by K. Webster
She clings to me.
Me.
The motherfucking avenging angel of death.
As though I’m her savior.
Fucking hell.
I stroke her spine softly. The bones protrude and for some reason that annoys the fuck out of me.
“I have no one,” she rasps.
My heart ceases to beat in my chest. “You have Alan.”
“He’s like you when you’re acting all crazy.”
The others called me crazy plenty of times and it earned them pain. With Natalie, I find it amuses me because she says it in a pouty way. As if we’re not in the most fucked up situation on the planet. Like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend and I tickled her too hard or some shit.
“I’m always crazy,” I challenge. Just ask Savvy. She’d agree, even if she is crazy for my dick.
Her palm slides up my chest and settles at the side of my neck. She tilts her face up and regards me with a somber expression. “Not always.”
A pain aches in my chest and I don’t like it. I like when I’m numb. When I’m controlling the rage and hate that surges through me like a motherfucking river. This ache is foreign and unwelcome. An ache that hasn’t existed in over a decade.
She presses a kiss to my lips and anger swells up inside me.
“You’re not supposed to kiss cruelty and hate, honey.” And I’m not supposed to kiss sweet motherfucking innocence. We go together like oil and water. My lips crush hers and I kiss her deeper. I show her I’ll kiss the life right out of her. I’ll kiss away her last breath. I’ll hold her when her soul bleeds from her body and her eyes drift closed one last time.
But you saved her.
A groan rumbles through me and I start to pull away. She whines, tugging me closer. I’m so fucking scrambled by this woman. They don’t want me. How could they? I’m their executor. They hate me. She hates me.
“Cole,” she breathes against my mouth.
My dick is hard in my jeans, eager and hungry for her. I roll her onto her back on the small bed and settle myself between her thighs. She moans when I grind against her.
“Wake the fuck up, honey,” I snap, rocking harder against her. “I’m not your prince charming. I’m not here to fucking save you. I took you to hurt you. I took you to end you.”
“What if you kept me instead?” she murmurs.
I lift up and glower down at her. With her lashes fanned out over her rosy apple cheeks, she could pass for Anta. But then the enchantress opens her eyes and stares up at me as if I’m the goddamned key to her future.
I am no key.
There are no doors out of here.
I am the end.
What if you kept me instead?
The thought is an annoying one, but not a hated one. My demons struggle with this idea. Do we keep her and torture her until the end of time? Do we keep her just to keep her?
“Cole…”
Fuck, the way she says my name is so distracting.
“Cole…”
She knows what she’s doing. I would say she’s manipulating me, but her gray eyes are so fucking pure. My dick is winning over any evil thoughts and I quickly free it from my jeans. Hot, heavy, and aching in my hand, I tease the tip of it against her opening that is slick and needy.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Hurt her. Break her. Make her bleed.
Don’t fucking fuck her.
We both groan as I slowly push inside her tight body. Her fingernails—nails that still exist despite the others losing them by this point—cut into my flesh. She tightens her legs around me and digs her heels into my ass. My lips crash to hers again. I want to taste her soul. If it’s as innocent as she likes to pretend, I want to lick and bite and devour it. I want to inhale it. I want to smear it all over my fucking body.
“Cole,” she cries out, her body beginning to shudder as pleasure starts teasing her.
Make her suffer.
Don’t give her what she wants.
Torture. Maim. Kill.
“You want your nightmare’s cock,” I murmur. “You want me to fill you the fuck up, honey. Admit it.”
“I do, Cole.”
I clench my eyes closed as I thunder my hips against her. The pleasure is too intense. With the others, they were a body going through the motions in hopes of surviving. Not an active participant begging for me.
Slipping my fingers to her cunt, I enjoy the way she shudders at my touch. Her clit is swollen and eager for me. I stroke her roughly in tandem with my erratic thrusting. Her cunt grows extra juicy the closer she gets to climaxing.
“You’re soaking the bed, honey. You’re just as fucked up for enjoying this. I’m the bad guy,” I remind her sharply.
“I know,” she groans. “Oh, God. Don’t stop!”
Her cunt clutches me as she shudders. I can feel it milking me with each contraction, pulling my own release easily from me. My cum shoots inside her, filling her little body up.
She’ll get pregnant.
It will happen.
If I keep fucking her like this, it will happen.
Then I’ll have to kill them both.
Quickly, shoving that thought into the recesses of my mind, I pull out of her. My cum runs out of her red pussy and soaks the bed below. Bruises are already beginning to crisscross her flesh from the rope. With her tits jiggling and her lips still parted in ecstasy, she looks beautiful.
Anta was beautiful too.
I came plenty of times for that psycho whore.
“Cole,” Natalie says, urgency in her tone as she reaches for my hand. “I’m not her.”
Jerking away from her and standing beside the bed, I yank my jeans back into place and fasten them. “Maybe not,” I agree begrudgingly, “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. I can call you Natalie and still cut you limb from limb before tossing your screaming ass into the Pacific to drown.”
Her features crumple at my lie.
And fuck if it wasn’t the biggest one I ever told.
She’s changing everything and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
I LISTEN AS THE HOUSE creaks and groans as the wind threatens to topple it over. A storm is rolling in and it couldn’t match my heart anymore if it tried. I’m rocking back and forth on what feels like a boat with a hole in it. If I don’t play my cards exactly right, I’ll drown. And Cole Heart will be the one to do it.
It’s been three days since he nearly killed me. Three days since I desperately wanted him to fuck me and make me feel alive. But the moment he hastily drew away from me and left me, I sat alone with my thoughts.
This man wants to kill me.
He’s not some hero who saved me from Alan.
Yes, I’m free from Alan at the moment, but it doesn’t mean I’ll always be. Furthermore, I may never leave this house. I’ll die a horrible death just like that of my mother. It’s the Dusana name. We’re cursed.
I thought I could crack Cole. To get him to see me and help me. He claims he’s done terrible things to others before me, but for some reason he doesn’t seem to want to carry through when it comes to me.
Thunder vibrates the windows and I shiver. I’m naked and alone. Nothing to entertain me. No blankets or clothes. Dirty and used. Curling into a ball, I wonder if today will be the day he speaks to me. He brings me my meals a couple times a day but doesn’t speak to me. The pain of the ropes or the chain he’s yet to put back on me seem miniscule in comparison to being ignored. When I was with Alan, that’s all I wanted. With Cole, I don’t want him to ignore me. I want him to see me. To realize I’m not some captive. I am a woman who deserves so much more than this.
The door opens within the house and his heavy footsteps can be heard as he thuds inside. My heartrate quickens and I feel stupid. Why I crave this man’s attention is beyond me. He’s a monster like Alan. Hell, all men probably are for all I know. I shiver and try to warm myself up. It’s not dinner time yet according to the obnoxiously ticking clock on the wall, so I kno
w it’ll be a while before he comes inside. After the first day of his cold indifference, I stopped trying to speak or look at him. Simply took my food for fear of it being the last meal.
Now, I’m not even hungry.
I don’t even care to eat.
I wish I could close my eyes and sleep forever.
The click of the lock sounds behind me, but I don’t turn toward it. Not anymore. I stare at the dark gray skies as the storm rolls in and threatens to sweep us off this cliff. The door creaks open and he steps inside. My hairs stand on end, as though Zeus himself is standing behind me, radiating energy. He’s lethally quiet and I worry for what that means for me.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
He steps closer and closer until cold rainwater droplets sting my skin as they fall from him onto me. I shiver but don’t make any moves to look at him.
“Anta,” he says sharply.
I don’t flinch. I also don’t answer because it’s not my freaking name.
“Anta.” This time he says it with more venom.
“Natalie,” I murmur in response.
I can feel the heat of his hand at my shoulder, but he doesn’t actually touch me. It’s like he wants to but holds back for some reason.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“No.”
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Bored?”
“No.”
“Want to shower?”
“No.”
A huff of frustration escapes him. “Don’t lie to me.”
But I’m not lying.
His fingers run through my dirty, greasy hair and he sighs. “Shower and I’ll give you something you want.”
But I don’t want anything he has to give.
I want to be free.
He’s made it loud and clear he’s not giving me that.
“Up, Natalie.”
I close my eyes, hoping he’ll just go away.
A gasp rasps from me when he picks me up. His wet jacket against my naked body chills me to the bone. I shiver in his grasp and curl more into myself. He carries me through his home to the bathroom where he sets me to my feet.
“I don’t want to be a prisoner,” I tell him quietly as he turns on the water.
He turns to look at me and his brown eyes are hard. “Neither did I.”
I stare down at the floor as the water heats. When he starts shedding his clothes, I can’t help but check him out. He’s a psychopathic, murdering, kidnapping monster. And yet I’m still attracted to him. It just goes to show, Alan drove me off the cliff of sanity years ago.
Everything about Cole screams power and horror. Beautiful terror. His skin is painted from his feet all the way up to his neck. Tattoos tell a story but upon closer inspection, they’re hiding something. An awful past. Scars, ragged and plentiful, leave a trail of destruction barely kept hidden beneath the ink. His body is sculpted as though from stone and every muscle ripples with the slightest of movements. My eyes settle on his long, thick, flaccid cock. The dark hair there is trimmed neat. I suppose even psychopaths manscape.
“I’m not here to fuck you,” he bites out. “I’m here to clean you.”
My body reacts when he steps nearer. Nipples harden. Heart rate picks up. Skin pebbles with anticipation. He’s been inside of me. To punish me. And yet, I look forward to his touch.
It was never like this with Alan.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to think about Alan. His abuse was different. Something I could barely handle. Alan’s was laced with dread and despair. Cole’s is laced with…hope?
Like something deep down inside of me feels as if he could be swayed. That he might change his mind and decide I’m not this Anta who hurt him. That he won’t torture and kill me. He’ll just help me.
Strong fingers wrap around my biceps and I’m guided under the hot spray. It feels so good and relaxing that I sag beneath it. Water runs through my hair and down my face. I open my mouth and let it run inside. Cole’s arm wraps around me and I’m pulled to his hard chest as we share the heated spray. Everything in me pleads to push away from him. Yet, I can’t. I rest my cheek against his chest as silent tears begin to fall. When he strokes his palm down my back, a strangled sound of sadness escapes me.
God, how I’ve missed a gentle embrace.
I took all Mom’s hugs for granted.
If only I could turn back time. I’d cherish them all.
He steps away and I hate that I miss the loss of him. My curious eyes reopen and I watch as he pours shampoo into his palm. Everything about this feels normal. Like in an alternate world, people like us could be a couple who showered together and had a life.
But we’re not in an alternate world.
We’re in this one.
It’s twisted and ruined.
“Turn around,” he instructs.
I obey and then let out a moan when he begins washing my hair. I’m not sure why he’s suddenly being nice, but it feels like a trick. Alan always had tricks. It was always a psychological game to destroy my mind. With Alan, I was good at figuring out his games. With Cole, I’m not sure what his play is or what the end result is. So, for now, I just enjoy having my hair washed.
He washes it twice and then conditions it before he sets to washing my body. My skin heats at his touch, making me further hate myself. I want to blame Alan for twisting my life for the past few years into one that revolved around sadistic sex. I cooked, I cleaned, and I was Alan’s for the using and abusing. Now, my body hums and sings with the need to physically connect.
Cole finishes me up and then sets to washing himself. It’s erotic watching the soap suds slide down his muscles and along each groove. I stare unabashedly as the suds slide down his cock and fall to the floor. His dick is at semi attention and I wonder how long before it’ll be completely hard. Will he give up this charade and fuck me?
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and grip his dick. It jolts in my grasp. His hand snags my wrist, nearly crushing my bones to dust in his hold.
“No,” he growls.
I lift my gaze to his and frown.
“And your fucking pouting won’t work either,” he snaps.
But his dick is completely hard in my hand. I squeeze him like he squeezes my wrist. A sharp intake of breath rushes into his lungs. His brown eyes are liquid fire as he stares at me. All hate and anger have morphed into something more sinful.
“Stop your fucking games,” he warns. “I won’t be played because my dick likes you.”
With my eyes on his, I wrap my other hand around the base of his shaft. This seems to set him off because rage overcomes him. He easily wrenches my hands away and grabs my wet hair. I’m twisted around and slammed into the tile wall. It’s cold against my breasts.
“Is this what you want?” he threatens, his cock rubbing along the crack of my ass.
When I don’t answer, he kicks my right foot out to the side, the bones of his ankle knocking against mine. His cock presses against the entrance of my pussy and with a hard thrust, he drives inside me. I cry out in surprise but not from pain. Alan always took me dry. With Cole, my body seems to always be lubricated for him. His strong arm hooks around my middle and he holds me tight as he fucks me hard. My abdomen is still bruised from the ropes, but those little lines of pain remind me I’m still alive.
“You’re. So. Fucking. Difficult.” He punctuates each word by slamming into me. From this position, he feels bigger and longer. As though his body is too large for mine. His face nuzzles against my wet hair and a rush of heat explodes inside of me. The way he kisses the side of my neck, almost reverently, has me whimpering.
Why can’t he stop wanting to hurt me and just help me?
His strong fingers slide between the lips of my pussy and he rubs against my clit with purpose. It doesn’t take him long before he strums me right into an orgasm that has me blacking out with pleasure. I don’t fall to the shower floor in a heap because he anticipates my weakness and keeps me
pinned to the wall. A feral grunt rips from him and then he’s filling me with his own release. His cock jolts and spasms until he’s completely emptied himself.
“I wasn’t going to do that,” he grumbles against my hair.
“I’m glad you did,” I murmur.
He swats my still-sensitive pussy and I clench around his softening cock. He pulls out of me despite the fact I can feel him hardening again.
“It won’t happen again.” And then he laughs, real and genuine, because even he knows that’s a lie.
I bite my lip and try not to admit to myself just how much I want it to happen again.
I want to hear that laugh again, too.
SHE EMERGES HALF AN HOUR later having used the hair dryer on the sink and donning the T-shirt and sweatpants I left out for her. Her gray eyes watch me warily, but at least they aren’t dead and impassive like earlier.
I shouldn’t care.
I shouldn’t do a lot of things.
I ought to stick to my code and order.
Torture the fuck out of her like Anta did to me.
But each second I’m around this chick, I can’t help but notice their differences. The differences are what’s saving her. The differences are putting some distance between my furious hate and this. Whatever this is. Curiosity? Interest? My dick stands at attention when she’s near. When I breathe her honey scent in. All I know is the urge to carve her up like a motherfucking pumpkin simmers in the back of my mind rather than boils over front and center. No, I want to do other things to her. Mostly, I want to figure her out and see what it is about her that’s fucking my mind up.
“Uh, thank you,” she says as she slowly walks into the living room. I didn’t tell her she could come out here, but she’s taking the liberty. She’s being brave.
And she’s fucking thanking me.
This is what’s different, I think. She’s innocent and sweet. Anta and all those other whores just like her were wicked and evil. Natalie is different and that intrigues me. Sometimes it even makes me feel guilty.
“Come sit,” I say, patting my lap.
I want to see her eyes widen in fear, but she smiles. Fucking smiles. Like she wants to touch me. And she does. I can see it in her eyes and feel it in the way she comes apart at my touch. I want to know what Alan Dusana did to her to change her into this. I’ve scoured his house, stalked his office, and researched the shit out of him. Whatever he does behind closed doors with Natalie is kept under lock and key. I do know, from observation, that he kept her trapped in that loft with little to no belongings and made her wear a bloody, ripped up dress. It’s all the whys I’m having trouble finding answers to.
