Текст книги "Skin of a sinner"

Автор книги: Avina St. Graves

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Chapter 4

ROMAN

8 Years Ago

Roman: 14 years old – Isabella: 12 years old.

“Damn it, Mickey,” Bella sighs, dabbing an alcohol-soaked pad to the cut on my face.

I smirk up at her, bouncing my leg on the concrete as I sit on the edge of the deck. “Yeah, but did you see the other guy?”

The glare she shoots my way is enough to make Hell freeze over. But knowing her, I’ll say a few choice words here and there, and it’ll melt like it’s just another day in paradise.

Steve is going to have a field day over this. He’ll probably try to get a couple more hits in himself or decide my weekend would be better off spent in the basement. He’s figured out that it’s far more effective than a belt or a “good ol’ fashion beatin’,” as he’d say.

“Yes, I saw the other guy.” She throws her hands up, but the exasperation doesn’t reach her eyes. “You pushed him to his knees and made him beg me for my forgiveness.”

I lift a shoulder. “You should have said you didn’t forgive him. Make it more exciting for me. You can forgive me by playing tag.”

We might be too old to play those types of games, but I just love the way her eyes widen right before I catch her. Screw hide and seek, or hacky sack. Tag is the only game I’ve ever wanted to play with her.

This time, when she looks at me, she really does seem exhausted, but it disappears when I wince from the sharp sting of the cotton on the open wound on my cheek.

I have to hand it to the kid from before; he didn’t look like much, but he could throw a punch. Caught me completely off guard. I almost had respect for him, but then I remembered why he ended up there.

“It was an accident.”

She’s been saying that all afternoon. It looked like no accident from what I saw. The lunchbox I gave her when we were kids somehow ended up in his bag. My Bella doesn’t have accidents like that.

This was deliberate.

I don’t take kindly to that.

Bella and I—not me and Bella (she’s been helping me with my English homework)—have been playing this little cat-and-mouse game since day one. I’m the cat, everyone else is the mouse, and she’s the dog from Tom & Jerry that would try to mediate. Or simply stand to the side and flinch every time someone lands a hit on me.

I like her flinching far more than I should.

I squeeze the stress ball the little princess got me using as of last month. I’ve already gone through two of them—not that she knows. If she did, she’d probably burst a vein from being overly worried about me. I’ve just been pocketing them from the department store instead and replacing them before she figures it out.

The stress ball is a handy little gadget that has stopped me from bashing my head into a wall. Or Steve’s, maybe even Josh’s, too. We have a new kid staying with us, about five years younger than Bella.

At first, I liked Jeremy because he was quiet and kept to himself. Then Bella sniffed him out and decided to take that little shit under her wing. If he’s under her wing, then by extension, that means he’s under my wing, which gets fucking exhausting when I only have two wings. Half the time, I’m walking myself into the basement before Steve gets the chance to drag me in there.

But it’s easier now.

Down there in the cold.

Now, I have the handy dandy stress ball, a pen and paper, and the MP3 player I stole from Skinny—or was it Ugly?—all because they looked at my girl the wrong way.

At least her hair isn’t so ridiculously wonky anymore. She means well and tries her damn best, but I usually end up redoing it for her before we walk to school. If not, I just can’t stop staring at it in all its chaos.

Every morning, I hold my breath to see if she tried braiding it because, unless she brings a hairbrush, there’s no way I can salvage it.

She frowns at me, and I frown, too.

“Maybe you should have talked to him before you punched him,” Pigtails says.

If she ever knew I still call her Pigtails in my head, she’d probably be debating whether to disown me or sit in the corner and cry. The last time I did, her bottom lip quivered—God, I hate it when it quivers—and she started getting upset, saying that I thought she was a pig.

I shrug, grinning. “No point wasting time. I was cutting to the chase.”

She carefully dabs the wound again. In my entire life, Bella is the only person who has tended to my wounds without being paid to do it. “There are two sides to every story, Mickey. What you did was grievous bodily assault.” Her r’s come out nice and clear.

Bella’s been watching Law & Order for the past month, and now she thinks she wants to be a defense attorney—which might actually come in handy for me, so it’s all a go from my point of view.

I catch sight of her earring and internally wince. I’m unsure if she still thinks about losing her mother’s earrings, but I do. Every day.

“Your side is the only one that counts.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure if that’s how justice works.”

I can’t help it; I roll my eyes too. “Shut up, you’re, like, eleven.”

“No, I’m twelve, thank you very much.” She places her hands on her hips. “Twelve years and three months,” she adds matter-of-factly.

I put no effort into hiding my victorious grin. Pointing out her age always gets a rise out of her. She’s twelve going on twenty with how much she tries to mother everyone.

Then the first sign starts; the loud wheeze in her breath from the change in season. Bella clears her throat to hide it, but I narrow my eyes at her. Then, as the seconds pass, she turns to the side and lets out a series of earth-shattering coughs.

Reaching for my bag, I tug it onto my lap and ignore the pain from my busted knuckles. I rummage around the front pocket until I find what I need, all while Bella wheezes between coughs.

I sigh as I hold out the inhaler. Her delicate fingers wrap around it without hesitation, struggling to suck it in between breaths. She never remembers to take it like she’s meant to. And it’s fall, the worst time of year for her.

“You lied to me.” I explicitly asked her this morning, “Did you take your inhaler?”

Do you know what her response was? A couple of flutters of her eyelashes and a bashful, “Mmhmm.”

Typical.

I’m not falling for that shit next time.

“Do I need to start forcing you to take it?”

Her eyes water from all her coughing as she moves to sit beside me, attempting to calm her breathing. I take the inhaler from her and stuff it back in my bag.

She shakes her head softly. Even without the inhaler, she would have gotten through the worst of the coughs within a few minutes. Still, then she’d spend the rest of the day wheezing until she took the medication. It seems to be getting worse the older she gets.

“Then you better start taking it,” I scold.

She tries to play it off by resuming her nursing duties. “It was just the one time.”

“This week,” I add.

If no one reminded her, this girl would forget to feed herself.

She scrunches her nose. “It tastes bad.”

“Don’t care. You’re going to start taking it properly. Promise me.” I know she won’t. Isabella Garcia doesn’t make promises she can’t keep. I can see in her eyes that she’s itching to change the subject because this has been a point of real contention for a while.

“Sarai la mia morte.”

You’re going to be the death of me.

I don’t remember much of the language, but Bella is trying to learn it so we can “speak behind the adults’ backs,” even though her Spanish is better than my Italian. And I don’t know any Spanish beyond gracias, and me llamo Roman.

“Don’t forget, I’m going to visit Mitchell’s mother this weekend,” Bella says suddenly as she plasters on a band-aid.

I groan, but I’m unsure whether it’s from the pressure of the band-aid on my cut or from her reminder. I hate when she goes, because she’s all alone with no one to watch over her. What if Mitchell, her new foster dad, tries to hit her? He hasn’t done it before, but it doesn’t mean he won’t start. Or, what if she has a nightmare, can’t find Mickey Mouse, or has a panic attack again? Or if she forgets her inhaler?

“Why do you have to go?”

It’s not like anyone in her foster family has given a shit about inviting her to their family gatherings. At least Mitchell’s place is better than the hellhole she was in when we first met.

When Margaret heard all about how she wouldn’t get proper lunches—and I may have mentioned a bruise or two—the state swooped in to save the little girl with bright brown eyes. Apparently, she didn’t have “attention seeker” in her file, so they believed every word she said and got her out of there.

Mitchell is an asshole, but at least he gives her three meals a day and enough blankets to keep her warm—not like the last house.

Bella pinches her lip between her teeth, then shrugs like it isn’t something to worry about. Probably more for my sake than hers. “They told me I have to go. I don’t make the rules, I just follow the orders.”

“But you should try—"

“Mickey,” she says calmly, eying the stress ball that looks a hair away from exploding. “I’ll be back at school on Monday, and you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

She’s wrong. I’ll notice.

I always notice.

Unless I’m in the basement, I’m loitering on her lawn, or terrorizing the neighborhood, which she isn’t really a fan of.

If it were up to her, she’d have us both curled up with a book. She’s been doing this annoying thing where she likes going to the park to sit down and read, but I hate it. There aren’t enough noises, and I like hearing the sound of her voice.

“Isa,” Mitchell yells from somewhere inside the house. “Get inside. Set the table up for dinner.”

Pigtails steps back with a slight shake of her head, and I jump to my feet. Two days. She’s gone for two days. That’s nothing. That’s like… Like… Forty-eight hours.

I can count down or something.

I move forward to give her a hug, but the rejection smacks me in the face as she turns and runs up the stairs, avoiding my touch entirely. I know she wouldn’t have done it on purpose, I just guessed—well, hoped she’d be a little less scared now.

We never used to be able to high-five without one or both of us flinching, so when she hugged me for the very first time two years ago on my birthday, it was like I saw the light. Then, when she hugged me last year, I’m pretty sure I understood why people find religion.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been hugged—that I can remember—and Bella takes both places. I wasn’t even sure I liked it at first. It felt so claustrophobic, and all her hair was shoved in my nose and mouth, but the second those small arms of hers wrapped around my waist, everything stilled. The noises, the need to move, to burn energy by taking it out on another person. She is the only one who has ever been able to calm me. Sometimes she does this special little laugh, and the world quietens, but it doesn’t go away forever. Until she hugged me, and for once, everything felt normal.

Peaceful.

Right.

“See you Monday,” she half wheezes over her shoulder.

“Yeah,” I say. “Monday.”

Forty-eight hours.

I can do forty-eight hours.

It turns out I can’t count. Either that, or she’s been gone for more than forty-eight hours. But whatever. I survived. Barely. I’ll see her today, and that’s all that I care about.

I show up at her house earlier than usual and tug at the bracelet she recently made me as I wait, leaning against the fence. I’m still not used to wearing it and it makes me feel uneasy. Something about the bumps of the cotton strings sends weird shivers down my spine.

Not that I’ve told Pigtails that.

She was so excited to give it to me—even blew me off for a whole afternoon just to make it.

If I lost it, I’m not sure how I’d react. Or how she’d react—probably cry. So the simple solution is never to take it off, even when I shower. But now the thinning fabric has me on edge.

Bella has what she claims is a matching one, even though the pattern is different, and hers is a mixture of teals and reds, while mine is simply red and black. She claimed it was so I didn’t need to worry about getting blood on it.

Well, she didn’t use the word blood; she used dirty, but we both know what she really wanted to say.

Time ticks by at an agonizingly slow pace until it’s time for her to come out. Then five minutes pass. Then ten. Then twenty. She never walks through the front doors.

Uneasiness wedges itself into the space beneath my ribs. This isn’t like her. This isn’t like Bella. She is never late. If she is, she’ll stick her head out of the window and wake the neighborhood just to tell me how much longer she needs.

I mutter, “Fuck it,” under my breath as I storm to the house.

Mitchell never lets me inside, so I only get to see its interior if he isn’t home or if I sneak in. When I go for the lock, the handle doesn’t turn. Not caring if Mitchell rips me a new one, I pound my still-healing fists against the door, peeking through the window as I wait.

Five seconds.

Ten.

No sound.

No movement.

The rational part of my brain tells me that her trip has just been extended. She’ll be back later tonight, and when I wake up tomorrow, it’ll be like she never left. And then everything will be fine. I’ll be fine.

But the other part of me has eyes. It knows what I’m seeing. I know what is on the other side of the window, and every inch of me is saying that the rational part is fucking delusional.

White-hot rage crawls beneath my skin as I stare at the empty dining room. Empty. No chairs, no table, no fake fucking plant. Empty.

No.

No.

Bella would never leave me. Never. She said she would see me today, and she wouldn’t lie about that, would she?

No.

No, she never lets me down in any way that counts.

She’s always been there for me—the light at the top of the basement, the first bite after days of starvation, the one who doesn’t make me feel like running.

Bella wouldn’t leave. She just wouldn’t.

I sprint around the outside of the house, checking one window after the other. Empty. Every one of them. But the final nail in the coffin is her room. Empty. My drawings aren’t on the walls, the bed is gone, and Mickey Mouse is nowhere to be seen.

No.

No, no, no.

They can’t just take her away from me. They can’t.

My feet take me to the back porch, the last place I saw her, and try the ranch slider, but it doesn’t budge. I need to get inside. I have to get inside. I have to check. I don’t know; maybe she’s in there somewhere. Maybe she managed to get away and hide in a closet.

I have to.

I have to. I have to. I have to.

She—

No, she can’t be gone. I refuse to believe it. I can’t—No. She has to come back.

I don’t feel the glass shattering beneath my knuckles. With each pummel, another shard pierces my skin, and another drop of blood drops onto the floor. It isn’t until I feel it. Not the pain or the ache. The absence of it. The disappearance of the itch.

Then I see it. The one thing I refuse to take off laying on the floor amongst the drops of crimson. The last thing I got from her.

The bracelet.

I broke it.

Bella’s bracelet.

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Chapter 5

ROMAN

8 Years Ago

Roman: 14 years old – Isabella: 12 years old.

“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop,” I hiss, hitting my head against the concrete.

Maybe if I keep throwing myself against the wall, someone will let me out.

I know they can hear me screaming. I know they hear me banging on the door at night. Or is it morning? I can’t tell.

I don’t know anything anymore.

You don’t know anything anymore. You don’t know anything anymore. You don’t know anything anymore.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I scream. The skin of my knuckles tears against the wall, ripping more and more each time I swing. I can’t see the blood through the darkness. Can’t see the bone. I need something other than the voices. I need sound or light or taste. I need pain.

My muscles strain. Sweat gathers between my shoulder blades. It’s not enough.

I’m as helpless now as I was when I was four.

Useless.

Pathetic.

Piece of shit.

I can still picture the chest freezer, stark white next to heavy brown boxes. The inside, silver in the light, black in the dark. And it was so dark. So quiet. Empty.

My chest still aches from the way my knees pushed against my chest while I clawed at the four walls. I remember wondering if my parents were finally playing with me as they lowered me into the freezer, then thump before I was trapped in the coffin. I tried to stand, but my head hit the lid. Tried to move my legs, but they were stuck bruising my ribs. I screamed until I lost my voice, and cried until there were no more tears to shed.

I don’t remember what my own parents look like, but I remember the freezer and how the voice in my head screamed over and over: I want to get out! I want to get out! I want to get out!

Now I’m back in the dark because of another fucking piece-of-shit parent. I can stretch my legs and move, and the ceiling is well above my head. But there’s something here that wasn’t in the empty freezer: the bone deep cold that starts as a chilling ache, before everything becomes numb.

And I stop feeling anything else. I hit harder and harder, until pain thunders through my hand, but I don’t stop. More.

Once I’m out, I can see Bella and she’ll make it all better.

No.

Wait.

She’s fucking gone, too.

She left me like my parents did.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

No.

She’s coming back.

She’s going to open the door and let the light in.

She has to come back.

I need her.

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Chapter 6

ISABELLA

Present

The last thing I see is Roman’s eyes flickering with excitement before I spin on my heel and bolt as if hellhounds are snapping at my ankles. A scream claws at my throat, itching to be released, but nothing comes out.

My sock-covered feet slip on the warm liquid splattered on the floor. I try not to think about the fact that it’s probably Marcus’s as I stop myself from falling at the last second.

Roman stalks closely behind me, moving slowly as if this weren’t a chase my life could depend on. Each of his measured steps echoes through the house, creating a haunting melody that pairs horridly with my racing heart.

Roman Riviera doesn’t play with his food, but he loves playing with his toys.

My vision tunnels on the front door, cream-colored and covered in greasy handprints. An escape. If I can get outside, I can scream.

Just one little scream.

Someone will hear me. The police will come, and this whole nightmare will be over. I’ll be free of this house and finally be able to move on. The state will move little Jeremy to a new house, and if Millie is alive, she’ll get this god-awful place and the store. I can take what I’ve managed to skim from the tills, maybe steal a few of Greg’s and Marcus’s things for extra cash, then go to a new city with no one but myself to look after.

I just need to get past the door and scream.

Freedom is so close, but just out of reach.

Adrenaline floods my veins, ratcheting up the roaring in my ears. “Bella,” he sings, and goosebumps erupt over my cold skin.

We’ve played this game a hundred times before; he gives me a look, and I start running. Back then, it was an innocent game that got my blood racing as the fear of getting caught pumped through me.

It was our own version of tag. He was forever the chaser, and I was forever the one who ran. He’d catch me every single time, no matter how hard I tried.

Back then, it was childish and innocent—even though he never gave up the game when he became legally allowed to vote. Somehow, I don’t think he’s just going to throw me over his shoulder or wrap his arms around me in a soul-crushing hug.

My clammy hands curl around the door handle, and hope springs in my ribcage for the first time in a long time. But the seed that sprouted withers when powerful arms curl around my waist and up my chest until burning fingers wrap around the column of my throat.

“Got you,” he hums against my ear, dragging me back against his firm body and away from any hope of freedom.

“No, no! Let me go!”

I drop my full weight onto him and kick against the door as hard as possible. My escape attempts are futile when all he does is huff and tighten his grip on my throat. A reminder that he can take what he wants, whenever he wants.

“You know better than to run from me. Predators love to hunt.” His hot breath caresses my ear as he whispers.

“Roman, please.”

Please, what? I don’t know.

He buries his head into the crook of my neck, spreading blood from his face and inhaling deeply as he groans. “God, I love it when you beg.”

I freeze, feet suspended in the air, when my mind pieces together what the hardness pressing into my back is.

“Do you realize how much I fucking missed you? I was going insane thinking about you.”

His teeth scrape against the soft skin of my neck, forcing a shiver from me. I’m not sure where his gloves disappeared to, but he lowers me so only the balls of my feet touch the ground, and I have no choice but to lean into him for support.

I realize too late what his plan is when his hand descends to my lower stomach, toying with the waist of my shorts. I gasp, feeling his hard-on pressed up against my ass, grinding ever so slightly. I know this is wrong, and that I shouldn't be feeling this way, but I can't help the unbridled desire this ignites deep within my core.

He hums in approval, dragging his tongue along the column of my throat, trailing liquid fire in his wake. “You taste like every sinful thought I’ve ever had.”

You need to scream for help, my mind whispers.

I stay silent.

Despite everything that makes this wrong, it has never felt more right. After all these years, I hate that the only thing that has ever felt right is being in his arms. Despite all the blood spilled tonight, I hate that this is the safest I’ve felt in three years.

Roman’s fingers disappear beneath the hem of my top and dip into the waist of the pajama shorts he gave me four years ago. Clawing at his arms only seems to encourage him. Still, I don’t stop my desperate movements, even though my body is begging—fighting against my mind—for this to continue.

“Just as I thought,” he rasps. “Fucking soaked.”

“Don’t! Let go of me, Roman.” If I don’t stop him now, I don’t think I’ll have the strength to keep fighting.

“Don’t let go of you?” He laughs darkly. “Oh, that was my plan. You’re all mine now.”

I squirm when another finger joins. They do nothing but rest there, yet it's enough for me to squeeze my legs together in a useless attempt to soothe the climbing need for friction. The rumble of his voice, his intoxicating scent, every inch of space where we touch, it’s enough for me to almost forget what he’s done.

I’m sick and depraved. I haven’t accepted it, but I acknowledged it long ago. It’s difficult not to turn toward the darkness when I spent my days fantasizing about the boy with a sadistic grin and bloody fists, whose knuckles were always split for me.

“Do you know I was thinking about you all that time away?”

My voice disappears with every other thought except one: I was always on his mind. All this time. He missed me.

If that were true, then why didn’t he come back? Why did he leave in the first place?

“I was going crazy thinking about another guy laying a hand on you.” His hold tightens almost painfully. “Do you know what that does to me? Thinking that someone else is touching what’s mine,” he snarls into my neck and demands control over my breathing with the flex of his fingers. “I kept wondering if I consumed your every waking thought, just like you consumed mine.” His fingers inch lower. “I kept thinking about what you felt like in my hands, all the little sounds you made. Fuck, and how fucking divine you felt beneath me.”

I don’t resist when he tips my head to the side to nibble on my jaw. With heavy lids, I stare at the door leading to my freedom while being in the arms of a man who broke me.

“My memories could never compare to the reality of you. Don’t you realize you were made for me? We were made for each other.” Each syllable from his lips is raw and guttural, like he’s hanging by the last threads of his control.

The whimper that escapes me says more than words ever could. We might be a match, but matches burn. Stories end even when the love hasn’t died.

“Say it, Bella,” he whispers. “Say my name.”

I can’t bring myself to say it—to call him the name that started it all. If I do, I’ll let him back into my life and fall back to the bottom of the pit I’ve been trying to crawl out of. My traitorous body melts into his hold, only to stiffen a moment later when one of his fingers brushes the sensitive skin between my legs.

Shaking my head, I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. My nipples harden underneath the thin material of my shirt, showing him exactly what his wicked words and possessive touch do to me.

He gives me the friction I so desperately need, and any attempt at staying silent disappears. My lips form into an ‘O’ as I try and fail to drop lower to the floor to chase his touch.

I need to—no, have to stop this. But just a second longer, maybe two. I can give myself that much. I can feel my mind screaming, but I lock it away. I deserve to feel good. Right?

“So beautiful,” he mutters.

A blush scorches my flushed cheeks from the guilt of taking pleasure from this gruesome scene, but my body doesn’t care. The gory mess behind us doesn’t stop my hips from buckling to his touch. My nails dig into his arms to pull him away and bring him closer simultaneously.

He moves his fingers with expert precision, knowing which cords to play without reading the notes. I close my eyes and imagine he never left, that I’m still whole.

My breath comes out in short pants, living the fantasy of a life I lost as I move my hips to the rhythm of his fingers. He chokes me a little tighter to remind me who is in command.

Knowing how much death he's caused with his bare hands and that I could be his next victim with nothing more than a squeeze is frightening. But the thought only adds to the symphony. The crescendo is in sight, and my hips jerk, chasing the high. Just as I’m about to reach the peak, Roman’s touch disappears, and a needy whimper falls from my bitten lip before I can stop myself.

“You’re so breakable like this.” The smirk is evident in his voice. He wants me to know that only he can bring me pleasure, and he can just as easily take it away. “Completely at my mercy.”

His warmth returns. The swirl of his fingers is agonizingly slow, like he has all the time in the world. I know better. Roman is never lazy when it comes to me. It takes every bit of energy I have not to groan and buckle in frustration, so he goes back to the blissful pace he’s set.

“Tell me you want me.”

“Go to Hell.”

His laugh is pure mirth and carnal sin. “You’ll be right there with me. You’re my favorite sin.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I bite out while straining my muscles to stop them from moving with his motions.

“Hmm,” he muses. “So feisty tonight.”

He flicks my clit, and I jump in his hold from the sparks rushing through my veins, making him laugh like the demon he is.

“You seem to have forgotten our promise.”

He drags the neckline of my shirt down my shoulder with his teeth, kissing the exposed skin. I keep blinking, trying to remain focused as his thumb rubs against my clit, and he dips his finger inside me. Just the tip. Just enough to send me reeling for more.

I’ve dreamed about feeling him back inside me for the longest time. I always imagined he would watch me with hooded eyes, a hand gripped in my hair while his expert fingers stole my climax.

That’s one thing that hasn’t changed. In everything outside of our bubble, Roman is a conqueror, true to his name. He’d take without asking, and any scraps left behind would be a mercy.

“I’ll forgive you for forgetting.” His gruff voice curls around me. “I’ll just have to remind you who you’ve always belonged to. Let me make it up to you.”

I cry from the stretch of my pussy, taking the brutal thrust from two of his thick fingers. Stars dance behind my eyes as I grip his arms tighter to keep upright. The added friction from his thumb on my clit makes any attempts at keeping my mouth shut nearly impossible.

Nothing about this is loving or gentle. This is pure possession, just as he said. He’s commanding my body to give him exactly what he wants, and I have no say in the matter. He can have my climax and the knowledge he is the cause for the heat dripping down my legs. But I’m keeping my voice—he can’t have everything he wants.

The hold around my throat is replaced by his lips as he sucks the soft skin into his mouth, bordering on pain and falling onto the side of pleasure. He yanks my shirt up, exposing my breasts to him. I've never been well endowed in that area, but he still treats them like they’re the definition of perfection, kneading them and twirling the hard buds between his fingers.

I don’t see the climax before it hits. The force of my orgasm has me arching back into his body, opening my mouth to a silent scream. He continues to take from me, plunging his fingers in and out of me until I slap his hand to stop.

The chill of the night air against my nipples lessens with my lowering shirt. I’m struck with a feeling of profound emptiness when my panties become free from his intrusion.

“Better than I remember,” he mutters against my neck. “You’ll regret letting me feel your cunt coming all over my fingers. I promise you, next time, I’m breaking you on my cock.”

Then the lust-filled haze over my vision fades away, and my mind suddenly remembers what I was doing before my long-forgotten libido replaced my brain.

“There won’t be a next time,” I say between pants.

“Don’t doubt me. We need to go,” he says dismissively.

My muscles wind tighter, walking the thin line of falling from the adrenaline high. As soon as I’m completely free from his hold, my animalistic instinct takes over once more, and I bolt for the door, swinging it open. I can hear Roman cursing under his breath before I break into a run.

I just need to scream.

I just need to open my mouth and call for help.

But neither of those two things happens because I can’t bring myself to make a single sound, not even when he catches me. I kick and thrash, and I’m unsure if it’s just for show. I’m telling myself the only reason for giving up on my freedom so easily is because I don’t want him to get in trouble.