After my shower, my skin is raw. I scrubbed so hard, it still burns. What was I trying to get off me? His touch? His scent? It would be easy if it was only that. But what I don’t understand, what I can’t make sense of, is what happens to me when he touches me.

I’ve never felt safe with anyone. I’ve never really needed anyone.

No, that’s not true. I just pretended all my life that I was fine. That I could handle life. I didn’t need human touch. Didn’t need to be held. When I fucked, I chose who. A bar. A stranger. A one night stand. No names exchanged. No kissing. I used them and I always left first.

It was always a control thing. My vibrator typically gave me more pleasure than any of the men I was with. I just needed to know I didn’t need it. Didn’t need them. Anytime I felt weak or vulnerable, I went on the hunt.

With him, I don’t understand. I don’t get it. He’s forced me here. The deal I made I made for my brother. We both know that. I’m Killian Black’s captive. It’s bullshit he says I can leave any time I want and we both know it. Hell, I’m not allowed anywhere but in three rooms of this massive house, and can’t even walk outside without a goddamned chaperone.

But when he touches me, it’s like my body comes alive. It craves his touch. His hands on me. His mouth. His cock inside me, splitting me in two.

When he knelt between my legs and opened me up, fuck, I can’t even…I could have come from the look in his eyes alone. Then he put his mouth on me and I was lost.

I was his whore.

I am his whore.

Because after that, when he stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ordered me to the floor, I wanted to kneel. To bury my face in the carpet. But I also needed to be made to do it. And I guess in a way, that’s where he’s trustworthy. He will make me.

And this is exactly why he’s dangerous. Because with him, I’m not in control.

I glance at the clock. It’s a little after two in the morning. It’s raining again, I hear it coming down hard against the windows. I throw the covers back and get up. I can’t sleep. I want a drink.

I’m only wearing a tank top so I grab an oversized sweater and slide my arms in, cocoon myself inside it, only realizing my feet are bare when I step out of my room and into the hallway, which isn’t carpeted but hardwood. I almost go back inside to grab a pair of socks because this house always seems to have a chill, but it’s quiet and dark and I decide to go downstairs and just find a bottle of something to bring back to my room. I know where he keeps the liquor, obviously, and it’s one of the rooms I’m allowed in.

I fume at that. I’m allowed in the library. Like I’m a child.

And like a meek, scared little thing, I obey his rules. That knowledge turns my stomach. When did I become a rule follower? When did I obey anyone? It’s not something I’m used to, hasn’t been for a long time. Not since Jones got us out of that house. Before that, I obeyed because it wasn’t me who was punished when I didn’t. It was Jones. Every time.

The memory is crippling. I stop halfway down the stairs and close my eyes, force it back into the closet of my shame. I keep my past there. The years between mom and dad’s death and the day Jones turned eighteen. I wish I could obliterate that time from my head. Get amnesia or something. Although one thing those years and the ones following taught me were that I can put them away. I can shove them into the farthest corner of that room, close the door and lock it. It’s just that the lock is flimsy and pieces of the past seem to creep through the unending cracks in the walls.

But at least I have that room. Those years broke Jones in a way I’ve never been able to put him back together again.

My feet don’t make a sound as I walk down the fourteen steps. I glance around the dark space. One lamp is left on in the living room and although it’s a dim one, it’s enough to guide me. I make my way to the library, open the door quietly, although it appears to be dark. I can’t imagine he’s still in there, but I exhale in relief when I confirm. Leaving the door open so I don’t have to switch on any lights, I go directly to the cart that contains bottle after bottle of high end booze. After a quick inventory, I decide on a bottle of vodka and a glass and turn to leave. It would be better over ice, but I can’t risk that so I’ll have it at room temperature. I’m just glad to have the liquor at all.

I close the door behind me and am heading to the stairs when I hear a sound. It’s quiet, a door sliding open. My heart leaps to my throat and I spin around, expecting everyone to be in bed, expecting to be alone.

The rain is loud, it sounds like a flash flood out there. You never know how powerful those things are until you see one for yourself. See it hurtling boulders and trees like they’re nothing.

That’s all I can think of as I watch him coming in from the sliding glass doors that lead to the back of the property. He’s soaking wet, still dressed in the same button-down shirt and pants he’d had on earlier. Except he’s not wearing shoes. He’s in his socks, and they and his pants are covered in mud. He’s making a mess as he takes three steps inside, sees me, stops.

He sways on his feet and rain is coming into the house, making the marble floor shine. I grip the neck of the bottle with one hand, the crystal tumbler in the other. He looks me over, eyes the bottle, and I notice the flashlight he’s holding in his hand. It’s like he only just realizes the door’s open behind him and turns to close it. He’s drunk, I know he is. And if I were smart, I’d take this moment to disappear up the stairs and into my room like I hadn’t been here at all, but I’m not that smart, so I continue to stand there until he turns around to face me again.

“It’s late,” he mutters, his voice a low, deep grumble. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Where has he been this time of night? In this rain? “What are you doing?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Where are your shoes?”

He looks down like he’s just realized he isn’t wearing any, then looks up at me, and for a split second, I see something strange. Something familiar. Vulnerable. Like all of a sudden, he’s a little kid. A lost little kid. But then he gives his head a shake, turns toward one of the closed doors of the house, digs into his pocket.

“Go to bed. Don’t wander the house at night.” He takes out a ring of keys.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” I say to his back.

He stops, but doesn’t turn. A moment later, I hear the key slide into the lock. “Maybe you should be.” He goes into the dark room. Doesn’t switch on a light. Doesn’t close the door. If he closed the door, perhaps I would have gone up to bed, like he said. But he doesn’t, and so I take a few steps toward it, curious about the room. Curious about him.

I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darker room. I find him sitting on the leather couch, watch him bring a bottle of something to his lips. “You probably shouldn’t drink any more tonight,” I hazard, setting my own pilfered bottle and tumbler on the corner of the huge desk.

He looks up at me, his eyes bright and shining in the darkness, and purposefully takes another sip.

“Go to bed, Cilla.”

I walk to him, I don’t know why, but I do.

No, I know why. It’s what I saw in his eyes a few minutes ago. It’s like something in me recognizes it, recognizes that part of him. Feels somehow kindred to it.

I sit on the couch, not close enough to touch, and notice the muddy prints he’s left on the animal hide area rug beneath my feet.

“Where were you?” I ask.

He turns to me. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“So are you. Why were you outside without your shoes on? Without a coat?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

I look around at the dark walls. They seem to be papered in black and a bookshelf lines two of them. Two windows draped with heavy curtains take up the one behind his chair and there’s a painting I can’t quite make out between them. A laptop sits on top of the desk, and next to it, a cell phone.

When I face him, he’s watching me. “If you were smart, you’d run to your room, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. Again. It’s disarming, but I shrug it off and study his eyes. “Would I be safe there?”

He thinks about this for a while before he finally replies. “No.”

His single word answer is deliberate and it makes a chill run along my spine. He’s being honest though. I think he’s always been honest with me.

We sit like this for what seems like an eternity until he closes his eyes and leans his head back.

“Does it mean you believe in ghosts?” he asks, confusing me.

“What?”

He turns his head, meets my gaze. “You said earlier you’re not afraid of ghosts. Does that mean you believe in them?”

“I…It’s just something I said.”

“You waste words.”

I’m upset by this, by his disapproval. He rises to his feet and stands over me, waiting for me to do the same, I presume. I get up. He sweeps his arm toward the door and I go. The keys hang in the lock, and the door remains open as we go upstairs, him following close behind me. When I get to my room, I reach for the doorknob, but he puts his hand over mine. He’s so close, I can smell him, the whiskey on his breath, the rain on his clothes, the man beneath. I turn my head a little. His is bowed, close, dark eyes burning into me.

“My room,” he grunts. “Tonight, you’ll sleep in my bed.”

This makes my belly flutter, my heart race. Why? Why does he want me in his bed? Him fucking me is messing with me already. Why does he want me in his bed too?

“I don’t…” I start, my voice breaking. “I don’t sleep with anyone.” I hear how ridiculous that sounds.

His eyebrows shoot up but he doesn’t reply, instead, he pries my hand from the doorknob and we walk toward the double doors at the end of the hall. It’s like a movie. Like the corridor is growing longer, the doors larger, the ones to his room looming like a dark omen. He’s already fucked me. Why is this different?

Kill opens one of the two doors and hits a light switch. Two lamps on either side of the king size, four-poster bed come on and the room is bathed in golden light. The frame of the bed is steel, this room modern in comparison to the rest of the house. The carpet is lush and the tones are a deep, dark blue. The curtains are closed, as if someone already readied the room for sleep, and when I hear the door close behind me, I startle.

With a grunt, he points to the bed.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because there are ghosts, Cilla. Angry ones.”

I’m watching him, trying to make sense of what he just said, but he turns and walks into the bathroom, leaving clumps of mud dropping from his clothes. A moment later, I hear the shower go on. I stand there like an idiot. I should do something. Find a weapon or a key or—no that’s stupid. A weapon for what? To do what? A key to leave the house? When I go back on my word, he will hurt Jones. Period. One month. It’s what I agreed to. To be his captive for thirty days. And that means he owns me.

With heavy legs, I walk to the bed. The shower switches off and I quickly duck beneath the covers, turning my back to the bathroom, trying not to think of how the sheets smell like him. I listen to him moving around the room, and a moment later the bed shifts under his weight. An arm wraps around my middle and I gasp when he draws me to him, turns me onto my back.

He’s naked and although we’ve fucked, this is the first time I see his chest. Droplets of water cling to the muscles of his arms and shoulders, the hard ripples of his stomach. The tattoo on his chest, it’s the Joker. And he’s laughing and flipping someone off. Why do I get the feeling the joke’s on him?

When I look up at Kill’s face, I see that his eyes have cleared, the darkness softened a little, giving way to the specks of gold inside, vivid, intent on me, my face, on my eyes, my lips—skimming over my body. They lock on my panties. He pushes my sweater and tank top up a little, exposing my stomach. His fingers are feather light when he touches my belly button, trails a path to the waistband of my underwear. His eyes lock on my sex and I feel my body readying itself to betray me. Readying itself for him. Because I know what he wants. It’s in his too bright eyes. His thick, ready cock.

His fingers slide beneath and he glances at me momentarily before returning his gaze to my sex and drawing my panties down, down, over my hips and thighs, off my feet. He brings them to his nose, watching me as he does this, as he inhales deeply with a satisfied moan. I feel my face burn when he tosses them aside, a knowing look in his eyes. He slides his knees between my legs and spreads them, and I feel his cock on me, on my thigh, my stomach. It leaves pre-cum in the places it touches. He takes my wrists, stretches my arms out to either side of me, holds them there and locks his eyes on mine when he penetrates.

I swallow, my back arching. He slides in easily—I’m slick for him—and I like it. I like that he’s too big. That my body has to stretch to accommodate him. That it hurts to take him. I can give myself to this, right? For one month, I can let myself feel what this is. Whatever it is. This pain and the pleasure. If I choose it, doesn’t that give me the power?

“Mine,” he grunts, as if he’s heard my thoughts.

He’s moving slowly, taking his time, fucking me deep and with purpose, as if he’ll brand me as his with this fucking.

“I like feeling your cunt stretch to take me. I like how tight you are. How ready for me. Always.”

I bite my lip, he’s hit that spot, just the right spot. I close my eyes. I can just feel now. I can just let myself feel this. It would be easy to lose myself in the sensation. I only have to take care I don’t lose myself altogether.

“Open your eyes, Cilla.”

He calls me back and I can do nothing buy obey. I want to see him like this, his big body over mine, his thick cock inside me. I can pretend I’m safe here beneath him. And I want to watch him, watch his face when he comes.

“I smell you before we fuck, you know. In the library too. You want this.”

“I just want to come. Your dick will do for the next month.”

He shakes his head, squeezes my wrists, slips his hands over mine, fingers intertwining, and I find myself gripping him back. Holding tight.

“No. You’re not that simple, Cilla. Something happened to you. Something bad. It damaged you.”

My chest tightens, my throat closes up and my eyes burn. He sees me and I can’t hide from him, not now. Not when he’s so close. Not when he’s inside me.

“Just fuck me, Killian Black. Hard. Fuck me hard.”

“No,” he says, slowing down, moving his hips a little differently, making me feel every inch of him, like he’ll take his time and know every inch of me.

It’s too hard when he’s looking at me like this. When I’m so vulnerable.

I don’t want it to be this way.

I twist away, but he’s got me pinned three ways and I can’t get free. He smiles, like he knows what I’m trying to do. Like he knows what he said is true.

“You own my body. You have no stake over the rest of me.”

“But I’m greedy. I want all of it.” He draws my arms over head so they meet at the top of the bed, and lays his weight on me. He’s moving faster inside me, his cock thicker. He’s going to come soon. But I’m on the edge, closer than he is.

He wraps my hands around the cool steel frame of the bed and I grip tight as his fingers slide down over my arms, the sides of my body, my waist, my skin too sensitive to his touch. He never shifts his gaze as he grips my thighs, fingers digging into tender flesh as he pushes my legs up, forcing them to bend at the knee, opening me so his cock seems to penetrate to my core. Right to my heart.

I give over to sensation, unable not to, and he’s fucking me hard now, not fast, but deeply, intentionally, like he’s making good on his word. Like he’ll take what he wants. He’ll take all of it, all of me, inside and out, and I’m so fucking close, I can’t resist, can’t make the wave that’s coming stop. I can’t get a fucking grip.

A sound leaves my throat, my chest, it’s a sigh and a sob and a moan of utter pleasure, of painful release, and I come. I come. And it’s like I’m drowning. I’m out of air and all I can do is come.

“Cilla,” he groans, and I realize I’ve closed my eyes. He lays his full weight on me and it’s so wet between my legs and he’s throbbing inside me, squeezing my hands again, too hard, too hard so they hurt, and my fingernails cut into my palms.

I can’t breathe, he’s so heavy. His eyes are closed and his face, oh God his face. I can watch his face like this for hours, days, and not get enough. Never enough. Because with him, it’s like with no one else. Like nothing else.

And he is greedy. He will take it all. He’ll take everything from me. Inside and out, he will own me. Destroy me. Decimate me. And when he’s finished, there will be nothing left of me.