32. Chapter 32 #4
The table rocks beneath us, the metal legs scraping against the floor. Every sound is amplified in this chamber—the slap of skin, the ragged gasps for air, the wet, obscene noises of sex. If there was any dignity left to me, I just shed it without regret.
I strain against his grip on my wrists, not to escape but to test the boundaries of my confinement, to feel the security of being held in place by someone so powerful, to feel protected.
He drives into me harder, faster, each movement meant to push me closer to the edge.
By now, my body is hypersensitive, every nerve ending responding only to him.
I feel the orgasm building, a pressure at the base of my spine that threatens to detonate and leave me in pieces.
And just as he pounds into me, he raises my dress to the side and digs his fingers into two of my scars. “No one gets to mark your body, except me,” he says loud enough so that Ezekiel hears him. And the half man, growls in anger, while I can only moan in pleasure.
I open my mouth, and the sound that comes out doesn’t belong to any language. It’s a howl, a scream, a death knell for the person I used to be and a birth cry for the thing I am becoming. I scream Ares’ name, not out of loyalty but out of necessity, because nothing else will do. Nothing but him.
Ezekiel’s monitors go from frantic to panicked. Alarms blare as his vitals spike to levels that would kill a normal man. His eyes are wild now, and for the first time, I see something like fear.
Ares keeps going, nothing stopping him. His hand wraps around my throat just tight enough to make the world narrow to a tunnel. My vision blurs at the edges, the room spinning, but I return to get eye contact with the man who made me what I am.
He releases my wrists to grip my hips, angling me higher, driving deeper. My freed hands immediately move to his shoulders, nails digging through his shirt into the muscled flesh beneath. He hisses in pleasure and pain, retaliating by snapping his hips harder against mine.
“Such a good little curse,” he growls, watching my face contort with pleasure.
My body responds to his praise, clenching around him, drawing him deeper, like it can’t get enough of him. The pressure builds inside me, a gathering storm of sensation centered where our bodies join. Ares rhythm grows more impossible, less controlled, as his own release approaches.
“Come for me,” he demands, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves above where he enters me.
“Let him see what only I can give you.” The command, along with the pressure of his thumb, pushes me over the edge.
My back bows, head thrown back as pleasure crashes through me in merciless waves.
I cry out Ares’ name, the sound torn from my throat like a prayer or a curse.
My entire being contracts around Ares, all of me drawn to everything this man is.
He follows immediately after, his hips slamming against mine one final time as he empties himself inside me. His groan is animalistic, possessive, a sound of triumph directed as much at Ezekiel as it is just pure pleasure.
And when it’s over, when I almost collapse against the cold metal table, I see Ezekiel’s head loll to one side, his pupils dilating as the alarms reach a crescendo. For a moment, I think he’s dead.
Ares withdraws, helping me sit up on unsteady legs. I adjust my clothing with trembling fingers, suddenly too aware again of our surroundings. Of how fucked up we really are and how little I care.
As I slide off the table, my legs still weak from the orgasm, a raspy sound emerges from Ezekiel’s direction.
I guess he’s not dead. Pity, I think I would have liked him dying over me having sex with another man.
But it seems that’s exactly what he’s asking for. “Kill… me… please.”
The plea sounds pathetic, even desperate, so different from the sadistic laughter I used to hear every time he had me for himself.
But he looks at me no longer with hatred, but with something else.
Something worse. Hope. Hope that I might be merciful enough to end his suffering after I’ve destroyed him completely.
But I’ve never considered myself as someone good.
I lean close and stare at him for a second, looking at him one last time. “No,” I whisper, slow, definitive. Then I pull back to see the hope draining away, replaced by understanding that this hell will continue.
“You had me for two years. So the good doctor will keep you alive for exactly that long,” I decide, being judge and executioner of the man who brought me so much pain.
Ares’ hand finds mine and we start walking toward the doorway.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to this time.
He won’t come to haunt my nightmares again because he’s still alive.
I’ll be the one haunting his. Something inside me has just settled into place, a piece of my past finding its home in the puzzle of who I’ve become.
Justice doesn’t always wear a pretty face. Sometimes it’s just monsters destroying monsters, and vengeance is the only closure we get.