Chapter 15 #3
The house is dark, lit only by the faint spill of moonlight through the windows and the warm amber glow from a lamp the house staff left on downstairs as I instructed.
I don’t want her to be scared to walk around, knowing that the pill may increase her paranoia. I only need her to be afraid to leave.
I don’t turn on any more lights. The quiet is better in the dark. Everything stills. Just the steady pulse of night and the thrum beneath my skin as I move through the silence.
Upstairs, she’s sleeping. I didn’t need to check. I know.
Martine’s presence clings to the upper floor like perfume, green apples, delicate and cool, with something untouched at the center.
Not innocence, no. She wasn’t innocent. But she had that stillness to her—the kind you find in the middle of a glass lake.
You want to dive in, even though you know the water is colder than it looks.
I climb the stairs without rushing. Her room is upstairs at the end of the hall. My choice. Farthest from the estate entrances.
I reach it and pause. Hoping she’s still in my bed and not in here. But I know she is.
The door is cracked. Barely. Just enough for me to see the pale glow of her nightlight inside, something she’d never admit to needing, but I’ve noticed has always turned on before bed.
I know she fears me, but she’s relaxed in the house.
Leaving the door cracked nightly as a gesture of goodwill to the evening staff.
The first time I watched her sleep, two years ago, it was out of necessity. I had to understand her patterns, her tells, her rhythms. But somewhere between the second and third night, it had stopped being about understanding.
Now, it’s a habit. Compulsion.
I don’t like her in the guest room. I want her in my bed.
I push the door open, taking a deep breath of her scent that clings to the air.
The room is warm. A little too warm, probably, she tended to curl deep beneath the blankets regardless of the temperature. One foot always kicked free by morning.
She was like that. Half-in, half-out. Never fully settled.
I step over the window and crack it slightly, knowing to pull the pane down from the top to let a slight draft in. They didn’t open from the bottom like usual. The house is far too old for that.
My eyes find her instantly in her tangled mess of sheets.
Martine is curled on her side, one arm under the pillow, the other resting limply against the sheets.
Her hair spills out behind her, tangled enough to catch the light in strands of golden waves.
The strap of her silk nightdress slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing soft, naked skin that makes something tighten in my throat.
She breathes softly. Slow. No nightmares tonight, then.
I move closer.
Her scent hits me, and I inhale deeply—skin and shampoo, and the way her sheets held on to her longer than she realized. I prefer to smell her sweat when she’s scared, or how her hair holds the smell of the night when it’s misty and a bit too cold.
I sit on the edge of the bed without a sound.
Watching her.
She shifts slightly, brows twitching—a breath caught in her throat.
I reach out, slowly, and let my fingers hover just over her cheekbone. I don’t touch her, though. Not yet.
She has the kind of face that begs to be memorized. Not perfect, better. Real. Fragile in the dark but impossible to look away from. Her front teeth have a slight gap, and a faint silver scar above her upper lip is easily overlooked.
When she’s awake, her eyes are sharp and defensive. But asleep…asleep, she looks like mine.
I lean closer. My breath grazes her forehead as I lower my lips to it. I brush them against her skin. Soft. Barely there. Her skin is warm. It makes something warm inside of me that I can’t help but fight.
I linger—just a moment. I flex my blood-splattered hand at my side, trying to keep myself still. I don’t have time to fuck her the way I want to right now. I barely have time to be sitting here.
Instead of leaving, I sit back, watching.
Tomorrow, she’ll look at me with that resistance she wears that doesn’t fail to make me hard as stone. She’ll try not to flinch when I stand too close, as eager to be near me as she is to flee. She’ll try not to show how much she listens when I speak. Low and slow, like I’m teaching her a lesson.
So eager for my instruction, no matter how hard she fights it. As eager as I am to give it to her.
She shifts, and the emeralds at her throat glint against the moonlight streaming into the room.
Just a twitch beneath the blankets, but her hand slips free and grazes my thigh.
It’s nothing—barely a touch. But it jolts through me like a live current.
I stand. Too fast. The bed creaks beneath the sudden weight shift, and my heart kicks hard in my chest. I don’t move for a second, don’t breathe. She stirs, just a murmur, her lips parting slightly. But she doesn’t wake.
I clench my fists.
That shouldn’t have rattled me.
She’s asleep. Unconscious. Completely unaware. And yet I’m the one frozen, standing over her like some half-starved animal who can’t decide whether to protect her or devour her.
I take a step back. Then another.
Her scent is still all over me. Crisp apples. Warm skin. Faint, clean cotton. She smells like softness, like something breakable. I want it gone. I want it off my skin, out of my lungs, scrubbed from every corner of my brain.
Because it’s inside me now. This obsession.
It’s eating me alive. I don’t know if I should kill the obsession by killing her. This is why I can’t trust her; I don’t trust myself when I’m around it. It’s too much, and not enough all at once.
I drag a hand through my hair and lunge forward before I can stop myself, ripping the sheets from her warm body and slapping my hand over her mouth.
Her scream is muffled by my hand over her lips, tight and menacing.
I don’t want her to scream out too loud.
She struggles with desperation to shove me off of her, but I’m much, much bigger.
Her glazed and confused eyes can’t adjust to the dark, and I can see her frantically trying to see my face that’s just a few inches from her own.
“Shhh, darling, it’s okay,” I tut, clenching my palm roughly across her face.
I wrap my other hand in her hair and pull roughly, baring her throat for me.
Leaning down slowly with as much restraint as I can bear, I smell her, dragging my nose along her skin in sweet reverence, letting her scent fill my lungs while she wriggles beneath me.
Standing up with her in my arms, one hand still over her mouth and the other holding her by her waist against my chest in a vice-like grip, I grab her roughly and make my way to my bedroom. Our bedroom, and throw her on the bed.
She’s stopped thrashing as much now that she knows it’s me, but I can’t help that I prefer it when she’s overcome with fear—time to put it back in her.
“I’m going to remove my hand, and you’re going to behave,” I say darkly, amusing myself with the venom that’s climbed into my voice, full of hate and desire.
I’m sure she detests the request, which is always required of her.
Honestly, I prefer her undone, but the only way I can see that side of her is to try to control her reactions.
Control her until she can’t help but defy me.
I’m as confused as she is, but for reasons far different than hers. I can’t fucking stand it. She steals away my control.
Her brows furrow as she nods delicately against my hand, making me smirk. I remove my palm.
She seems confused. The pill makes her fight a bit awkward and slightly delayed. The muscle relaxers are doing their intended job. I don’t want her to fight tonight. And I want her body to heal. There is so much more I’d like to do to her.
I’m not trying to make her an addict, but I am perfectly curating the pills her body needs to recover. To be perfect for me. My perfect mess.
I want to fuck her up. I need her to be able to take it. The monster inside me can only hold back so much.
“Now you’re going to open your mouth and stick out your tongue,” I instruct coldly, watching her suck in a breath with that confused and glazed look that dances across her face.
“I will do no such thing.” She somehow manages to say tartly, even in her disoriented state—she slurs a bit.
I slap my palm back over her mouth, losing my patience. “Fine, if you can’t follow instructions, you lose your ability to have options”.
I reach down and rip her panties off, feeling the slight dampness of them as I fist them and bring them up to her face. My girl must have a thing for being surprised. I’ll tuck that knowledge away for later.
Her eyes light up in recognition of what I’m about to do, and she tries to clamp her lips shut. I slap her cheek lightly and then grip them between my fingers.
“Open up. I’m losing my patience, and what little restraint I have left,” I snarl, not in the mood for her attitude, though it’s got me hard as stone.
Deciding that my cock isn’t the smartest thing to put between her lips right now, I shove her panties in there instead. Gagging her.
I grip my belt buckle and catch the way her eyes go wide with fear and anticipation. Maybe if she listened, I wouldn’t have to take it this far.
Yeah, right. That’s a lie.
She tries to lift an arm to fight me, but the usual fire she has inside her is muted and dulled. Her attempt is awkward and slow, drool starting to pool at the edges of her mouth. I fucking love her like this, messy, just for me.
I crawl over her and straddle her chest, ignoring her protests as I pin her arms down with my knees. I’m careful, not enough weight to break her arms, but just enough to make sure she knows there’s no getting away.
Smiling smugly, I realize it’s time for me to get creative with my little darling. I finally loosen my belt and pull it out of the loops, her eyebrows shooting to the top of her head.