“I didn’t kill him.” I utter that declaration as I slam a wad of cash onto the bar while Arno watches me from across the room, a pool cue in hand. Admittedly, some of the blood that drips from my fingers onto the bills might counter that statement, though no one in this room seems to give a damn either way.
“Is that what I’m supposed to tell the police when they come looking for you?” Arno’s almost smiling as he twists a block of chalk onto the end of his cue. Closing one eye, he lines up his shot—a yellow ball toward the corner pocket. He shouts when he makes it and brandishes his fist toward the man who steps up next. “Top that, you son of a bitch! Your secret’s safe with me, Kitty,” he grunts in my direction, his grin giving way to a colder expression. “Dead or alive. I don’t really give a shit—just as long as you got my point across.”
“His...memory’s been jogged,” I say while my eyes hunt the bar counter for something to drink. Rock music pulses and the bartender taps her foot in tune to the beat. Her dark eyes glance me over, lingering over the spot where my hips disappear beneath the edge of the counter.
“Can I get ya something?” she asks, her voice low and throaty.
“No.” I grit my teeth. My fingers flex, their sore knuckles throbbing, but the buzz at the back of my skull continues to grate on my nerves. Beating up some punk for petty cash barely made a dent in the itch that demands to be scratched. I consider asking Arno for another job or finding another asshole to pummel on the streets—anything to silence it.
“I told you to make that fucker into your man,” Arno says, sounding closer. I turn to find him stepping up to the bar beside me. He snaps his fingers at the bartender, and she smiles before turning to fish a bottle from the shelf, swaying her hips with every step. Arno licks his lips at the display, but his mind is still on business when he slaps his hand over the bloody wad of bills and shoves it firmly toward me. “Take it. This is your spoil.”
I shove the money back toward him. “Don’t want it.”
When the bartender returns, I jerk my chin at the bottle she holds, and she silently pours two shots. Arno knocks his back with a grunt, but I sip mine slowly, savoring each burning rush of liquid down my throat.
Neither sip is enough. She’s in my veins—in my head—challenging every drop of liquor. My body hums, demanding something that won’t be satisfied no matter how many times I pound my fist into the face of whatever fucker Arno wants intimidated, or whichever bastard is unlucky enough to cross my path.
“Another,” I choke out, and the woman’s barely topped me off before I down the next shot. Then another. My body burns with the aftereffects when I finally stand and snatch for the money, leaving Arno there to flirt his way into the brunette’s pants. I barely hear a word he says to me when I push my way through the men who crowd the bar. I take the stairs two at a time, gritting my teeth in lethal anticipation.
The blood already on my hands isn’t enough. My skin craves more—specifically hers. I could tear her from limb to limb, and I bet her eyes wouldn’t even widen in shock. That lamb’s already been nibbled at—she’s used to the snarls of the monsters who prowl the edges of her pen. Even when I finally reach the door to the apartment and throw it open, she doesn’t flinch from her position on the couch.
She merely draws her knees up to her chin. Cautiously, she watches me slam the door and approach, but there is no fear in her gaze. Even when my hand lashes out, the tips of my nails grazing her wrist, she doesn’t make a sound.
I don’t expect her to stand when I miss though, placing herself directly in the line of fire from my fists should I decide to hit her. I don’t know why the hell I don’t. My eyes flicker over her body instead, and my nostrils flare to register her scent. She’s showered. Her hair is wet. She’s stolen another one of my shirts, and underneath it, I can make out the edges of what I think are my boxers.
I have to clench my teeth together and flex my fingers to send my blood surging again. It flows through my heart and then straight down to where I need it the least. Her eyes watch me the entire fucking time. It’s like she can sense the way I harden, thicken, and strain. She’s as smug as she is empty.
Something flashes through her gaze before I can name it. Disgust? Her nose juts a little higher into the air. The princess doesn’t enjoy being commanded, but her knees bend regardless, and she lowers herself onto the floor—but it’s entirely of her own volition. Through the shadows that paint the room gray, she stares me down, unafraid.
“Get up.” I turn on my heel before she can obey and tear down the hall. The room is nearly dark when I enter it, and I don’t bother turning on the light as I strip off my shirt and toss it in a random direction. My right shoulder twinges—a result of being overworked while beating a man half to death on Arno’s say-so.
Though, if I wanted to be honest, the bastard had merely been a distraction. A toy. Fun. I want to take my rage out on something...real. Something that might scream when I go too far. Beg. Plead.
I want her to bleed.
As if following some cruel cue, she appears in the doorway uninvited. Apparently, the bitch just couldn’t save herself, and I certainly wouldn’t do it for her.
“Come here.” I leave no room for hesitation this time when I beckon her with a finger as if toying with the invisible trigger to my own sanity. I shoot, and the bullet goes flying, delivering a dose of hatred right into the center of her chest.
Her eyes are wary now. She’s uncertain of just what I want. To strangle her? Get off by shoving my dick down her throat? She seems to mull over each possibility, her lips pursed. I want her to struggle, but I can almost sense her uncaring shrug. Either one works for me.
Damn her.
I step back when she starts forward until I hit the wall. She’s paces away when my arm shoots out, sending her sprawling flat onto her ass, half onto the mattress and half off. Her eyes widen, but her teeth seize her lip as if to hold back a cry. Her gaze goes glassy, and like a true caged bird, she flies off... But she’s not fast enough. Her soul smacks off the ceiling when I crouch over her, and she blinks, landing back down on the filthy cage lining. She’s trapped inside her skin again, forced to watch as I bring my mouth close...grazing the tip of her nose before honing in on her ruined ear.
She smells like a mixture of old blood and cheap soap. These past few days of filth have seeped into her pristine skin, dulling its luster. Regardless, she still glows, still seemingly untouchable. I can’t seem to even make a stain when my fingers encircle her throat and begin to press into the supple flesh.
She gurgles something unintelligible, turning her eyes up to the ceiling. I can almost sense the fight rise and then die within her. She wastes more energy on forcing her limbs to give up their instinctive urge to resist than she does trying to breathe. She’s like a child, holding her breath and counting to ten in anticipation that the “scary time” will soon be over.
It’s such a fucking stupid comparison, but for some reason, I don’t squash it down as I finally let her go to sputter and wheeze beneath me.
Espi compared me to him. Like father, like son. Maybe I fucking was some sick fuck who could only feel in control at the expense of someone else’s pain. My thoughts swim, threatening to crack the shell of my skull and escape. Red drenches my vision. My hands sear with the need to punch, hit, attack and the only way to ease it is to reach out and grasp the first thing I touch.
I’m not like him.
Old memories hitchhike on the air, sneaking into my lungs and clawing through my thoughts like roaches. He used to tiptoe into my room, trying his damn hardest to be silent—as if I wasn’t already lying awake. I think he thought the stealth was doing me a fucking favor...
A lone moan scratches the air, too soft to be one of mine. I’d grabbed her, my nails biting into the skin of her arm. Scowling, I let go, swiping my hand against my hip as to wipe her off. It was like some part of me instinctively needed an anchor—something to tether me to reality.
“Turn over,” I growl. Before she can, I flip her over myself and position her on her hands and knees, presenting her ass to me. Her head dips low, her forehead pressing into the twisted sheets. From between her legs, I can see her eyes squeeze shut, her bottom lip once again skewered by her teeth.
I pull back, exhaling sharply. Air hisses in and out of my lungs weighed down like smoke. The stench of her blood, sweat, and tears in the sheets is a bitter smell. It chafes my nostrils when I try to ignore it and sink back down within the rage. I want it to consume me. I want to take every violent emotion out on her.
But when I glance down, her eyes hold me captive. Wide. Clear. Unafraid. We have both seen the Devil and lived to tell about it—not that we fucking do. It’s not enough to merely bitch about evil; you emulate it.
“You think your fiancé is so terrible,” I tell her, my words landing with flecks of spit against her back. “You think you’re the only woman in the world to experience the pain of an abusive prick? Think again.” I chuckle darkly while she calmly stares back. In the end, I’m the one forced to look away, but I settle for eyeing the steady rise and fall of her chest. The bitch may have aced her poker face, but her body gives her away. Her pulse is ten beats too fast. She flinches every time I exhale, though she makes her limbs stiff in an attempt to disguise the reaction.
She’s not afraid of me...no. But she is wary, and I intend to go from there. Inspiring fear is like stoking a flame into a full-fledged inferno. All you need is a spark.
When I reach down and graze her breast through the fabric of the borrowed shirt, it’s like striking a match. It’s the pain she expects—not this...soft, gentle, squeezing motions. I can see her eyes flicker as she struggles to process the sensation. Pleasure?
Though the bastard may have held back from fucking her, he never gave to her either. He never ground his presence into her skin with his bare hands. Never tasted her cunt on his tongue. He never made her writhe, wanting his cock. I knew better than most that pain could be withstood and faced with gritted teeth—pleasure wasn’t so easy to resist.
Her body tenses when I lower myself against her back like a wolf aiming to deliver the killing blow. I continue to stroke her while my mouth grazes the nape of her neck, my tongue attacking the line of her pulse. Her nipples rise sharp to attention, greedy and demanding, practically grazing my palm through the layer of fabric. From the corner of my eye, I see one of her hands flutter as if she meant to shove me off before she braces them both flat against the mattress.
When I tease her with my teeth, she jumps, and an answering jolt shoots through my cock. This game is a double-edged sword, but I intend to win.
“Get...on your knees.”
I pull back and watch her consider disobeying. Her eyes stray, fighting to return to that distant place—but she can’t, and she resigns with a slow, deliberate shift of her ass. Suddenly, she’s on her back, looking up at me. She pulls herself upright and then leans forward on her hands, arching her spine...
Fuck. I shift backward, dismounting the mattress altogether. Her eyes glow through the shadows, daring me with a silent taunt. Make me bleed. Scream. Do it. Erase him. Make me yours...
I don’t want her. I don’t, but I’m reaching for the buckle of my jeans anyway. I’m hard, a shock that I ignore in favor of watching her gaze drift down to find me erect and straining. She inhales, the broken sound playing like some fucked-up melody. Her tongue shoots out, dabbing her bottom lip as if in anticipation of my taste.
“Open,” I grit out, rising to my feet.
She obeys, parting her teeth, her tongue lying passive in the center. I use the pink flesh as a bull’s eye as I shove my cock deep into her mouth. Her cheeks contract automatically trying to force me out, but before I can, she relaxes, and fuck...it’s like the bitch tries to swallow me down whole. She’s sloppy. She’s never sucked a man off before me—I can see it in her eyes as they meet mine, taunting me to make her stop.
My fingers grip the back of her skull instead, using the contact to guide her, steer, control. Once again, she proves to be a fast learner. Her tongue strokes the underside. Her teeth graze the shaft. The tension ratchets up, coiling in every muscle until I’m rocking on my heels, grunting out curses through clenched teeth. Damn. Fuck. Shit.
Too soon, I have to shove her back, panting while my body struggles to regain control. I clench my cock at the root, tightening my grip until the impending release gathers in the pit of my stomach and stays there. I consider just jerking myself here and now, pelting her with the evidence. Her owner would surely like that.
But she wouldn’t. She’d want me inside her, deeper than the fucker could ever reach. She wants to be tainted, owned, and destroyed—but I’m not sure if I want to be her pistol this time.
I don’t know how long I fucking stand there, about to boil over into my own fist. Maybe it’s the sound she makes when I start to turn away? It’s a gasp—a protest, a plea. Words are beyond this little lamb now.
“Take the shorts off—” The command is barely out of my mouth before she has the boxers shed and tossed onto the floor. She lays back when I step forward, her eyes roving up to the ceiling while her hands grip the sheets until her knuckles turn white.
I can feel her breath on my neck as I mount her. She doesn’t make a sound when I find the opening to her cunt and thrust balls-deep. Her head falls back. Her toes curl. She clenches, her thighs tightening around my hips. Her breasts heave against my chest, and then I just let go, giving her every bit of violation she seems to crave.
For two, maybe three thrusts I’m in control. Then something shifts somewhere during the fourth plunge inside of her. She grinds her teeth together, her hands clenching more of the sheets. More. More. More. Then she grabs my thigh, sinking her nails in deep and drawing out a groan I can’t silence. Her own gasp mingles with it, breathy and vulnerable. Stacatto’s whore likes it rough, apparently. Before I can find a rhythm, she arches up, deepening every thrust and hastening the burning, savage need humming through my blood.
I grab her by the waist and pin her down, but she twists and writhes forcing her own ragged pace. When I don’t comply fast enough, her nails rake downward ripping bits of skin away.
“Shit!” My vision shoots red—but it’s a different shade from before. No matter how many men I’ve beaten with my fists or whose faces I’ve smashed into a wall, I’ve never breathed this violent shade of ruby before. It drenches everything, and then...there’s clarity. It’s brief and lasts only for as long as I thrust inside of her, grunting with the effort. Faster. Faster. Harder.
As if from far away, I hear her moan. I see black. My ears pop with the violent disruption in gravity. I feel electricity crackle all the way to my fucking toes. I’m alive with the sensation of her—her heat, her silky fucking wet...
Then too soon, it’s over. I’m tumbling back down with only seconds to pull out before I come so hard my teeth chatter. I don’t notice that she hasn’t climaxed until I hear her gasp and feel her shift underneath me. Her nails return, catching the left side of my ass, and I rise up on my knees and snatch her hand away, pinning it above her head.
“No.” My voice is too jagged to hold any true anger, and she’s too far gone to hear me anyway. With a hiss, I flip her over, and then shove my fingers inside her, thrusting them in and out. Her breath catches. She whines when I grind against her clit with my thumb and words tumble out into the sheets, broken, hoarse, and definitely not English.
“Filho da puta! Merda. Merda. Merda—” She breaks off. Her spine curls, and then she comes hard, riding my fingers so violently the knuckles pop.
When I pull my hand away, I swipe it against the sheets to erase her, but something makes me pop my thumb into my mouth for a second, swallowing down her taste. I shouldn’t feel hard again already, watching her. I shouldn’t wonder what the hell she’d said. I should kick her out of the fucking bed. Make her sleep in the tub.
I shouldn’t collapse down beside her, high on the aftermath of the sex. But what the fuck. She can’t seem to move either, so I decide to chalk it up as a victory. I let my eyes drift shut, and I nearly convince myself that she isn’t there.
“Who hurt you? Was it a man or a woman?” There’s no hint of fear or restraint in her voice. Just plain, shameless curiosity. “Who made you carve those marks into your skin?” she adds when I don’t respond.
My eyes open, and I can’t stop my hand from sliding down my left thigh, sensing the tiny nicks and scars left there. Irritation gives way to suspicion. “How do you know I made them myself?”
She sighs and the mattress shifts beneath her. Suddenly her forearm juts across my vision, but she makes no attempt to attack me with it. For a moment, my eyes trace the pale skin until I notice the near-invisible flaws that catch the glow from the alarm clock: ten thin, delicate scars that form a neat row right before the juncture of her elbow.
“The first days,” she says. Exhaustion thickens her accent, and I try to remember where she said she was from. Brazil. “The worst days. I needed to remind myself that I was still real...”
It’s a morbid topic for pillow talk. I close my eyes again and ignore her, unwilling to take part in her post-sex game of tit for tat. But the joke’s on me. I close my eyes, and I see his face. I hear his voice trickle into my ear while my face is pressed into the pillow. God forgive me...
I bolt upright and rise to my feet. She’s watching me, her eyes tracing my own row of scars, openly curious about the story behind each jagged line. Fuck her.
I needed to remind myself that I was still real, she said. I’d needed to remind myself that I was still human. That I could bleed. That I still had control over some part of my skin. An injured beast caught within a trap would chew its own limb off to escape, after all.
I grit my teeth and try to smother the emotions by shoving my legs into my jeans and dragging them up. It doesn’t help. Thanks to Stacatto’s nosy bitch, I will need to find some asshole to punch to drive the fucking buzzing from my skull. I let the anger push me to the door, and I slam it shut behind me...but somewhere between the front door and the couch the buzzing dies down, and I slump onto the cushions instead.
I don’t sleep.
I breathe. I feel. I count every surging beat of my heart, and I tally up all the ways that I’m still—biologically at least—somewhat human.