Chapter 36
The Prey
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
He wrenched three powerful orgasms out of me in less than ten minutes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think straight. Everything was hazy, blurred, distant.
As he pulled away, I slipped from the counter, collapsing in a puddle of my own helplessness. My legs shook violently. My pulse skyrocketed, pounding in my ears like a war drum. My breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.
He stood behind me, silent. I knew without looking that he wore the same smug expression, that cold satisfaction he always had. But I couldn’t bear to face him. Not like this. Not when I was on my knees, my jeans bunched around my ankles, my underwear gone—ripped off somewhere and thrown somewhere.
The pot of water had boiled dry, steam hissing into the air, but he hadn’t bothered to turn off the stove. Why was I even thinking about the pot? I should be concerned about myself. How could I… How could I have orgasmed at the hands of this demonic man?
Shame clawed at me, twisting inside my chest; a sickening blend of humiliation and betrayal was nothing new. Not just of my body, but of something deeper, something that felt irrevocably lost.
I stayed on the floor, trembling, trying to gather the shattered pieces of myself, though finding none. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the cold tiles beneath me.
I stiffened as he moved closer. I could feel him looming over me, like a dark shadow that made my skin creep. My heart pounded faster, drowning out any coherent thought, as if I had any to begin with, ever since this bastard tried to ruin my life for his own sick pleasure.
His hand reached down, gripping my hair roughly, forcing my head back. I winced; the pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to what I was feeling. “Look at me, Ptichka,” he whispered dangerously.
I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to obey, but his grip tightened, yanking harder until I had no choice but to face him. My vision was blurred, both from the tears I refused to shed and the daze he’d left me in.
“Open your eyes,” he growled, this time his breath hot against my cheek.
Reluctantly, I did, meeting his gaze with fear and defiance. His eyes bore into mine, searching, dissecting every inch of my soul. I hated him. Hated how he made me feel. Hated how my body had betrayed me so completely.
“The next time you dare to defy me, the gentleness ends. I’ll pin you down, bend you over, and take you from behind, all while my hand digging into your ass. I’ll make sure you’re so red and swollen from my touch. Don’t make a monster of me you can’t handle.”
“No,” I whispered. I wanted to believe it, to believe I could resist him, but the reality was far more terrifying. He had broken something inside me, something I wasn’t sure I could ever get back.
But when his hands touch me, I lose.
He released me suddenly, letting me collapse onto the floor, my body crumpling in on itself.
I curled up, wrapping my arms around my knees, trying to hide, trying to protect what little dignity I had left.
He’d take it. He’d take everything from me.
I thought I could think of something to escape him, but I was wrong; he’d stop at nothing.
Like he said, either I sleep with him willingly or he’d use force.
But it was no use. He had seen everything. He touched my deepest parts, my cordial fears that couldn’t suppress the one standing before me. And he would use them against me.
I could feel him watching me, his gaze burning into my back, but I couldn’t bring myself to move, to look at him.
I was broken. And he knew it.
Black dots danced in front of my eyes. The room spun, tilting as I struggled to stay conscious. Damn it. I should’ve eaten something. But the truth was, I hadn’t eaten properly in days—three days, maybe more. And now, it was all catching up with me; my body betraying me just as much as he had.
I fought to keep myself awake, desperate not to lose consciousness in front of him. Who knew what he’d do if I passed out? But it was another wishful thought, another futile effort.
His hand grabbed my upper arm with a force that sent a jolt of pain through me. I was yanked up, my legs unsteady, the jeans bunched around my ankles making me stumble. My breath hitched as I tried to regain my balance, but he wasn’t having it.
He stepped on the fabric, pinning it to the floor, and with one rough tug, he forced me out of it. I gasped weakly, but it was swallowed by the look he gave me—a look that promised more pain, more humiliation.
I stilled, lowering my head, letting him strip me of the last shred of my dignity. He took the jeans from me with ease, leaving me standing there in nothing but a thin, full-sleeved undershirt and his blazer.
The fabric clung to me, the only barrier between my trembling body and his relentless gaze. I could feel the cold air against my skin in contrast to the burning humiliation coursing through me.
He didn’t say anything, just stood there, his eyes raking over me like I was nothing more than a possession, something to be used and discarded at his whim. My knees wobbled, the darkness in my vision creeping closer, but I fought to stay upright, to maintain what little control I had left.
But it was slipping. Everything was slipping.
His hand moved again, not to strike, but to grip my chin, forcing me to look up at him. My breath hitched, fear spiking as our eyes met. “You still have some fight left in you, I see.”
I wanted to fight back, to tell him he was wrong, but the energy was draining from me, my body weakening with every passing second. I could feel myself fading, the black dots multiplying until they swallowed everything.
And then the darkness took me.
?
I woke up with a pounding head and confusion. For a second, I couldn’t recognise where I was.
Blinking against the haziness, the room slowly came into focus. My thoughts scattered like shards of glass, and cut deeper into my pounding skull. The scent of oud and sandalwood—though faint, yet unmistakable—had me have a mini heart attack.
Judas.
My pulse quickened and panic threaded through the fog. Heavy curtains were draped over the windows and I realised the room heating system was on.
I tried to sit up, but the dizziness pulled me back, pinning me to the bed. The events leading up to this moment were a blur, fragmented images that refused to piece together. How did I end up here? What happened?
My fingers curled into the soft sheets as I fought to reclaim my scattered thoughts.
And then my eyes widened, heart stuttering as I threw off the thick blanket in a panic. Goodness gracious.
That bastard.
I stared down at myself, horror flooding my veins. He hadn’t even bothered to put my jeans back on me. The realization hit like a slap—I was lying completely naked in his bed, save for the thin, full-sleeved undershirt clinging to my skin.
I clenched the blanket, fighting the surge of humiliation that crawled up my throat. Judas had stripped me of my dignity. My mind vied to make rough calculations, trying to piece together how long I had been out. Had the day already set?
Panic bubbled up and almost choked me. How could I face him—or anyone—in this state? I needed to get out.
I swung my legs off the bed, but the moment my feet touched the cold floor, a sharp sting shot through my thighs and—good grief—my arse. I winced, instinctively rubbing the sore spot, hoping to God it wasn’t as red as it felt. Of course, it would be just my luck.
That maniac actually spanked me.
I huffed in utter disbelief, and irritation bubbled up. I bit my lip, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and I needed to find some clothes. Or at the very least, something to cover my sore, probably red, undoubtedly bruised dignity.
Working in this mansion had its perks, though—like knowing exactly where Judas kept his closet. Without wasting any more time, I made a beeline for it. If he had the audacity to strip me down, I’d have no worries about borrowing his clothes.
Rifling through his neatly arranged wardrobe, I found a pair of his sweatpants.
They were ridiculously large, but they’d have to do.
I folded the waistband and tightened the drawstrings, but even then, they still hung low on my hips, almost slipping.
Not wanting to trip over myself, I folded the hems at the ankles and did my best to make them look halfway decent.
Satisfied enough, I stumbled toward the door, my makeshift outfit still too big but manageable.
I reached for the doorknob, and I paused, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
I had no idea what—or who—was waiting for me on the other side, but one thing was certain: I wasn’t leaving this place without a fight, oversized sweatpants and all.
I pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor; the cool air hit my face as I forced myself to move forward. The soreness in my legs was not helping, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through it. The sooner I got out of here, the better.
My heart pounded louder than my footsteps as I made my way to the staircase. And my mouth twisted in bitterness.
There it was—Judas’s large portrait on the stair wall. His cold, piercing eyes seemed to follow me, a permanent sneer etched into his painted face. The damn thing had always unsettled me, but now it felt like it was just waiting for me to trip on the stairs.
“Demon,” I muttered under my breath, narrowing my eyes at the portrait. It wasn’t just his face on that canvas—it was his arrogance, his power, his twisted sense of control. And here I was, wrapped in his clothes, trying to sneak out of his house like a thief.
But I wasn’t a thief.
I tip-toed down the stairs. The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that felt like a trap.
As I reached the bottom, I looked around, taking in the layout.
The wall separating the lounge area from the entryway was my only shield.
If I could just make a run for it, maybe—just maybe—I could slip out unnoticed.