CHAPTER 22 - Madeline #2
Tattoos are covering his whole upper body. Art I haven’t had the chance to acknowledge before. The sight of him, so powerful, and so entirely in control, sends a sickening shiver of heat racing through my limbs.
"Mine," he murmurs, his gaze never leaving mine in the glass as he drops the shirt to the floor.
"This is where you were always meant to be. This is where you breathe."
He moves back over me, his bare chest hot and solid against my arched back, crushing my body down against the cool sheets.
"Yes," I breathe, my own voice a defeated, surrendered whisper that mirrors his dark satisfaction.
I can't fight the friction anymore. I can feel the rough, calloused texture of his skin against my back as he kneels behind me, his presence a towering weight.
Then comes the cold, metallic slide of his zipper, a sound like a guillotine blade dropping.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't offer the mercy of a slow introduction.
With a single, forceful motion, he moves into me.
The intrusion is absolute. It is a shock of pure, overwhelming reality that leaves me gasping, my breath hitching in a strangled cry that dies in my throat.
I am stretched, filled, and entirely occupied by him. I feel every inch of his dominance, every tremor of his muscles as he settles deep, making himself an inseparable part of my own body. His hands fly up, not to my waist, not to the mattress, but to my throat.
His fingers wrap around my neck, firm and possessive, his thumb resting against the racing pulse beneath my jaw.
It isn't a gesture of violence, but of total, terrifying control.
He pulls my head back, forcing my neck to arch even more, pressing my face closer to the glass so I have no choice but to watch.
In the mirror, the image is hypnotic and grotesque. I see the way his skin ripples across his back, the way his knuckles are white as he grips my neck, and the way I look, eyes blown wide, lips parted, completely caught in the snare of the woman in the reflection.
"Look at us," he rasps, his voice a low, guttural vibration that travels from his chest through mine.
"Look at what you’ve been fighting."
He begins to move, a slow, rhythmic, and devastatingly deliberate pace.
Every thrust feels like he is trying to brand his very existence into my bones.
He doesn't let me look away. He forces me to witness the way my body reacts to him. The way I lean into the force of him, the way my hips rise to meet his, the way my own reflection betrays the hatred I’m supposed to feel.
I see him watching me in the glass, his eyes dark, focused, and utterly devoid of anything but a singular, consuming hunger.
"Don't look down, Madeline," he commands, his fingers tightening.
"Keep your eyes on the mirror. Watch how you shatter. Watch yourself becoming a part of me."
I am weeping now, silent, hot tears tracking down my cheeks, but I don’t close my eyes.
I can’t. I watch as the reflection of his rhythm syncs with the frantic pounding of my heart.
I am witnessing my own undoing. I realize that I don't want the mirror to lie, I want to see exactly how far he’s going to take me.
The rhythm changes in an instant. Before I can find my footing in the wreckage of my own pleasure, he pulls back. The sudden coldness where he was just inside me is a shock, leaving me hollowed out against the sheets.
He doesn't give me a second to breathe.
His hands, heavy and authoritative, grip my shoulders and wrench me around. I’m flipped onto my back again, my hair a tangled web across the pillows, my legs splayed in a vulnerable, open invitation I didn't give.
He towers over me, his bare chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the sterile light, his face a mask of cold, focused intent. He looms into my space.
Then, the sharp, stinging crack of his palm against my cheek echoes through the room. Not harsh. But calculated. Calculated to break the lingering haze of the drug and the remaining dignity.
My head snaps to the side, the skin on my face blooming with a sudden, pulsing heat. But it isn't a fear that follows. It is a vicious jolt of clarity, part pain, part pure, undeniable pleasure that twists my stomach in the most obscene way.
"Look at me, Madeline," he commands, his voice dropping into a lethal, low-frequency vibration.
I slowly turn my face back to his.
"You were so proud," he murmurs, leaning down until his nose brushes mine, his hands pinning my wrists beside my head.
"The brilliant Doctor. The one who thought she could fix the world while keeping her hands clean. And here you are. Trembling under me, crying because you like the way I break you."
He lets out a dark, huffing sound that might be a laugh. It’s the sound of a man who has won every variable in his equation.
"You’re nothing but a nerve ending now," he whispers, his gaze scanning my burning cheek with terrifying satisfaction.
"Everything you thought you were. Your morals, your 'goodness'—it’s all just noise. I’ve stripped it all away until there’s only this raw, pathetic need left."
He moves into me again, this time from the front, forcing me to feel the full, crushing weight of his body. He doesn't go slow. He takes me with a relentless, punishing pace that demands I acknowledge the humiliation of my own surrender.
"Tell me," he rasps, his thumb pressing firmly against the center of my throat, just enough to make every breath a choice he grants me.
"Tell me who owns you, Mali."
The slap is still stinging on my cheek, a hot brand of shame, but as the air in the room settles, something shifts inside me. The fear is there, yes, but the drug and his proximity have fused into a volatile sort of courage.
Instead of shrinking away, I tilt my head back, looking up at him through my tangled hair. A slow smile pulls at my lips, a mirror of his own darkness.
"Is that all you have, Deimos?"
I whisper, my voice raspy but laced with a sudden, playful bite.
"The Great Arbiter, reduced to a common bully because he’s afraid I might actually like it? You’re not breaking me. You’re just proving how much you need me to be broken."
His eyes go dark, the muscle in his jaw jumping. I can see the frustration warring with his desire, and it’s intoxicating. I move my hips against him, a deliberate, teasing friction that defies the position he’s forced me into.
"You talk about your design," I breathe, my eyes locked on his.
"But you’re shaking, Deimos. Your hands... they’re not as steady as you want them to be. Who’s really in control here?"
The response is instantaneous. His hand snaps back to my throat, but this time, there is no hesitation. His grip is firm, certain, and clinical. He cuts off my air with a terrifying precision, his thumb pressing into the soft dip of my neck.
My vision swims, the edges of the room blurring. I can’t draw a breath, and my heart hammers against my ribs, but the panic is eclipsed by a soaring, white-hot rush of adrenaline.
"You want to play, Madeline?"
He rasps, leaning down until his lips are brushing against the shell of my ear.
"You want to see what happens when ‘The Arbiter’ stops calculating and just takes?"
He watches my face with intensity, monitoring the way my pupils dilate and the way my lips part as I struggle for oxygen.
He is the master of my intake, the one who decides when I get to breathe and when I have to drown. He waits until the very last second, until my head is spinning and the darkness is closing in, before he slightly eases the pressure, allowing a thin, sharp gasp of air to reach my lungs.
"Every breath you take is a gift from me," he growls, his body moving into mine with a sudden, violent surge of power.
"Remember that. Every heartbeat, every gasp... they all belong to the man you’re trying to provoke."
The sensation of his weight, the restriction of my breath, and the relentless rhythm of his body create a sensory overload that shatters the last of my resolve.
I am trembling, trapped in the orbit of his absolute control, and I realize with a jolt of terrifying clarity that I don't want him to let go.
My vision frays at the edges, dark spots dancing like static in the sterile light of the room. My hands, finally free from the silk, don't fly to his face to claw at him; instead, they wrap around his forearm, gripping the corded muscle as if he’s the only solid thing left in a dissolving world.
"Deimos..." I wheeze, the sound barely a rasp, a broken vibration against his palm.
"Please... I can't..."
My chest heaves, a reflexive, desperate jerk for oxygen that hits the wall of his grip. I look up at him, my eyes wide and swimming with involuntary tears. I’m not just asking for air; I’m acknowledging the total, terrifying weight of his sovereignty over my very life.
He looks down at me, his expression unreadable, a mask of dark, clinical curiosity.
He’s watching the way my lips turn a faint, ghostly pale, the way my pulse thrashes against his thumb like a trapped animal.
To him, this isn't just a moment of intimacy, it's a demonstration of the physics of power.
"You want to breathe, Madeline?"
He whispers, his voice a low, gravelly hum that I feel more than hear.
"You want the world back?"
I nod frantically, a sob catching in my constricted throat. The defiance from moments ago has evaporated, replaced by a raw, primitive need to simply exist.
"Please," I choke out, my fingers digging into his skin.
He lingers for one more agonizing heartbeat, savoring the absolute vulnerability in my gaze. Then, with a slow, deliberate feline grace, he eases the pressure.
The air rushes into my lungs with a sharp, burning sting. I let out a jagged, racking gasp, my chest heaving as I greedily pull in the oxygen. It’s the sweetest, most violent sensation I’ve ever known. My head spins, the gray haze lifting to reveal the sharp lines of his face above mine.