Unholy Union

by Natasha Knight

  He won’t force me. I know that. I don’t know why, but I know that.

  Still, I want to fight him, but my body’s reaction to him is something else. Almost submissive as if it wants to give itself to him.

  He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties on either side, and I’m instantly up on my elbows, but when I try to pull away, he closes his hands over my thighs and squeezes to keep me from moving.

  “Be still,” he commands.

  I do as he says because I have no choice.

  His fingers are back inside the waistband of my panties, and he’s sliding them down.

  My heart pounds. I look straight ahead, breathing tightly as he drags them over my bottom, exposing me.

  I don’t dare look back. I can’t look at him now. Not like this.

  “Pretty,” he says, lying back down beside me. From my periphery I see his head is resting on his hand, arm up on elbow. He circles my butt, one cheek then the other and back and forth and back and forth.

  I swallow so loud I’m sure he must hear me.

  But then his hand is gone, and an instant later, he smacks my butt so hard that my breath hisses. My head flies up, back arching, the sound loud and startling. At first, I feel nothing, but then a hot, stinging pain blooms where he just hit me.

  I look at him.

  He grins, holding my gaze, and does it again.

  “Stop!”

  He repeats twice more, once on each cheek.

  I cry out.

  “That’s for my hand. And you’re getting off very easy.”

  I try to pull up, to get away, but he grips a handful of hair, and I can’t move.

  “I told you to be still.” No taunt in his voice now. No smile on his lips. He’s dead serious.

  My body shudders, but it’s not fear I feel. At least it’s not only fear. I don’t think he’ll hurt me. Not really hurt me even given what he just did. The way his father looked at me, he’d kill me in a heartbeat. But Damian, he looks at me differently.

  “Do you think we’ll ever stop dreaming about it?”

  His words come back to me and I realize that in the moment he said them, he was vulnerable. He was raw. He was pain.

  And in that, we are kindred.

  It’s such a strange realization that I subconsciously do as he says and still. I look at him, try to see that part of him again.

  He must feel my acquiescence because he nods, softens his grip, and shifts his gaze to my neck where he pushes the hair off.

  How vulnerable necks are, I think, as he wraps his hand around the back of mine as if to measure it. Perhaps to test his grip. Test how easily he can snap it.

  I hold my breath because I don’t want him to hear my whimpers.

  He draws his hand away, and the next thing I feel is his mouth on me.

  I close my eyes.

  His lips are at the nape of my neck. His mouth is warm and soft, the scruff of his jaw rough, scratching. Together, the sensations they send through me make me shudder.

  The bed shifts again.

  “Look at me.”

  He’s closer. I feel his breath on my cheek.

  “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  I open my eyes and turn my face, laying it on the same pillow as his.

  He caresses my hair, and I think how strange he is. How opposites seem to collide inside him. Hard, then soft. Soothing, then hurting.

  Our faces are inches apart. This is the closest we’ve ever been, I think. The most intimate.

  And all I can think is how beautiful he is. Olive skin. Dark hair. Perfect bones. And charcoal eyes looking at me like this—I don’t think anyone’s ever looked at me like this.

  I think about this bond between us. This thing that needs to be played out. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know that he does either. But Damian and I are locked together for some strange, grim purpose.

  Will we survive it?

  He may since he’s the one pulling the strings.

  But will I?

  A tear slides from my eye and down my cheek.

  His gaze shifts to it, and there’s something almost confused in it. Something entirely absorbed by that tear.

  He brings his thumb to it and traces its progress before shifting his gaze back to mine and lifting his head, coming closer.

  I don’t close my eyes this time. I watch him as he rolls me onto my back and then closes his mouth over mine, kissing me.

  He swallows my whimper as my heart skips a beat. I think he knows the effect he has on me because he draws back and lays his palm on my breast, over my heart.

  I lick my lips, wanting more. I taste whiskey. I can’t move when he slides his hand from my heart into the cup of my bra, thumb on the scar. I can’t close my eyes to hide myself, hide the havoc he’s wreaking inside me as he manipulates my nipple, sending sensation straight between my legs.

  “You like my hands on you.”

  I can’t deny it, not verbally. So, I shake my head, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “You like me kissing you.”

  “No. I—”

  “You’re a bad liar, Cristina,” he says, not letting me finish.

  “I can’t like it, Damian.”

  He stops at that. I stop, too.

  Shit. I said that out loud. “I mean—”

  “Tell me something,” he starts with a grin. “Do you wonder what it’ll feel like?”

  I look at him. “What?”

  “Me fucking you?”

  My stomach flips. Does he see right through me?

  “I do,” he says. “I imagine what you’ll feel like. Warm and wet and soft. Tight too, I’m guessing.”

  “Stop.”

  “You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart.”

  “I do. I hate you.”

  “You may say you hate me, and you may wish you did, but you want me to fuck you, too. Don’t you think I smell it on you? Smell how wet your pussy is?”

  “Uncuff me.”

  “I wonder about the color of your eyes when you come.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I’m going to watch you take me the first time. Watch when I stretch your tight little cunt.”

  “God. I…Please stop.”

  “Is it making you too wet?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “I want it too, sweetheart, but we’ll have to wait. Take care of some things first.”

  “I don’t want you!”

  “No?”

  He sits up, and for a moment, I think he’s going to get off the bed, but he looks down at me and grins. Suddenly, his hand is on my thigh, pulling it apart from the other.

  “Damian!”

  And to my horror, he leans down, and when I open my mouth, it’s on a gasp because his mouth is on me. His lips…my god, the sensation when he runs his tongue over my sex, then closes his mouth over my clit.

  Fuck.

  I let out a moan, and I’m vanquished.

  My back arches and when I dare open my eyes again, Damian is looking down at me, eyes black with want, and a smug, knowing look on his face.

  “You’re soaked, sweetheart.”

  I can’t deny it. He just tasted the evidence.

  My face burns, but he’s not finished yet.

  “And you taste…inexperienced, Cristina. Like a virgin.”

  Can you even taste that?

  “Are you, sweetheart? Is my dick going to be the first you take? Will it be me who makes you bleed? Because I owe you, don’t I? I owe you a bleeding.” He holds up the hand I stabbed.

  “Shut up! Shut the hell up!”

  “Answer me and I will.”

  “How would you know what a virgin tastes like? I’m guessing you only fuck whores. Tell me something, do you have to tie them up so you can touch them?” I push, poking the bear. “Are they as revolted by your touch as I am?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, you’re so far from revolted—”

  “Do you have to cover your mangled hand? Keep your sh
irt on so they don’t see your arm? Your torso?”

  His jaw tightens at that and I know I have him.

  “Do you? So they don’t run and hide from the monster you are?”

  “Be. Careful.”

  But I’m not careful. “Do you force them, Damian?”

  He watches me, anger replacing the arousal and desire in his eyes. His jaw locks tightly. I need to stop. Heed his warning.

  But I can’t.

  “Do you? Like father like son? I get the feeling your father would have no qualms—”

  Before I can even finish his knee is back on the bed and he wraps his big hand around my throat and squeezes.

  “I said be fucking careful,” he says through clenched teeth, voice low and deep and warning.

  I struggle to breathe and tug at my bonds, open and close my mouth, the sound I make weak.

  “I’m your only protector in this house.”

  He releases my throat, and I gasp for air, but he’s not finished yet. Fingers dig into my jaw as he forces me to look up at him.

  “Do not make an enemy of me.”

  “Aren’t we already enemies?” I say, the words painful to get out as his fingers bruise my jaw.

  But even I know I earned his reaction. That was a low blow. All of it—everything I just said.

  He lets my jaw go and reaches his hand over my head. I don’t know what I expect, but to my surprise, he uncuffs me. I guess I thought he’d leave me bound and hit me. More than just those smacks from earlier.

  When I’m free, I draw my hands down and rub my wrists.

  His eyes never leave mine as he gets up off the bed. It’s the strangest thing that for a moment, I feel the absence of him. Even as he looks down at me—expression dark again, shielded, betrayed—I feel that absence.

  He takes a step back, but when I shudder, he picks up the blanket and tosses it over me, leaving me more confused than ever. Without another word, he crosses the room, switching on the lamp farthest from the bed, the one I’d left on while sleeping last night. It’s just a little brighter than a nightlight, and I wonder if it’s there for that purpose. Because he remembers my fear of the dark. Because I am still afraid.

  He digs his hand into his pocket as he reaches the one door that I’ve not been able to open and unlocks it. He opens it and disappears into the darkness there.

  18

  Cristina

  I stay where I am for a long time, trying to process what just happened. What I learned.

  He’s been very much in control of himself even in extreme pain, but when I mentioned his scarred hand and then accused him of being like his father, he lost that control.

  As sensitive as I am about my scar, I don’t feel good about what I said because I did see that hint of betrayal in his eyes.

  I think back to the events in the dining room. To how Damian was when his father was rolled into the room. I think how he held on to me to keep me from lunging, but I also think—and I don’t know why I think this—that he clung to me to keep himself from lunging at the old man’s throat.

  He hates him.

  Damian Di Santo hates his father.

  Sitting up, I pull up my panties. My thoughts shift to my reaction to his touch. To his mouth.

  Why didn’t I kick him away? Why didn’t I make him have to hold me down to get his taste?

  Taste.

  Fuck.

  His mouth on me…I’ve never felt anything like that.

  I shake my head, dislodging the thoughts. I should have fought him, yes, but he was right. I did like his hands on me. And I liked his mouth on me even more.

  I climb out of the bed and go to the dresser to pull on an oversized sweater along with a pair of jeans and socks. I don’t put shoes on because I don’t want him to hear me.

  Picking up the ruined dress from the floor at the foot of the bed, I drop it into the trash can in the bathroom.

  I walk to the door he went through and put my ear against it to listen for him. I try the handle as quietly as I can. If he’s on the other side, I don’t want him to know what I’m doing. I guess I’m relieved when I find it locked. I don’t want to face him again, not right now.

  Turning back into my room, I glance at the other door. I try to remember if he locked it when he came in, and don’t recall that he did. Although I might have been too distracted to notice.

  I go to it, unsure what I’ll do if it’s unlocked. Would I run away if I had the chance? He told me the place is surrounded by woods, and I believe him. But even if it wasn’t, if I run away, he can hurt my family, and I won’t take a chance on that happening.

  Taking a deep breath in, still undecided, I try the door.

  And when it gives, I’m startled.

  I stand there for a long minute rooted to the spot. What will I do? I can leave my room.

  Liam would walk straight out of here without a moment’s hesitation. I’m not quite that brave, though. But I force myself to move. To step out into the dimly lit corridor. The alternative would make me a good prisoner. A compliant one. Exactly what I cannot be. What I will not be.

  I try to retrace our steps of earlier. He brought me back up a different way than we went down to dinner, but I think I can remember the way downstairs.

  It’s dark and chilly. I remember the main part of the house was warmer and brighter. After two wrong turns, I find it. I get to the landing and see the large staircase leading down, see the fireplace in which the fire has died to embers, and I smile at this feat.

  It may not be much to someone else, but it’s everything to me.

  I take my time, listening for any sound and only moving when I’m sure I’m alone. The silence here is almost eerie and I swear I feel like someone’s watching me, but there’s no one. There can’t be because they’d most likely stop me.

  Creeping toward the staircase like an intruder, I make my way down and decide what I’m going to do. Having a purpose gives me a little strength. I need to find a phone and call Liam. I need to let him know I’m okay and see if he found anything about Damian that I can use. And I need to hear the voice of someone who doesn’t hate me.

  It’s warmer here, even without the fire going. I guess they have modern heating capabilities although I wonder how old the house is.

  But then as I near the first-floor landing, I see something, and I can’t believe my luck.

  There, by the front doors, lying on the floor, is the knife I used to stab him.

  I guess he’d forgotten to clean it up. Or maybe he just assumed whoever would wipe up the blood would pick it up too.

  I hurry to grab it, trying not to look at all the faces on the doors desperate to claw their way out of hell.

  The blood has dried on it, but for a moment, I remember the sensation of stabbing him. I hadn’t done it consciously, but maybe that’s a good thing. I’m not sure I could have if I’d thought about it too long.

  Although I’m sure these doors will be locked, I try them anyway. Nothing gives though, so I move in the opposite direction of the living room where the light is still on.

  This part of the house is darker, and I don’t want to turn on any lamps. Grateful for the moonlight, I draw the curtain back on one of the large windows and peer outside. From what I can see, he wasn’t lying. Beyond the circular drive is forest, and the road that leads up to the house is lit by lamps that seem to go on for miles.

  Just then, movement outside has me jump back from the window. From off to the side, I watch as two men armed with rifles across their chests walk across the driveway and pass the house. In the distance, I see another structure with lights on. It’s tall, maybe a guard tower?

  One of the men is smoking. I know when the tip of the cigarette lights up as he drags in a breath, then tosses it to the ground. He doesn’t bother to crush it out. I watch as the light fades and the men disappear in the direction of that tower.

  Maybe they’re out doing their rounds, a check of the perimeter? I wish I knew exactly where we were.
>
  A sound has me turning around, gripping my knife as I press my back against the wall. But it remains silent after that, and I wonder if it was human or ghost.

  I sneak around the room, which appears to be a more formal living room, looking for a phone but don’t find one. Back in the foyer, I head toward a closed door. There’s no light inside and when I try it, it’s locked. Same thing happens with the other two doors, and when I turn a corner, I stop dead when I see the elevator there.

  Damian’s father must have used it to come down to the first floor. Being in a wheelchair, he’s certainly not using the stairs.

  Thoughts of that man make me shudder, and I know, given the choice, I’d run into Damian’s arms if I ever was confronted with it. Not that I think he’ll save me or cares about me. I just feel, with Damian, it’s different. That I’m safer, as stupid as that sounds.

  I don’t know what it is. I can’t make sense of the thoughts.

  Turning back in the direction from which I came, I head toward the living and dining rooms. From here, I can access the kitchen. The shattered remnants of my glass still liter the floor, and the wine itself has seeped into the stone. I guess they won’t clean up until the morning. Damian had sent Elise to bed.

  I’m about to head toward the kitchen doors when I hear a sound and see lights blinking outside. A truck?

  Voices come from the kitchen, a man and a woman. A delivery from what I can make out. I guess the kitchen is out. Although what was I going to do? Look for an unlocked back door? And go out into the night with those armed men walking the property? I get the feeling they’d shoot first and ask questions later.

  I move back toward the stairs, listening for anyone else as I hurry up to the second floor. If someone is in the kitchen taking a delivery, then it may be later than I realize, and the staff will be up soon. I need to get back to my room before I run into anyone.

  Making my way toward my darker corridors, I pass the one where I’d mistakenly run last night. Where Damian had caught me.

  Something draws me toward it even as something else equally strong warns me to stay away. My feet move of their own accord, and as I get deeper, I hear a sound. It’s faint. I have to stop to be sure it’s real, but yes, there it is.

  Piano music.