Sixteen Kassen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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WE SLEPT IN DIFFERENT rooms.
Well, she slept (at least, I assumed she slept). I didn’t.
Now that my brain wasn’t as fractured with a concussion, I found it impossible to sleep anywhere but the dormitory.
I was done being unconscious in the library—bed of blankets or not.
I craved the ability to close and lock a door.
I grew more and more frustrated as midnight ticked over to three a.m. and dawn slowly brought light back into the world.
I didn’t know where she’d gone after leaving me in the kitchen. I hadn’t tried to find her. Partly because my head still hurt like a motherfucker, and mostly because I had a feeling if I pressed her tonight, she’d end up fulfilling the key task for her freedom.
She’d slaughter me with her pasta bowl or murder me with her fork.
I winced all over again at the stark coldness in her eyes. The anger burning in her every extremity. The absolute betrayal and hatred on her beautiful face.
Fuck, it’d hurt.
I hadn’t expected that to affect me. I hadn’t thought I was capable of actually being concerned about the welfare of others. Not now. Not since I’d used up every drop of compassion inside me.
But seeing her loathing me? Feeling her pull away?
Watching the door into her heart being slammed firmly in my face had fucking butchered me.
I hadn’t realized until that moment just how much I’d grown accustomed to her kindness.
How she’d given me something of herself even while I’d been a bastard to her.
Even when I’d trapped her, smashed her possessions, and made her get on her knees, there’d always been a piece of her that welcomed me.
A piece she wasn’t even aware of possessing. A piece that was so goddamn strong, it withstood my violence, my cruelness, my every twisted desire all because she could see past the mask I’d worn so long. A mask I didn’t even know how to remove anymore. A mask that had turned me into one of them.
A self-fulfilling prophecy of the tormented becoming the tormentor. I felt within my right. Fully vindicated to do whatever I damn well pleased because I’d earned it.
I know I have.
I’d sacrificed everything, for Christ’s sake.
So why the hell did I churn with sickening guilt?
Because, unlike you, she hasn’t switched off her empathy.
She’d given me understanding even while granting me forced pleasure. She’d bestowed absolution even as I commanded her against her will.
She’d run from me.
She’d cared for me.
She’d turned me inside out and upside fucking down, and I didn’t know how to cope in this new world I’d woken in.
I can’t do this. Any of it.
I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t stomach the thought of the empty rooms above me whispering with black history and horror. I couldn’t sleep in a valley where there was no one to talk to. No one there to make me feel. Make me human.
But I also couldn’t control the contradicting emotions drowning me.
A part of me wanted her to hate me. It’d lusted for that moment since I’d strangled her the first time.
I wanted to be feared and detested. If she looked at me like the scum I was, then I had an excuse to be exactly what she thought of me.
I could be explicit and sadistic. I could happily embrace depravity and vengeance because, maybe, hopefully, if I took out my revenge on her, maybe it would help me heal.
Maybe her screams could replace mine. Perhaps her pain could erase every agony I’d endured.
I grew hard.
My head pounded.
My balance went off kilter.
Fuck.
I bent over in Storymaker’s throne where I’d sat all night, watching clouds obliterate stars and the rising sun annihilate the moon.
My stomach threatened to evict the creamy carb-rich dinner she’d brought from a world I was no longer a part of. Tiredness slammed into me.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t sleep in an unprotected room in this monstrous mansion. My concussion didn’t give a damn.
Heavy haze crushed me.
I toppled forward.
Ah, shit.
I was out cold before I even hit the carpet.
* * * * *
I woke to the faintest flutter around my stomach.
Barely-there caresses, soft teases, and erotic promises traced my muscles. I groaned. I was hard and needed relief. My balls were tight and heavy. My cock pulsed with the desire to release.
My hips drove into something unforgiving, seeking the warmth of the girl I’d been dreaming about. A perfect companion who always knew just what I needed and was always wet for me.
I thrust.
I winced.
My eyes shot open as common sense revealed I’d just dry-humped the library’s carpet.
Goddammit.
The room contorted and danced as my head swam. How much longer would I be at the mercy of whatever happened to my brain? Was Gemma right that I’d suffered a serious mental injury? Had I woken today as someone else, or had I slept soundly until—
Wait, what’s the time?
My eyes strayed to the clock by the bookshelves. A paua shell-carved extravaganza that didn’t fit with the rest of the smoky, masculine vibe of the reading den.
Holy shit, two p.m.?
I’d slept face-first on the carpet for eight hours?
My hips pulsed with another painful urge to climax. I flinched and fisted my hands. The urge to come became almost unbearable. A means to an end. A way to get rid of the tight desire between my legs and wake up properly.
Stop it.
Ignore it.
My body had other ideas. A crest of agonizing lust made my back arch.
This was yet another problem caused by that trespasser of mine. Until she’d come along, whenever my body had demanded an orgasm, I’d been able to ignore it. My hands hadn’t shook as I forbid them to touch myself. My heart didn’t race trying to override my unanimous decision not to self-pleasure.
I was happy not to touch myself. Relieved even.
But thanks to her?
All I could think about was her welcome, her wetness, the way we fit so perfectly together.
Ah, Christ.
My cock rippled with pre-cum, creating a damp patch on my boxer briefs.
Seemed just thinking about her had the power to make my body disobey.
My teeth ground to dust as I squeezed my eyes closed and focused on the constant sickness inside me instead of the overheated lust in my blood.
My head still pounded. My eyes still felt too big for their sockets. My ears still rang with concussed bees.
Focus on getting strong again. Sex has to wait.
But...sex with her. Sex with someone who actually gave me pleasure instead of pain.
I wanted that.
I wanted to touch her, hold her, kiss her—
Another ripple up my cock. Another damp spot.
Ah, stop.
The flutter around my stomach came again, wrenching me upright.
I grabbed my head, sinking all ten fingers around my skull as pokers of pain stabbed from all directions. It took a horrifyingly long time before the library stopped spinning, and I trusted my stomach not to evict the pasta from last night before opening my eyes again.
The flutter returned around my belly—a sensation of something wriggling on a fishing line.
You’re the spider now. And she’s the fly.
Gemma.
She was moving around. Wherever she was, we were bound, and that knowledge sent a dark thrill through me. I was alive to feel her. I’d left that decision in her dangerous hands, wondering if she’d do what others had done.
However, even in her rage last night, she hadn’t come to harm me in my sleep.
And really, I had to face the facts—the fact I was alive was a blessing in itself.
After her mood last night, I honestly hadn’t known what she’d choose.
She’d certainly looked pissed off enough to do me serious bodily harm if it ensured her freedom.
Sweat ran down my temples as I looked down at the belt around my waist. The chain pooled onto the floor, then snaked its way out to the door to wherever she was.
Two p.m. in the afternoon and she still hadn’t come to find me.
I could feel her.
Moving around.
Existing in my home.
But I couldn’t see her, and that was almost as bad as not knowing what drawers she was poking through or what she’d been doing while I’d been imitating a useless corpse.
Climbing slowly to my feet, I wobbled a bit before grabbing a handful of Parable and moving forward.
Unsteadily, I made my way out of the library, following the links, swallowing hard as my stomach decided to tangle with hunger at seeing her and hope that she hadn’t been snooping into things she shouldn’t see.
No sound hinted at what she was doing, and I held my breath as I continued tracking the path of the chain, through the foyer, past the stairs, following a path leading through the games room all the way to the rear conservatory.
And there she was.
Sitting cross-legged on a rattan peacock chair, nestled between two palm trees with the algae-stained water of an abandoned fishpond beneath the glass floor.
In her hands rested a magazine that one of Fable’s guests would’ve brought.
Trivia and gossip from a society I’d been stolen from.
It didn’t seem to bother her that it was over a decade old.
She studied the glossy photos of women on the arms of men and overly white fake smiles from movie stars as if it was an almanac on escaping.
She didn’t look up.
I cleared my throat.
She didn’t acknowledge me.
I coughed pointedly.
Her eyes stayed locked on the magazine.
“The silent treatment will get old real fast around here, you know,” I muttered, entering the stagnantly humid conservatory and leaning nonchalantly against the glass wall.
I leaned to give an air of “I don’t care,” but I also used the stable surface to catch my breath and train my knees into being trustworthy instead of trembly.