53. Vasilisa
Chapter 53
Vasilisa
I don’t know why I’m running, but I’m running.
I went down to the kitchen got my snack cake, heard some noise from downstairs and thought it was Santo. So I went to the basement.
It was not Santo.
That monstrous thing, covered in blood was Scythe. Santo told me he didn’t want me around Scythe.
So I ran.
I know Santo wouldn’t hurt me. Even if he’s in some kind of fugue state, even if he’s lost in this violent, fractured version of himself—he wouldn’t hurt me.
But my feet won’t stop moving and my body won’t stop shaking.
This is too much trauma for one person, right?
I should be logical about this. I was attacked earlier today and now Santo is hurting the person who hurt me.
No. Scythe is killing the person who hurt me.
Santo hurts bad guys. But that person isn’t just any bad guy. That person is Jude. My ex-boyfriend. Someone I knew.
Until he punched me in the face.
My brain can’t rationalize it. So I run.
I slam my finger against the elevator button so hard I think it won’t register, but it does. The doors glide open. I scramble inside, frantically jabbing the button to my room. My heart pounds as the doors start to close—
But just before they shut, Scythe steps in.
I scream, startled, as he looms inches away, his presence overwhelming.
I didn’t think he’d follow.
I didn’t think he’d dare.
But here he is, slipping into the confined space, the scent of blood and vanilla clinging to him like a warning.
The silence is suffocating. The only sound is the low hum of the elevator.
His dark eyes pin me in place. Scythe steps closer. I shrink back instinctively, my spine pressing into the cold metal wall. He doesn’t stop until he’s caged me in, his body an inescapable force. His head dips low and he breathes me in.
The sound is deep and drawn out, like he’s savoring me.
“Vasilisa,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl, his breath warm against my ear.
He nuzzles into me, his face brushing against mine. I want to recoil—to pull away from the sting of his touch on my bruised cheek, from the blood smearing onto my skin.
But I freeze.
Then his lips press to the pulse at my throat, and he stills.
“Breathe,” he commands, his voice like steel, pinning me in place.
I obey. A shaky breath rattles through my chest just as the elevator doors slide open into our bedroom closet.
Now.
I duck out from under his arms and dart into the closet, rushing toward the bedroom.
But he’s faster.
He catches me in an instant, scooping me up and pushing me against the bedroom wall.
Pinned.
A startled gasp escapes me as his strength holds me captive. My legs instinctively wrap around him, trying to anchor myself.
He grunts. A low, primal growl rumbles from deep in his chest as his lips claim my neck, each heated kiss sending a shiver through me.
His hands move with urgency, gripping the fabric of my shirt.
A sharp rip splits the air.
I bite down hard on my lip, trying to swallow a scream, but a shaky gasp betrays me.
His eyes flick to mine.
And I see it. The void.
His pupils have swallowed his irises, leaving behind nothing but a feral hunger that sends ice-cold fear down my spine. There isn’t even a little bit of Santo here.
This is pure Scythe.
His handsome face, smeared with blood, is a stark contrast to the savagery in his expression. His tattered, blood-soaked shirt clings to his frame. His hands, painted crimson, leave streaks across my skin.
His mouth is relentless, kissing, biting, licking, claiming me with a sharp carnal intensity. I gasp, trying to stifle a cry, but it breaks free when his teeth sink into my shoulder.
He freezes.
His eyes snap to mine, and for a fleeting second, the wildness falters. Something flickers there. A shadow of something human. Something like fear.
Like guilt.
As if my reaction, my pain, has betrayed him. Abruptly, he lets go.
I drop to the ground, stumbling as I struggle to catch my breath
I glance down at my torn shirt and blood-stained shorts, the crimson smearing across my chest from his clothes and hands. The metallic, sickly smell lingers in the air. My skin crawls with the evidence of what just happened, but when I look up at him, I see it, the lost, confused look in his eyes. It’s as if he’s been betrayed, not by me, but by himself. He backs away, his movements slow, hesitant, like a predator suddenly unsure of its instincts. That wildness is still there, but now it’s tangled with something else.
Confusion, pain, and maybe even regret.
My breathing steadies as I force myself to take in the scene, to focus. The smell of blood clings to me, suffocating, but the sight of him, lost, almost broken, pulls me back from my own panic. He looks at me like he’s waiting for rejection, bracing for it, as though he’s sure I’ll run.
I take a tentative step forward, ignoring the way my legs tremble beneath me. His eyes track my every move, his shoulders tensing as if preparing for me to strike or turn away.
But I don’t.
Instead, I reach out, my fingers brushing against his blood-smeared cheek. His breath hitches, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he leans into my touch, his eyes closing as if he’s grounding himself in it, desperate for something real to hold onto.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Santo…”
But he doesn’t respond. Scythe still lingers in the way his body remains coiled, the predator barely beneath the surface. Yet in this moment, I see both of them—the man and the monster—and I refuse to look away.
I hold my breath, my fingers still gently tracing his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my touch, but the tremor running through his body tells me just how much control he’s fighting to keep. His eyes flicker, still full of that wild hunger, but now there’s something else—something deeper, more vulnerable, almost broken. It makes my heart ache for him.
He leans into my hand, a silent plea for reassurance, as if he needs me to bring him back from whatever abyss he’s fallen into. The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick, filled with the tension of two people on the brink of something they can’t quite understand.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, my voice a little steadier than I feel.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes stay locked on mine, as if searching for something—something only I can give him. His breath is slow now, as though he’s trying to calm himself, and for the first time, I see the man behind the monster. The weight of everything he’s carried, the darkness he’s buried deep within, is all in his gaze.
“I’m here,” I say again, firmer this time, my hand steady on his cheek. “You’re still you.”
Scythe’s eyes flicker, a brief flash of the man he used to be before he closes them again, his cheek pressing lightly into my palm. He takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly, like he’s trying to push the storm inside him into submission.
I watch him, my heart pounding, waiting for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He stays, his body still pressed close to mine, his skin warm and trembling beneath my fingers.
Then, finally, he speaks. His voice is rough, almost like he’s clearing years of dust from it. “I don’t know how to stop this...stop myself.”
The words hit me like a punch, and I step closer, my hand now cupping the back of his neck, my thumb brushing over the tense muscles there. “You don’t have to stop,” I whisper. “Just...don’t do it alone.”
His eyes snap to mine, and for a brief moment, I see a flash of something almost raw in him, desperate for something real.
And then, like a dam breaking, he pulls me into him. His lips find mine in a kiss that is harsh, needy, and filled with everything that’s been left unsaid between us. It’s not gentle, not soft, but it’s a primal surrender, a raw acceptance of everything he’s been fighting.
And I let him.
This is what he needs. I leap into his arms and let him bite and kiss my blood-stained skin. The taste of copper on my lips and the slickness of his tongue mixing with mine, the brush of his rough palms against my skin, all meld together in a symphony that overwhelms my senses. The feeling of his teeth grazing my skin only adds to our intimate communion, heightens the intensity. In this moment, I am completely consumed by him, by us, as the scent of blood becomes our synchronicity and takes over all other sensations.
He carries me into the bathroom, kicking off his shoes once we’re inside. He kisses me roughly, then sets me down only to strip away his clothes, his eyes never leaving their feast on my body. I pull down my shorts and let the remaining shreds of my tank top fall to the ground.
He’s wounded. I take in his blood-slicked chest, the fresh cuts painting his torso and arms in streaks of crimson. But my gaze is pulled lower, to the thick, rigid length of him, harder than I’ve ever seen. He’s pure tension, all muscle and dominance, and there’s no time to process, no time to tend to his wounds. I don’t even get to take a step, he doesn’t give me any time, with a swift and forceful move, he turns me towards the full-length mirror, my body colliding with the cool surface. The cool glass soothes my bruised cheek for a fleeting second—before he seizes my arms, locking them behind me with one unyielding grip. There’s no warning, no hesitation, just the blunt, harden head of his cock pressing against my entrance before he drives inside, tearing a gasp from my throat.
My vision blurs, the taste of copper still lingering on my tongue as his other hand snakes up to grip my neck, holding me steady as he begins to move. The rhythmic thrusts match the pounding of my bloodied veins, sending shivers down my spine and causing whimpers to echo in the tiled room.
A rough groan rips from his throat as he wrenches me back to the ottoman, dragging me onto his lap, in one swift motion. The sudden shift has me gasping, his cock still buried deep. I barely manage to swing my legs over his hips before he grips me tighter, his cock splitting me wide as he thrusts up into me. The mirror before us reflects the raw obscenity of it—the way I’m stretched around him, the possessive hand tight around my throat, the blood streaked over our skin like war paint. Every movement sends waves of pleasure and pain through my body, and I can’t help but moan in ecstasy.
His grip is brutal, each thrust dragging me down harder, deeper, until my vision whites out in bursts of blinding stars. I’m losing myself in him, unraveling, and he’s right there to pull me back under. I can barely breathe, let alone think, and yet, my mind is filled with him, consumed by every sensation he elicits in me.
“You’re mine,” he hisses in my ear before sinking his teeth into the juncture where my neck meets my shoulder. His statement, delivered with such raw possessiveness sends a shockwave through me, setting every nerve ending on fire. My lips part with a gasp and I’m captivated by the raw display of dominancy and surrender. The sight of Scythe, all muscle and sinew, every motion a testament to his raw strength and unmasked desire… it is intoxicating.
“Look at us,” he growls lowly into my ear. His eyes are wild and dilated in the mirror. The blood-soaked image of us reflected back is an explicit tableau of dark passion painting a vivid picture of raw desire, a lurid, almost grotesque display of carnality that both shocks and thrills me.
His bare skin, marred with cuts and drying blood, presses against my back as he pulls me in, whispering my name like a prayer between growls and grunts. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure through me, taking over every thought and feeling until I am consumed by him once more.
“Scythe,” I gasp out, tears pooling at the corners of my eyes and running down my cheeks as I feel his grip on my neck tighten further, the pressure intensifying, and I’m gasping for breath. His grip tightens just as his thrusts grow wild, desperate, his body vibrating with the force of it. Then—suddenly, he’s gone, pulling out in one ruthless motion. I whimper, the loss of him a visceral ache, my body still clenching around nothing. He stands and turns me in his arms, I barely wrap my arms around him before I’m seated on the edge of the sink counter. His hands roam my body, smearing more blood on every inch of me with an intensity that leaves my skin trailing with goosebumps. The cool marble beneath me is no match for the heat coursing through my body as Scythe’s mouth claims mine.
“Vasilisa,” his voice is low and rumbling, “I need you to scream for me,” he commands, his voice a low growl as he pushes himself inside me, eliciting the scream he desired, each thrust harder and more forceful than the last. I cling to his arms, my nails digging into his skin to keep my fingers from slipping as he drives into me. My eyes squeeze shut, surrendering to the onslaught of sensation.
“Look at me,” he growls, gripping my hips with bruising force as he thrusts inside me harder. I cry out in pain and pleasure, unable to suppress the sounds that escape my lips. Scythe shows no mercy, relentlessly driving into me until I feel like I will split apart. He doesn’t give me a moment to adjust, each movement causing waves of intense sensations that leave me trembling and somehow begging for more. His eyes lock on mine and all I can focus on is the slick sounds of our bodies, colliding, the raw, unfiltered proof of our connection. One hand slides up from my hip, grazing my stomach and up the valley of my breast before settling on my neck again and he squeezes lightly, his hold more possessive than threatening. I can feel his pulse roaring in my ears, matching the drumming rhythm of my own heart. He continues his hard thrusts, his eyes holding mine captive. All I can feel is him.
A shaky whimper escapes me, the sheer intensity of his gaze making my breath hitch. He tightens his grip around my neck in response, not enough to harm, but enough for me to know I am completely under his control.
“Scythe,” I whimper out, closing my eyes as ecstasy overwhelms me. He groans, his thrusts becoming even more fierce and savage. His fingers dig into my flesh, branding me with invisible marks that only we will know.
“Mine,” he grates out, the words a mantra in time with the rhythm of our bodies crashing together. His movements grow erratic again, and this time I’m just as close as he is.
But he pulls out again and leaves me hanging on the edge of climax. My body throbs at the loss of him and a feeble protest escapes my lips. Before I can even form a plea, I’m weightless—flipped onto my stomach with a force that steals my breath. With a sharp gasp I brace myself against the cool, hard surface as he re-enters me from behind, his cock feeling deeper than it’s ever been, the fullness of his depth bringing forth an ecstasy teetering on pain. He’s using my body as he sees fit and every part of me relishes in complete surrender. His hands grip my hips once more, anchoring me as he finds a steady, relentless rhythm. Each thrust drives my body forward along the cool marble, the friction between us and the chilled countertop a symphony of sensation that leaves my head spinning.
“Open your eyes,” he demands, his tone forceful yet laced with an undercurrent of pleading. I do, my gaze meeting his in the mirror before us. The sight that greets me is almost too much to bear— his powerful blood stained form looming over mine, muscles rippling with each thrust, his eyes reflecting a storm of desire and possession. It’s raw and primal, a blatant reminder of the deep connection between us that’s far more than just physical.
I moan out his name as he suddenly alters his angle, hitting a spot within me that sees stars exploding behind my eyelids again. “Scythe,” I whimper, my fingers clutching at the countertop in an attempt to ground myself amidst the whirlwind of pleasure threatening to sweep me off my feet.
“Say it,” he growls, punctuating each word with a brutal snap of his hips, forcing the air from my lungs. His demand hangs in the air between us. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m-” My mind fumbles for words as he continues to drive into me relentlessly. My vision sways dangerously as I climax, pleasure coursing through my veins like lightning.
“I’m… yours,” I gasp out just as another wave crashes over me.
Silence lingers for a moment before his rough, dark chuckle fills the air.
“That’s my girl,” he grunts approvingly before his movements become uncoordinated and more frantic. His fingers dig into my hips, his grip tightening to the point of pain as he reaches his peak with a guttural groan. The sight of his pleasure-stricken face in the mirror pushes me over the edge again, my body tensing as another powerful orgasm rips through me.
His grip slackens, and he collapses against me, our bodies a tangled mess of sweat and blood, breathless and spent.
The haze of pleasure dulls to a warm hum, leaving me wrapped in Scythe’s arms. His lips ghost along my neck, whispering low, reverent things that make me shiver despite the exhaustion pulling at my limbs. I let out a breathless, dazed giggle—because for the first time tonight, the storm inside him has settled.
“You are my everything. Mine ,” he whispers. I nod, too spent to speak as I close my eyes, but the sentiment is clear. I am his and he is mine. Santo and Scythe in perfect harmony.