Chapter Eighteen
Kyllian
“Get your fucking hands off me,” I snarled as his hand tightened, and he walked me back toward the wall. Leaning close, his hand squeezed around my throat, and I whimpered as I felt him lick my ear.
“Your debt is due, Kitten. Time to collect.”
Every word delivered was a command that he expected to be obeyed.
I wasn’t stupid.
I knew what he wanted. I fucking knew after day three that Jessup was long gone, and when my Devil in leather returned, he would want something as payment.
That something was me.
I pressed my palms against his chest, desperation and rage warring inside me.
“You won’t break me,” I spat, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
My heart thudded wildly, but I held his gaze, refusing to show him fear.
The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, but in that moment, I clung to the last shred of hope that he might underestimate me—that I might still find a way out.
His grip tightened, his thumb slowly tracing the bruised skin beneath my eye, a stark contrast to the brutal pressure on my throat.
“You may think that,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me, a physical manifestation of his power, “but you’re wrong.
You’re already broken, Kitten. I saw it the moment I laid eyes on you. ”
His words were a cruel balm, each syllable a jab at the last vestiges of my pride.
He saw my fear, my desperation, and he reveled in it, like a predator enjoying the slow demise of its prey.
“You want to break me?” I managed to choke out my words before they caught in my throat.
“You think this is how you collect a debt? By raping me?” My voice trembled, a pathetic echo of the defiance I’d once possessed.
But even as the words left my lips, I knew the truth: he didn’t want to collect a debt; he wanted to claim a possession.
And I, with my broken spirit and my bruised body, was all he had left.
“Can’t rape the willing,” he snarled as his mouth furiously claimed mine. His lips moved against mine, a desperate, brutal claiming that left me breathless and trembling. His hands roamed over my body, no longer seeking to terrify but to possess.
I was no longer fighting, no longer resisting.
The will to battle had been eroded by days of captivity, by the constant gnawing fear, by the sheer overwhelming power he exuded.
I surrendered to him, not out of desire, but out of utter exhaustion.
My body, a vessel of pain and humiliation, responded to his touch with sickening obedience, a betrayal of the spirit that had once burned so fiercely.
The world outside the confines of his room ceased to exist. There was only the rough texture of his leather, the scent of sandalwood and mint that clung to him, and the crushing weight of his body against mine.
Each gasp, each whimper that escaped my lips, was a confession of my defeat, a testament to the breaking of my will.
He had taken everything, not just my freedom, but the very essence of who I was, leaving behind a hollow shell, a compliant pawn in his twisted game.
The whispers of my former defiance were silenced, drowned out by the roaring storm of his dominance.
The thud of my surrender was not a gentle collapse, but a violent explosion.
He didn’t just shove me; he hurled me, a ragdoll flung with brutal force across the expanse of his room, the momentum only ceasing as I slammed into the unforgiving edge of his bed.
The impact stole my breath, a sharp, agonizing expulsion that left my lungs screaming for air as his weight descended, crushing the remaining life from me.
His grip was vise-like, fingers digging into my wrists, twisting them behind my back with a sickening crack that echoed in my ears.
He held me pinned, a singular hand pressing down on my spine as he lifted his torso, the sheer mass of him a suffocating burden.
Then, a savage rip. The fabric of the sweats he’d so carelessly gifted me tore, not in a gentle descent, but in a violent deterioration, pooling around my ankles like discarded skin.
He dragged me back, an irresistible force, pulling me against him until the raw, over-sensitized planes of my body met the unyielding hardness of his groin.
The steel-hard reality of his erection pressed into me, a stark, brutal pronouncement as he pushed down, forcing my torso into the yielding give of the mattress.
The sharp snap of his belt buckle was a punctuation mark, a prelude to the rustle of denim as his pants parted.
My deepest dread bloomed as his cock sprang free, a raw, throbbing demand resting against the delicate crease of my backside.
My struggle was desperate, wild, limbs flailing against his unrelenting hold.
A tempest of thoughts, jagged and sharp, clawed at my consciousness as he loomed over me.
His hand, a dark shadow, descended, sliding beneath my face, a suffocating blanket that smothered my mouth and nostrils, stealing the air I so desperately craved.
He was a predator, and I, his cornered prey.
“Fight me, Kitten.” His voice was a silken rasp against my ear, a chilling invitation that scraped against my soul. “Make it more fun for me.” His words, laced with sinister pleasure, were a brand seared into my being, each syllable a testament to his predatory delight.
I immediately relaxed, and he removed his hand, allowing me to breathe again.
The sound of his belt snapping fiercely in the air ripped through my daze, a brutal punctuation mark to the dread that had been building.
His pants fell, pooling around his ankles, and then I felt the undeniable, crushing weight of his hard, naked thighs shoving their way between my own.
A primal instinct screamed at me to resist, to fight, and I clenched every muscle in my body, a desperate, futile attempt to deny him access.
My breath hitched, and I instinctively bounced on my toes, a frantic urge to scramble, to somehow scale the mattress and escape this unfolding horror.
He laughed, a guttural sound that echoed the rising panic within me, and the realization hit me like a tidal wave.
My squirming, my every desperate, pathetic effort to get away, was only fueling his pleasure.
I could feel the relentless thudding of his cock against my rear, the obscene pressure of his testicles mashed against my cheeks. Shame and terror warred within me.
To resist was to provoke, to invite more pain, more humiliation.
To yield... that thought alone was a betrayal of everything I believed myself to be.
I stilled. My decision was made not by courage, but out of a crushing sense of inevitability.
The fight drained out of me, replaced by a cold, heavy resignation.
He leaned into me, and this time, with a shudder that was more of a silent scream than a physical act, I made way for him.
Grudgingly, impossibly, I parted my legs wider, the tips of my toes barely gripping the cold floor, a pathetic anchor against the tide of my own despair.
“Good girl, Kitten,” he crooned, the sound vibrating against my back as he leaned in to speak in my ear once again.
His words, meant to be a caress, felt like acid on my soul.
“Such a good little pussy.” Each syllable was a brand, searing into my consciousness, underwriting the choice I had just made.
I had failed.
I had let him win.
And in that moment, with the weight of him pressing down, I knew I would regret this capitulation for a very, very long time.
I stiffened as he yanked at my elbows, extending my arms, pinning my wrists easily with one hand against the mattress.
A wave of shame washed over me; I shouldn’t be enjoying this helplessness, this submission, but despite myself, a frisson of anticipation ran through me.
I realized how pliant I’d become, a sickening truth that gnawed at my resolve.
I should fight; I must fight, just on principle, just to prove to myself that I wasn’t entirely broken.
I kicked my legs wildly and twisted my torso, jostling him back and forth on top of me, each movement a desperate battle against my own surprising acquiescence.
Unexpectedly, he stepped from between my legs to stand beside my thigh.
A flicker of relief, swiftly followed by dread, coursed through me.
What was he planning now?
My confusion was my undoing.
I ceased struggling for a moment, a terrible lapse in my defense, as he rained down hard blows on my ass, spanking me with his open hand, leaving stinging welts all over my bottom.
I cried out, a sharp gasp of pain and surprise, and resumed my fighting, the raw sensation igniting sheer panic.
But beneath the pain, a traitorous warmth bloomed.
I was aware I’d been betrayed by my own body, which was now wet and slick and convulsing, an involuntary response that horrified me as he continued to beat my ass soundly.
My cry at one point turned into a moan, and a jerk of my hips, an undulation that felt alien and yet disturbingly familiar.
He continued the spanking, and I was sure he had missed it—this undeniable tremor that ran through me.
Relief warred with disgust. Was this truly what I wanted?
To be so utterly out of control? I continued to struggle against him, my ass on fire and warmed by his hand, a paradox that screamed at my sanity.
Then he stopped, pushing his knee between my thighs again, applying pressure against my sex as he leaned over me and chuckled in my ear. The sound was chilling, a confirmation of my worst fears.
He knew.
He knew I was faltering.
“I’ll make you a deal, Kitten,” he whispered, his breath hot against my skin. “If you can tell me you don’t fucking love what I’m doing to your body, I will stop. But I must warn you. If you lie to me, your punishment will be worse.”