Chapter Two
Kyllian
I had just fallen asleep when I heard it.
The throaty rumble of his bike. Taking a deep breath, I flung back the covers and got up, not bothering with my robe as I rushed to the window, my heart pounding. There he was, leaning against his motorcycle, the moonlight casting a silvery glow on his broad shoulders.
Storming out of my bedroom, I made my way downstairs, careful not to make a sound.
As I reached the front door, I paused, taking a moment to steady my breath, then swung the door open and glared at him. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. “I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore.”
He straightened, his eyes glinting as if he meant to intimidate me.
“Come on, babe. I said I was sorry.”
Standing firm, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Go away, Jessup. We’re over.”
He growled, slowly walking toward me. Leaning against the door frame, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Either you let me in, or what happens next is on you.”
I stood there, my heart hammering in my chest, torn between my anger and the urge to gouge his fucking eyes out.
Jessup was nothing more than a lazy fuck, and he wasn’t even good at that.
Too bad for him, I was done with his shit weeks ago when the asshole showed his true colors and broke my fucking nose.
I scoffed, moving to shut the door in his face when his hand shot out, catching my arm in a vise-like grip. “You can’t just ignore me, Kyllian. We’re not done.”
My arm felt like it was about to snap. “Let go of me, you psycho,” I hissed, trying to wrench free. The smell of stale beer and desperation clung to him, a sickly-sweet perfume I’d come to detest. He was a storm I’d been trying to outrun, a mistake I’d foolishly let into my life.
He didn’t budge. “You think you can just walk away? After everything? You owe me, Kyllian. Just like everyone else.” His voice was a low growl, laced with a menace that sent a shiver down my spine.
He was right, in a twisted sort of way. I had owed him, but the debt had been paid in bruises and broken trust. Now, all that was left was a burning desire to see him gone, to scrub his memory from my existence like the grime he seemed to attract.
With a surge of adrenaline, I twisted my arm, catching him off guard, and shoved him hard. He stumbled back, surprised by my sudden resistance.
“Get out of here, Jessup, now. Or I swear I’ll call the cops and tell them exactly what you did to me.” My threat, though hollow, seemed to strike a nerve.
His eyes narrowed, and something menacing flickered in his gaze just as he lunged at me before I had chance to close the door.
He grabbed my wrist again, his grip like iron.
My breath hitched as I braced for another blow, another shove.
But instead of hitting me, he pulled me forward, slamming me against the doorframe.
The impact knocked the wind out of me, and I gasped, my eyes watering.
“You think you can just shut me out?” he rasped, his face inches from mine.
“You think you can just walk away from this? After everything we had?” The reek of stale beer was suffocating, a physical manifestation of the rot that had infested our brief but fucked-up relationship.
A piercing scream tore from my throat as I fought against his hold.
My nails raked across his arm, searching for any weakness.
He flinched, his grip tightening as his fist connected with my stomach, robbing me of air.
Yanking me further inside, he kicked the front door shut and smiled as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
The sound of my own choked gasp echoed in the sudden quiet of the house.
Jessup, a man I thought I knew, was now a monster in my hallway, his eyes wild with a desperation that was more terrifying than any rage. His grip on my wrist was a brand, a testament to his possessiveness, his refusal to accept that he was no longer welcome.
I bucked against him and cringed as the feel of his rough denim jeans scraped against my skin.
The smell of cheap liquor and something far more dangerous filled my lungs.
My mind raced, searching for an escape, a way to break free from this nightmare he’d so readily brought crashing back into my life.
He was all wrong.
This wasn’t the Jessup I’d met, the charming facade he’d so carefully constructed. This was the ugliness that festered beneath rot, the entitlement that he demanded—no, believed was his.
My nails, still stained faintly with paint from my latest project, found purchase on his forearm, a desperate, futile attempt to break his hold. He grunted, a low, guttural sound, and his fist connected with my face, causing my eyes to water.
He pulled me further inside, as a triumphant, sickening smile spread across his face while he fumbled with his belt, and I knew right then, he was nowhere near done with me.
Panic surged as a cold wave washed over me.
This wasn’t a fight I could win head-on. My gaze flickered around the hallway, searching for anything, a weapon, an escape route, a flicker of the old Jessup that might still be buried somewhere beneath the drunken rage.
But there was nothing. Just the suffocating presence of a man who refused to let go, who believed he was owed something he could never truly claim.
Ripping my top from my body, his grip tightened as his other hand roughly grabbed my breast, squeezing hard.
My vision swam, the pain a dull roar behind my eyes.
He ripped away the last vestiges of my shirt, his breath hot and foul against my skin.
The scent of stale beer and blood filled my nostrils.
I felt a desperate, primal surge, a refusal to be broken, to be consumed by this twisted version of a man I’d once tried to love.
My nails, still caked with dried paint, found the soft underside of his jaw, raking down in a desperate attempt to create distance.
He roared, a beast unchained, and his fist, a solid, brutal weight, slammed into my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs in a ragged gasp.
The cheap floral couch, once a source of comfort, now seemed like a mocking reminder of a life that was rapidly being torn apart.
He shoved me onto it, the springs groaning in protest, and straddled me, as his weight pinned me down.
His eyes, wild and unfocused, were fixed on me with an unnerving intensity, a terrifying blend of rage and desperate possessiveness.
He clawed at my shorts, ripping them from my body before he backhanded me again.
A choked sob escaped my lips, a pathetic sound in the face of his brutal assault as he fumbled with the zipper of his jeans.
“Jessup,” I muttered weakly through the pain. “Don’t.”
Grabbing my legs, he yanked them roughly apart right before he slammed into me.
I screamed as his fingers gripped, tugged, pulled, and pinched at my skin, all while ramming his cock into my pussy.
His acrid breath roamed over my flesh as he bit, kissed, and scraped my neck raw.
My body was a battlefield, each breath a ragged tear in the silence.
His weight was crushing, a suffocating blanket of entitlement and rage as his cock tore into me with a vengeance.
I could feel the slickness of sweat, the dampness of his violation, and a searing, blinding pain as he continued his assault.
With a final shove and grunt, he stilled over me, panting before he finally pushed off me, leaving me gasping on the torn upholstery of my couch.
The silence that followed was more terrifying than his grunts and curses, punctuated only by my own ragged breathing.
My gaze drifted to the shattered remains of my shirt, the raw marks on my skin.
The stench of cheap liquor and something far worse now seeped between my legs, a testament to his depravity.
He pulled himself up, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he fumbled with his jacket, reaching for a pack of smokes.
Lighting one, he exhaled and then smiled, a twisted, triumphant smirk plastered on his face, his pants still around his ankles, his now limp dick still slick with cum staring me in the face.
“You should know by now,” he slurred, his eyes still unfocused, “you will never win against me, Kyllian. You are mine anytime I want.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckled as he pulled up his pants, stumbling toward the door. “See ya next week, babe! Thanks for the fuck,” he said before the door slammed shut, the sound echoing the finality of his departure.
He was gone, but the violation, the sickening violation, remained.
Carefully getting up from my couch, I tried not to wince as I walked over to the front door and locked it before heading back upstairs to my bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me.
The next afternoon...
“Kyllian Ward, I need to talk to you, young lady,” Shelly Butler, my cranky, bitchy, busybody next-door neighbor, huffed as she trudged across the yard toward me with her annoying varmint, Mr. Kibbles, in her arms. “Now you look here, missy. I have said nothing about all those men you have traipsing in and out of your home. How you choose to spend your free time is up to you, but I will not stand for the loud ruckus in the dead of night. You woke poor Mr. Kibbles up. I had half a mind to call the cops last night with all that banging and screaming going on.”
“It’s one man, and it won’t happen again, Mrs. Butler,” I muttered as her tiny Chihuahua growled and yipped in her arms. I hated that little fucker. Every chance he got, he shit in my yard.
“You keep saying that, and then it does. Do you have any respect for your neighbors? I know you have none for yourself. My God, girl. Look at you. You look like crap. A woman in my day would never leave the house looking like you do. Don’t you have makeup?”
Oh, and Shelly Butler was a bitch.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Butler. I had a... difficult night,” I mumbled, trying to shield my face with my hand.
The lingering ache in my jaw and the tender spots on my ribs made even the simplest movements agonizing.
My eyes were probably still bloodshot from tears I refused to shed, but a small, defiant part of me refused to let her see me completely broken.
“I’ll try to keep the noise down next time. ”
Mrs. Butler snorted, clutching Mr. Kibbles tighter.
“Difficult night? It sounded more like a goddamn rodeo in there. And don’t you try to pull that ‘difficult night’ crap with me, Kyllian Ward.
I heard enough last night to know the type of trouble your kind brings.
” She eyed me up and down, her gaze lingering on the rip in my shirt that I’d tried to cover.
“Honestly, child, you need to get yourself together. This is not how a respectable woman lives.”
I just nodded and rolled my eyes as the phantom ache in my ribs became a dull throb.
Mrs. Butler’s tirade was just another layer of unpleasantness on an already shit-covered day.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Butler. It won’t happen again,” I repeated, my voice raspy.
I desperately wanted to retreat inside, to lick my wounds in private, but the woman was a seasoned interrogator, her gaze sharp and unwavering.
Her little dog, Mr. Kibbles, continued his pathetic symphony of yaps and snarls, adding to my general misery.
As I turned to make my escape, a familiar, guttural roar cut through the neighborhood. The sound vibrated in my bones, a strange echo of the terror I’d felt just hours before. My head snapped up, my gaze drawn to the edge of the road.
A gleaming black motorcycle, a vintage Triumph, slowly rumbled past my house, its rider a silhouette against the rising sun.
The leather-clad figure didn’t look in any direction, just ahead, as if he were the only one on the road.
Even from this distance, I could tell there was an aura of raw power about him, a stillness that spoke of coiled danger.
My breath caught in my throat.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread and something else, something I couldn’t quite name. Was he one of Jessup’s friends? Or just someone out for a Sunday drive?
Mrs. Butler, oblivious to the approaching storm, was still droning on about her prize-winning petunias.
I ignored her, my eyes locked on the passing rider.
He was a stark contrast to Jessup’s pathetic, broken aggression.
This man exuded a chilling control, a calculated menace that promised a different kind of destruction, and as he passed my house, he turned and looked in my direction, and something inside me told me I didn’t want to know this man.
“Are you listening to me, Kyllian Ward!” Mrs. Butler snapped.
Blinking, I looked at the woman and simply said, “Yes, Mrs. Butler.”