38
My body judders. No one has ever touched my scars.
I've buried those memories. I've always fucked with my clothes on for that very reason.
Her fingers brushed over the welts, reminding me of all the fucked shit I've endured.
I'm a Goddamn freak show. The last thing I need is for someone to get a glimpse of my past life.
Or worse, her pity. Nah, I don't need anyone's sympathy. Fuck that.
I shove her off, knocking her into the rocky outcrop of gravel.
I'm sure it will add to her collection of bruises.
Act now, think later as always. Her face collapses under my aggression, melting into a heavy frown.
I snatch my jacket and shrug it over my shoulders, shielding my deformities from her.
She's still naked from my claim. I should offer her something, but I don't.
Her eyes drill into me as she tries to connect the dots.
Ya, I'm a cruel asshole, sweetheart.
“What happened?” She curls herself into a tight ball to keep warm, ignoring my callous behavior entirely like she's used to it, expecting nothing less.
I refuse to provide answers. I say nothing at all.
She's pushing the envelope and it is consuming me from the inside out.
I’m a hair's breadth away from fucking her into silence.
Partially because it will help get this aggression out and the need to possess every fractured piece of her teases me.
My self-control is hanging by a damn thread.
It's obvious by her reaction she's in a state of shock and disbelief. Could be the cold, too.
She has no idea if she's free to go or my prisoner the way her eyes shift between me and the ossuary.
I offer her no explanation for either conundrum.
I stalk over to the Bugatti and rip the passenger door open without a single word.
Uncertainty falls over her features. She's probably weighing her options.
Running wouldn't get her far. I'm sure it's confusing as shit in that little head of hers.
Try me, sweetheart.
She wordlessly follows, sliding into the front seat knowing she's stuck with me for the time being.
Smart choice.
She sinks into the cool leather. Her gaze stays trained forward.
I sail around and climb in the driver's seat.
Her scent fills my car and I curse internally.
I didn't account for any of this shit. I haven't a clue what the hell I'm doing or where I'm going.
My best bet would be Zain's, but that could come back to bite my ass if she spouts off to Vesper about the trials I've put her through.
And frankly, dealing with any other shit right now is out of the question.
Bringing her back to Mortensen's would be her suicide.
I already know what he would do once he sees what I've done to her body.
At this moment, despite my internal rage, I still find myself unable to give her up.
I'm caught up in her and how our world connects together.
Nothing is simply black and white anymore.
As much as she pushes boundaries, something draws me to her.
Like the grim reaper to death. I rummage in the backseat and present her with a sage green wool blanket.
She shrugs it over her bare shoulders. The tires kick up gravel as I speed out of the cemetery.
My hands cling to the steering wheel in a vice-like grip until my knuckles turn white. Dust settles in my rearview.
We drive in silence and thank fuck for that.
I'm not sure I could hold back without going postal on her.
Not that I give much of a fuck, but I know it’ll lead to a heated discussion I don't feel like fucking having.
The bitch has a backbone when she's not deep into one of her depressive rollercoasters of emotions.
I still have yet to figure out why. I hate the fact I even give a shit at all.
We pull up to Mortensen's estate against my better judgement.
I'm running out of options. Guess I'm hiding her until I figure my shit out.
No doubt I’ll regret this. Her face turns stark white when the massive august structure comes into view.
It's almost humorous. I throw the car in park.
I like watching her squirm. Anthracite stones creep high along the horizon.
The property is magnificent. It's been in the family for generations.
Would have been mine if I wanted to follow in my father’s fucked up footsteps, but nah. I turn my attention back to Clara.
“Nah, I'm not handing you over on a silver platter.”
I muse, finally giving her reprieve. I run my hands along the steering wheel.
“You'll stay in my room. You don't touch shit. You don't leave the room. Understand? If not, I'll take you back to the mausoleum. We both know you don't want that. Or shit, maybe you do.” I chuff.
“No,” she says quickly. She clutches the blanket against her body as if intone to my depraved thoughts racing through my mind.
She steals a few glances in my direction, probably trying to cypher my motive. Her throat visibly swallows. She trembles against the leather seat. She exits the car still wrapped in the blanket and sucks in the frosty air as it slaps her skin. Her cheeks turn rosy.
I exit, too. “He’s not home. Probably at Void. He indulges regularly,” I say simply.
She scurries behind me, blindly following. I chuckle at that. I could lead her in a death march and she'd willingly comply. What choice does she have though, I guess.
I take her around to the back. I don't need the staff questioning why I'm bringing in a naked bruised woman, though it wouldn't be the first time.
The French doors click open and I head straight to the back bedroom bypassing the sitting room and bar.
She lags behind, clearly not used to such a bougie lifestyle.
She's never seen a spec of wealth and power in her existence.
Once she crosses the threshold, I snick the heavy carved door shut.
She turns to me, red cheeked and still slightly pissed with me. I hide a smirk.
“I need clothes and a first aid kit,” she demands, spinning to face me.
I raise a brow. “Let it heal naturally. If you try to use bandages they stick and make the scarring worse.”
Confusion etches on her face, but she doesn't press as to how I know that.
“I still want ointment,” she pads over to my bed in a heated ball of fire.
She parks herself on the edge, waiting as if I'm her damn servant.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Suit yourself. The door behind you. Bottom cabinet.”
I tilt my head gesturing to the bathroom. I guess she can learn the hard way.
Her mouth stays buttoned tight as she slinks into the bathroom with her blanket wrapped around her middle.
I throw on another shirt when she's out of sight.
She rummages around for a few minutes before emerging with one of my old oversized Grimshaw T-shirts from my hamper and her blonde hair falling over her shoulders in loose, matted strands.
I curse under my breath. Why does the idea of her in my clothes shock something inside of me? This woman is insufferable. Wish my cock would get the memo, then maybe we could move on from this shit.
“I want my phone.” She parks herself right in front of me in the center of the room, challenging me.
I brush past her, shoulder checking her.
It knocks her off balance and she sucks in a breath.
“Nah, I think not.” I fall back on my bed, resting my hands behind my head.
I lazily graze my eyes over her body. She's regained some of her spirit.
It'll be short lived. After the adrenaline wears off she's gonna pass out.
Her body is in fight or flight mode and she's running on fumes.
She stomps over to me with her hands on her hips.
“I'm not your prisoner. You have to leave sometime, and when you do, I'm gone. I wasn't supposed to be yours.”
Fire lights up her irises. She's trying to get a rise out of me.
I won't fall for it. Instead, my gaze wanders to her middle.
My shirt hides her new scars from me, but I know they're there. It fills some sick void within me.
I take a second to regain a sense of self control before I pull my phone out, scrolling through it to see what I've missed.
I don't bother to glance in her direction any longer and it's pissing her off.
A few texts await me from Zain and Nyla.
Ordinarily, I'd jump at the chance to get my dick wet, but instead I ignore her teasing texts. It does nothing for me.
“Kieran!” she shouts, thinking that'll get me to respond. I roll my eyes. I'm still pissed with her for touching me. She had no right.
I grit my teeth, praying for patience I know I don't possess.
“Listen, sweetheart. I'm not sure if that permanent burn on your stomach isn't enough of a clue, but you are mine now. I get to call the shots. I tell you when to eat, to shit, to fucking breathe.”
I sneer, jolting up from the bed, standing toe to toe with her.
She shuffles backward. Ire fills her veins. Her fists ball at her side.
The feeling is mutual, sweetheart.
She huffs. “Why? Just tell me why!” she shoves at my chest.
I stand taller, crowding her space with my imposing frame.
“Because Zain is like a brother to me! I'm doing this for him.”
I shout. “You mean nothing to me. I don't give a fuck if you live or die, but Vesper does. If Vesper isn't happy, Zain isn't happy. So I suggest you shut the fuck up, get comfortable, and keep your mouth closed unless it's on my cock.”
My harsh words cut into her like a knife.
Her baby blues remain wide and frozen. Her mouth gapes open.
Of course instantly my mind demands I fuck it.
Just when I think she's going to argue with me, she flips me off and stomps toward the bathroom.
She slams the door shut, splintering the wooden frame.
Bitch.
Am I full of shit? Probably. I didn't give a fuck initially.
But once I had a taste, I couldn't stop.
She's been the only chick to challenge me.
The harder she fights, the more my cock wants her.
I refuse to acknowledge that it's anything but primal fixation, because it isn't.
I know my tastes are abnormal, but so are hers.
We fit well sexually. She knows it, too.
Part of me wonders what will become of this obsession when I've shattered her. Will that end this?