by Sadie Grubor
I want to disagree, argue that no one deserves what we did last night, but deep down, I know all too well that some people do, and that's when the next memory replays.
The serrated blade I'd held, as I turned all my malevolent desires onto one man—the man who starred in my childhood nightmares and marked me as a woman.
Uncaring about the water temperature, I twist knobs until cold water sprays my skin. The shock of it settles some of my impending breakdown. Wrapping my arms around my body once more, I lean back against the tiled wall. As the water warms, tears start to slip over my cheeks.
Sliding down the wall to the floor, I pull my legs to my chest and latch my arms around them. Face buried in my knees, I try to block it all out, to forget, but I've made a horrible mistake. The moment my eyes shut, everything plays out like a twisted snuff film in my head.
He wouldn't approve. All the unnecessary mess. The thoughts burrow deeper into my mind. Father would never leave so many marks on perfectly good skin.
Rocking on the floor of the shower, I slap a hand over my mouth and stifle a sob.
Lifting my other hand, I open my eyes and expect to see his hair—the hair I still feel against my palm. Shutting my lids once again, the knife against his neck accompanies the scent of blood and fear I recall pouring out of Arman's body while I made sure he remembered the fear of a young girl and the anger of the woman holding his life in her hands.
Another cry breaks through the hand on my mouth, recalling how I didn't allow him to confess his sins or beg for forgiveness. Because he didn't deserve that. His apologies fell on a bad girl's ears.
The memories play out so vividly, so intense, a metallic scent fills my nose and teases my taste buds. Echoes of painful groans fill my ears, until they're replaced by Saint and my moans of pleasure.
"Oh God!" The sobbed words slip between the fingers pressed to my mouth.
Daddy wouldn't approve of the methods, but he would have been proud of one thing: I remembered his anatomy lessons.
My internal struggle between right and wrong, good and bad, and should and shouldn't has drawn a line in the blood-stained floor. And it's falling on the wrong side. All of my demons run untethered beneath my flesh, free to act on all my unnatural desires.
Hitting my head against the tile wall, I try to knock sense into myself—repeatedly—trying my hardest not to let the same satisfactions and pleasures from last night creep back in.
"Mei." His deep baritone is followed by hands on my arms. "Christ," he growls, "the water is freezing."
Saint's arms wrap around me and lift me from the floor, interrupting my downward spiral. Carrying me out of the shower, he takes me back to bed, wrapping the sheet around my body and draping the comforter across my shoulders.
"What happened?" His hands grasp the sides of my face.
I close my eyes, just now noticing the chattering of my teeth.
"Jesus, Mei," he scoffs, pushing away from me.
At his retreat, I open my eyes, afraid he's finally repulsed enough to walk away. But he only turns on the fireplace before returning to me.
Kneeling on the floor between my legs, he takes my face in his hands once again before searching my scalp with his fingertips. I wince when he touches the place I hit against the wall.
"What. Happened," he says, his question now a demand.
Shaking my head, I try to free his hold on me, but it doesn't work.
"Let go," I rasp.
His brow furrows.
"There's one thing we need to be absolutely fucking clear about." The harshness of his voice makes me swallow the lump of emotion in my throat. "You belong to me, Dahlia."
At my real name, I stiffen, staring at him.
"You gave that to me," he responds to my reaction. "I didn't take it, and I sure as fuck won't give it back."
"Tell me last night was a bad dream," I beg, reaching up and latching my hands onto his wrists. "That it was only a nightmare."
The left corner of his mouth curls into a devious smirk.
"Last night was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he rumbles, daring me to argue.
A sob lodges in my throat and tears blur my vision.
"Is that what this is about?" he asks, incredulous. "Last night?"
I try to turn away again, but it's impossible with his hold on my face. Too bad he can't stop the tears from coming.
"Look at me," he demands.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Releasing my face, he stands.
"Don't waste tears on that worthless asshole," he states, his words a vehement decree.
He's angry at me? My own anger flares to life and I snap my eyes open.
"I'm not crying over him," I say through clenched teeth.
Saint lifts one brow, challenging my statement.
Shoving the blankets from my body, I climb to my feet. Standing on the mattress and forcing him to raise his head to meet my eyes, I shout, "I mourn the loss of what little soul I had left."
He blinks at my declaration.
"I've fought so hard to keep…" I trail off, unable to find the right words.
"To keep what?" he presses, placing his hands on my bare hips.
"To not let it out," I try to explain, praying he'll understand.
"Let what out?" he pushes.
My frustration with him not getting it and with myself for not being able to find the right words wins out. "The darkness he put inside me."
Eyes wide and nostrils flaring, his fingers flex into the flesh of my hips.
"Who put in you?" Saint asks, but I ignore the question.
"And now, I can feel it everywhere," I continue, lifting my palms between us. "It's beneath my skin, in my veins, free." Dropping my hands, I meet his heated stare. "There's no escaping it now." My voice cracks.
"It's perfect," he says with little emotion.
"It's terrifying," I counter.
"It's you." He pulls me toward him.
His hands slip over my skin, one pressing to my lower back the other sliding up between my shoulder blades.
"Dahlia, it's you.”
"I can't be that," I tell him.
"Why? Who says you can't?"
"I can't," I snap.
"Well, I can't allow a man like Arman to live," he growls, arms tightening.
My eyes widen, and I retort, "So, you just get to kill every asshole?"
"If they fall out of line, then I do what is requested and necessary to protect the family." He pauses, moving one hand to the curve of my ass. "And if they touch you, then yes. I absolutely get to kill them."
I open my mouth to argue, but he's not finished.
"However, after last night, I can see I won't need to."
It's my turn to furrow my brow in confusion.
"You, my deadly doll," he starts, hands sliding to my ribs. "Are capable of gorgeous vengeance," he finishes, pressing his lips to my stomach. "You are a goddess among mortals."
"What's right and wrong is being swallowed up," I whisper, the words weak and lacking vehemence.
"Righteousness is subjective. And last night, it secured your fate to be at my side."
I stiffen, and he lifts his head.
"Mei," he says, returning to my false name, my mask.
I drop my face to meet his gaze.
"You've killed me again," I admit in a low voice.
Everything I'd built and buried has crumbled around me. I can don the Mei mask, but Dahlia has been reborn. He's resurrected her without understanding the crazy, dark, and twisted things that follow her.
Pleased with himself, he grins. "What are you so afraid of?"
"How much I like it," I only half lie, keeping my past to myself.
His touch on my ribs tightens. Eyes still on mine, he drops his chin, just a little. Then his tongue snakes out, tasting the skin above my belly button.
"You." He presses a kiss to the same spot. "Have." His lips move over my skin. "Nothing." Full, soft, hot, and moving lower. "To worry about," he f
inishes, kissing just above my mound before slipping his tongue between my thighs.
I gasp.
Licking, tasting, he continues his assault and moves his hands over my hips to my thighs. Curving them around the backs of my legs, he pulls my legs out, causing me to fall back on the bed. Before I can catch my breath, he's between my legs.
"Just thinking about last night…" He closes his eyes, licking his bottom lip. Instead of finishing, he buries his face between my thighs.
He's thorough, hard, and as demanding as ever. Ordering me to call his name, not Saint, but Dante, and to admit that I, Dahlia, belong to him alone. And this time, they aren't just demands I expect from him, but things I desperately want myself. Saint owning my name, body, and soul should terrify me, but I can't find the desire to dwell on it.
Exhausted by both my mini breakdown and the deliciously dirty things Saint did to my body, I lie stomach down in the bed. Head turned away from Saint, my eyes focus on a dark stone in the wall. With each blink, my eyelids grow heavier, until I can no longer keep them open.
The warmth of Saint's body presses along my side, his hand sliding across on my lower back, his calloused fingers moving over my bared skin. Palming my right ass cheek, he splays his fingers. Pressing his mouth to my shoulder, he says, "Which birth control, if any, are you on?"
His hand flexes against my flesh before moving lower, curving between my thighs and running his fingers through our mixed releases.
My eyes snap open, mind racing to count down the days of my last period.
"I know it's a requirement at the club," he continues. His fingers move lazily against me as if this isn't a moment to panic. "But," he says, pressing another kiss to my shoulder, "I'm well aware rules aren't always upheld."
"I—" I choke, unable to answer him.
"You what?" His voice grows more serious, perhaps noticing the tension in my body.
His hand disappears from between my legs, gripping my right arm. Rolling to his back, he pulls me against his chest. Sliding a hand into my hair, he fists, bringing my face to his.
"You aren't on anything?" he says, his voice rough and low.
My body, as it always does with him, reacts opposite of the way it should. Clit throbbing, my lower body flares to life, and I can only pray my nipples aren't noticeably hard.
When a muscle ticks in his jaw, I rush to get my words out.
"No—" I blurt.
Before I can finish, his hand tightens in my hair.
"No." It's not a question.
"Yes—" I try again to explain.
"Yes?" Now, it's a question. An annoyed one accompanied by a furrow. "Which is it?"
"You asked if I wasn't on anything," I explained.
"And you said you weren't," he growled.
Wincing when I try to shake my head, I try to clarify, "I said no, meaning I am on something."
His hand flexes once more in my hair before easing.
"I get a shot every few months at the clinic," I rush out before he cuts me off like before. "It's good for another four weeks at least."
Brow still furrowed, his lips thin. The look is all I need to know he doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm lying.
Placing my hand on his chest, I reassure, "I swear, I've been getting the shot since I started at the club and learned about Planned Parenthood."
"How effective is it?" he asks in the same low voice.
"Ninety-nine percent. I typically go five days early, before it runs out, to be sure I'm not late with—"
"You won't need to make further appointments," he cuts me off—again.
Closing my mouth, I wait for him to explain. Maybe he has a personal doctor I'm supposed to use. Something like that, but he says nothing more.
Instead, releasing my body back to the mattress, he climbs from the bed. The quick, jerky movements make his displeasure clear, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why. Naked, he disappears into the bathroom, roughly closing the door behind him.
Confused, unsure, and a little afraid, I pull myself up. Back to the headboard and knees to my chest, I stare at the wooden door he's shut himself away behind. Minutes feel like hours until he emerges. Still naked, he crosses the room. At the fireplace, he places his hands on the mantel and bows his head.
"There's something you need to understand and reconcile yourself to now," he orders.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I drop my legs, stretching them out, and sit up straight.
He's going to tell me he doesn't want children, forbid me from ever getting pregnant. Surprisingly, a small twinge of regret pangs in my chest, but it's smothered at the thought of being a mother. I would make a terrible mother. The only time I experienced a true mother was snuffed out by my past in one blood and terror filled night.
How could someone as twisted as me ever deserve or raise a child? I've reconciled myself to all of it before he finally makes his declaration.
"You're mine," he reminds. "You and I both know it." He twists his head to look over his shoulder at me.
Knowing what he wants and before he can ask, I say, "Yes."
At my confirmation, he pushes away from the mantel. Crossing his arms over his chest, he approaches the foot of the bed. Eyes locked to mine, he holds my gaze for long moments before continuing.
"I'm not used to things being out of my reach," he states. "It may take time, but I get what I want. Do you understand?"
I give a small nod, and the lines around his eyes soften, a warmth creeping in.
"But the time it's taking with you is driving me mad," he growls, and I furrow my brow.
"I just said I'm yours," I say, but the words sound like a question.
Dropping his hands, he clenches his fists at his sides.
"But I want all of you," he says through clenched teeth.
I open my mouth, but he's not finished, so I snap it shut.
"Your secrets, your past, your present, and your future will belong to me, Mei."
I stiffen.
"Don't think for one moment I won't possess every last part of you." His words border on threatening.
A part of me bristles, reminded by another man who desired to possess things, women, children…dolls.
"Physically, emotionally, legally, and in blood, I want you." He runs his hands over his face, shouting, "It's driving me to distraction and I can't afford distractions right now."
I jump, dropping my eyes to the mattress. His last statement plants a seed of curiosity.
The bed dips, drawing my eyes to Saint. He crawls up my body, straddling my thighs. Taking my head in both his hands, he confesses in a low voice, "I need to possess you the way you possess me. Because the power you hold over me…" he lets the words fade, but they embolden me.
Placing my hands on his knees, I slide them up and down his thighs. He closes his eyes and smiles.
Stretching my neck, I press my lips to his. Instead of him invading my mouth as I expect, he pulls away.
"You'll no longer need the shot," he states.
My hands freeze on his thighs.
"You'll be pregnant sooner than later. I'll make sure of it, by fucking you often." His mouth conquers mine, demanding and taking. Pulling away and panting, he continues, "and without anything between us."
Shaking my head, I whisper, "I can't be someone's mother."
"You will make a fierce mother." He sounds so sure of it, but I know differently.
Before I can argue, he repeats his words from earlier, "Reconcile yourself to it. I will have all of you. The way you have all of me."
Panicking at the thought of impending motherhood, defiance pushes the next words from my mouth. "I don't have all of you," I snap. "Your wife has a part."
The right side of his mouth curves, amused. It pisses me off and I try to pull away. Saint tightens the hold on my head, forcing my eyes to his.
"I like your jealousy," he taunts.
Grabbing his wrists, I try to pull his hands off me.
"Stop,
" he orders. "She has a piece of paper," he concedes. "Which will be dissolved in time."
My eyes widen as shame sends a chill up my spine. Marriage, children, partner in crime, and homewrecker are just some of the things he's decided I should accept. I won't deny the small thrill tingling my stomach, but I'm not sure I can be this creature he's decided I'm to be.
"When I said legally, I meant, you will be mine in marriage," he clarifies, bringing his face close to mine and adding, "Among the other ways I'll have you."
Nose to nose, he sweeps his tongue over my mouth before sucking on my bottom lip and nipping. My gasp grants him full access, something he doesn't hesitate to take. My hands still resting on his thighs, he releases my head to place his over mine. His fingers flex before guiding them to his chest and trapping them there.
For a moment, I can see everything in a picture perfect package. Husband, wife, two children, a dog, cat, and a goldfish all wrapped up in a white house with blue trim and a picket fence. For most, this is the dream, the perfect deal, but for me, it feels like a terrible lie. Reality—my reality—invades the dream, and the house melts into a dungeon, a man tied to a chair in the middle of the room, Saint with his knives, and children playing in a pool of blood.
Before he can notice my panic, there's a knock at the door.
Saint breaks the kiss, staring down at me with narrowed eyes. Perhaps he did notice.
"I sent down for food while I was in the bathroom," he states, still studying me.
After a moment, he seems satisfied with whatever he finds. Without moving off me or covering our nakedness, he shouts over his shoulder, "Enter."
"Saint," I hiss, yanking at my trapped hands.
He grins.
A rattling of dishes is followed by Jacob asking, "Anything else?"
The exasperation is evident in his tone. My chest heats, and I stiffen, trying to shrink down behind Saint's large body.
"No," Saint dismisses.
"You're lucky I didn't send one of the men up instead of me," Jacob lectures. "They may not be so quick to avert their eyes."
"They would learn," Saint retorts, his words a promise of punishments and pain.
"Th—" my thanks stopped by the glare darkening Saint's face.
Rolling my eyes, I lean around Saint, and respond, "Thank you."
The moment the door is closed, Saint's fingers lift my chin.
