six -Brynn- #3
As badly as I wish to shut out the pain that’s sneaking into my heart right now, the only thing I can do is embrace it, along with everything else.
I can feel his nostrils flare with rage as he drives deeper, my back hitting the stairs more than a couple of times, until he lifts me completely and presses me against the wall, our lips still together.
I can’t tell if it’s been a few minutes or inexplicably longer, but I come again, and by now I’m fully leaning against him just to exist.
Just when I know I can’t take another spasm, I feel his hot release shooting deep inside me.
I don’t know what to do now. Hell, I don’t even know how to walk anymore.
I definitely have no idea how I’m gonna get down from between the wall and him, especially since my leg hurts like fucking hell.
I just wanna curl up on the floor and sleep, then wake up and start all over again.
Yeah, I’m that fucked up, even though I know the fantasy has to end somewhere, and real life has to replace it.
Still holding me against the wall with one hand, Ares zips up, then, as if everything that happened earlier cost him no effort, he scoops a hand beneath my legs and lifts me in his arms.
I’m not gonna thank him, but I probably should, because I was pretty embarrassed at the thought of having to crawl wherever the hell I was going.
He starts walking, and I immediately realize it’s not in the direction I would’ve liked. He starts walking back to the room where I spent the last two weeks. The room with one fucking bed, where he obviously doesn’t have room to spend the night.
Even if I might be resigned to the idea that we won’t share a bed—it’s not something I’d allow myself to want anyway—I’m not resigned to having to spend another two weeks in here before seeing him or another person except that damn nurse.
I’m too tired to fight him on it now, though.
But not too tired to say something that will sting just as much as me being locked up in here.
“This won’t ever happen again,” I mutter, and for some fucking dumb reason, my lips are trembling as I say it.
I don’t want him to sense weakness, but at this point, I’m having a pretty hard time hiding it.
“Funny—you didn’t think that a few minutes ago,” he murmurs, voice rough, “when I was deep inside you. But you’re right. It won’t happen again. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve my mercy, my touch, or my—” He stops himself abruptly, a quiet hiss slipping through his teeth.
The fire in my veins is rising fast, and I can’t accept this coming from him.
“I…. I don’t deserve… but what does a killer deserve, Ares?
What does the monster who killed the only man I ever loved deserve?
” My words are bitter, filled with anger, and meant to strike where it hurts.
It’s not in his feelings for me—because I suspect he has none.
It’s in pride. And by the shift on his face, my words hit their target.
For some reason, I expect him to recover the next second, brush it off like nothing happened, then regain his composure.
Instead I see something different rising on his face.
It’s not anger—it’s disappointment. “Is this what it's all about? Me killing your boyfriend? Is that why you came after me? Why you jumped into my bed? Why you let me into the darkest part of your life?”
My breath stalls for a second. I know that letting him in on what happened at the asylum had nothing to do with Elias and everything to do with some dormant need to belong to someone, maybe even my feelings for him.
I didn’t tell him about my past to gain his trust. I did it because he unwillingly gained mine.
That makes everything else so much more painful.
Too bad my brain still can’t fully process the message: I need to get him out of my mind, not deeper into it.
“Justice for Elias is the only thing that makes sense to me anymore.” I snarl, unwilling to enter any kind of debate where I’d have to explain myself.
In reality, I don’t have any explanation for what the fuck brought us here.
He’s right, I was supposed to kill him, not jump into his bed, into his life, and worse, allow him into mine.
“Elias,” he repeats, and his name in Ares’ mouth seems wrong.
He doesn’t deserve to say his name, and right now, I’d cut out his tongue just to make sure he never repeats it again.
But then, his hazel eyes narrow for a second, like he’s a damn computer running through an internal database.
His stance straightens as he turns his back on me and walks toward the door.
“I am a god.” His hand pauses on the handle.
“I remember the faces and names of everyone I’ve ever killed.
So, unless you’re talking about Elias Abrahams in 1998—a known sex offender selected as a player after repetitively molesting his sons—your whole little charade was for nothing. ”
I don’t have time to answer or even process the information properly before he disappears down the hallway, leaving behind a trail of unanswered questions and a seed of regret to settle deep within my chest.