of her exhausted body, feeling a tightness in my chest at how spent she looks underneath me. Passed out, gone to this world from a viscous series of punishing orgasms.
I should have been gentler. I could have been kinder. But I’ll never be that man for her. I can’t be.
I could destroy her again, but instead, I find my body dragging itself to the bathroom to run her a bath.
The water rises in the deep porcelain tub, steam curling into the air, thick and humid. I test it with my fingers, hot, but not unbearable. Perfect.
I shouldn’t even be doing this. I should’ve let her figure it out herself. She’s not a child. The attitude she carries shows she’s clearly capable of running her own bath, but she looks so thoroughly fucked as she drifts off onto the bed that I can’t help myself.
And yet, here I am.
I shake off the water and straighten, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows.
From the bedroom, Martine shifts on the bed, her breathing slow and uneven. She’s barely keeping herself together. I saw it the second she came all over my cock in our final round, the weight pressing down on her, the exhaustion in her limbs. Surrender is as freeing as it is a cage.
And now, she’s given up fighting it, slumped against the pillows, half-falling apart from the blubbering mess she was just moments ago as her pussy milked me.
I already feel my dick start to stir, and find it hard to convince myself not to take her again.
But through the slight flutter of her breath and the exhausted look on her face, I find it in myself to let her rest.
I reach forward and pull her panties from her mouth, and she moans out at the reprieve.
She’s not going to make it to the bath on her own.
I click my tongue, irritated. Instead of leaving her, I cross the room, my hands already moving before my mind catches up.
I stroke her face softly and then roll her over. Releasing her from the tie around her arms, I rub some life into them before rolling her back over again.
“Alright,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Up.”
Her eyes open slightly, still gazing at me with that glossy, incredibly lost look.
She doesn’t move, but she also doesn’t resist when I slip my arms under her, one behind her shoulders, the other beneath her legs.
She’s lighter than she looks, her body folding into mine as I lift her.
Her head lolls against my chest, and something sharp twists in my ribs when I see the mess of both of our cum and a bit of her blood between her thighs, smeared on her legs.
I ignore it.
She lets out a soft breath, barely conscious, but it brushes against my neck, and I grit my teeth.
I don’t like how my chest warms with knowing that she’s fully surrendered to me tonight. I’m no fool, and am aware it’s more than likely a fleeting submission. But I’ll wear her down. The chase is what keeps me hungry.
I lower her slowly, the heat of the water licking at my skin as I ease her in. She inhales sharply when the water reaches her waist, her hands gripping my wrists. But she doesn’t pull away.
For a second, my hands linger beneath her, keeping her steady. Then I force myself to let go.
I stand, brushing the jasmine-scented bubbles from the bubble bath and warm water off my forearms, scowling down at her. “Try not to drown.”
She blinks up at me, something unreadable in her expression. Then, finally, she speaks, soft, amused, tired.
“Thank you, Hayden.”
I scoff, already turning away.
But I don’t leave. Not yet.
I linger in the doorway, my gaze fixed silently on her as she sinks deeper into the steaming water, releasing a quiet sigh of surrender.
Her eyes close, her muscles visibly relax, and for a brief moment, I allow myself the selfish pleasure of watching her vulnerability, letting the water envelop and claim her.
Finally, I pull myself away, retreating to the solitude of my study. The leather of the wingback chair creaks beneath me, the familiar silence wrapping around me like armor.
It’s intoxicating, having her. Something I’ve obsessed over for years, now real, within reach, in my hands. Mine to command, to mold, to destroy if I choose to.
That was the plan, wasn’t it?
Ruin her. Make her pay for what she does to me, for the way she gets under my skin, scrambles my judgment, makes me forget who I am.
But now, with her finally beneath me, branded by my touch and no one else’s…I’m not so sure.
Because I don’t want to let her go. Not anymore.
That want, need, to control her is bleeding into something else. Something dangerous, that looks too much like keeping her.
But peace never lasts.
Just after midnight, the house phone rings sharply. One chime, nothing more.
That's all it ever takes—one ring, a summons impossible to ignore.
A single ring signifies an assignment, an unspoken order that demands immediate obedience.
It infuriates the Brotherhood that I refuse to carry a pager, stubbornly insisting on this outdated, clandestine ritual.
Let them be angry; I prefer the simplicity of a single call, a direct command.
I rise steadily, deliberately, suppressing the irritation that coils in my gut. Even here, I can’t escape them, not for a single damned night.
By the time I reach my room, my suit is already meticulously laid out on the bed, waiting for me.
My staff is ever vigilant, always several steps ahead, anticipating every demand.
The suit is black, immaculate, and perfectly tailored.
It is sharp and crisp, a flawless reflection of the man they expect me to be.
Sliding into the fabric, straightening cuffs and collar, I feel the weight of expectation settle over me, familiar yet suffocating. With one last adjustment, I step forward, prepared once again to face whatever midnight command awaits me.
I finish dressing in the dark, muscle memory guiding me through the motions.
The silver cufflinks snap into place, their weight familiar and grounding.
The ring on my finger is colder than it was an hour ago.
I twist it once, then let my hands fall to my sides.
I grab my knife and slide it into the back of my waistband.
Most Bonesmen carry a gun, but I prefer a knife that can slice through bones like butter.
Having fenced my whole life, I feel most comfortable around blades to guns.
Before I go, without even thinking, I check on Martine.
The door to her room is cracked open. A sliver of warm light from the hallway stretches across the floorboards. I step inside without a sound.
She’s asleep, her breath slow and steady, her body curled beneath the sheets, tiny against the vastness of the bed. The curve of her bare shoulder catches the dim glow of the moon filtering through the window—her hair fans across the pillow.
For a moment, I just watch.
She looks peaceful. Soft. I want to bite into her and disrupt her from her rest. Make her jolt up so I can be fascinated by the fear on her face. It’s so sexy when she’s terrified of me.
I’m still going to make her life hell, but tonight I’ll let her rest. She was a good girl after all.
She looks the way people should be in sleep. Soft, full of trust in her surroundings. She doesn’t know I’m here, and she doesn’t know where I’m going, and yet she rests like she’s safe. Martine is naive—brave, but naive.
I take a step closer, my hand already lifting, hovering just above her forehead. I could brush the strands of hair away. I could press my lips to her skin, just for a second.
But I don’t.
Instead, I think of the ways I can ruin her life, just to have control over it, because that’s all that matters anyway.
Right?
Right.
I pull back, curling my fingers into a fist.
Then I slam the door shut.
The sound shatters the silence, a deliberate violence in the quiet of the house, not caring if it wakes her. I hope it does. If I’m not allowed peace, then she shouldn’t be allowed it either.
Two sides of the same coin.
Outside, the air is cold against my skin, but I welcome it. The car is waiting at the edge of the drive, headlights dim. I slide into the back seat without a word and light a cigarette.
The driver pulls away.
It’s going to be a long fucking night.
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
I wake with a jolt, realizing quickly I’m in the comfort of my bed, residual heat still clinging to my skin. My breath catches, disoriented, my fingers gripping the sheets as my mind scrambles to piece together where I am, how I got here.
The bath. Hayden. Hayden and I. Hayden inside me. God, I'm still aching from it.
Glancing down under the sheets, I notice the blossoming bruises on my thighs, deep imprints from his unyielding grip.
Higher up, dangerously close to my most sensitive skin, lies a stark, unmistakable bite mark.
My pulse quickens, a mixture of excitement and unease flooding my chest. I bite my lip, forcing down the shiver that threatens to overcome me.
Pressing a trembling hand to my forehead, I inhale sharply, willing myself to steady my emotions.
I must have drifted off, my body too spent, too thoroughly exhausted from him, to resist the pull of sleep.
That realization unsettles me deeply, not just that I allowed myself to slip into vulnerability, but that it was Hayden who put me here.