Page 26 of Veil of the Past
“Good,” he growls, his voice a rough whisper against my lips. “Because you’re going to take it. All of it.”
He yanks my panties aside, the fabric tearing slightly, and I feel a thrill shoot through me. Romiro pulls me off the edge of the sink and twists me around, his chest to my back, his fingers thrusted deep inside me. There’s nothing gentle about his touch, nothing tender in the way his fingers thrust inside me, rough and relentless, making me gasp, my head falling against the mirror with a dull thud. His other hand slides up to my throat, squeezing just enough to send a pulse of fear and arousal through me.
“We shouldn’t be doing this in a public restroom,” I whisper, turning to look away.
“But it feels good, doesn’t it, baby?” he coos, and my stomach swoops. Romiro’s grip tightens on my throat. “Don’t look away. I want you to see what you do to me.”
I force myself to meet his gaze, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he thrusts his fingers inside me, hard, his movements demanding, unyielding. He watches me with an intensity that makes my pulse race, his eyes dark and hungry. Romiro curls his fingers and presses the heel of his hand over my clit, his face close to mine as he asks me. “You like riding my fingers in a dingy restroom in the back of a greasy diner. Don’t you?”
He doesn’t wait for the answer before his fingers pull out abruptly, leaving me feeling empty and desperate. I wassoclose. Before I can even draw another breath, he undoes his belt with a swift, violent motion, his jaw clenched tight. He positions himself between my thighs, his hands gripping my hips with a bruising force. His eyes never leave mine as he thrusts into me in one hard stroke. I cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure ripping through me.
“Shut up,” he snarls, his voice a harsh whisper against my ear. “You don’t want the owner hearing your moans. Do you?” I shake my head, pushing my hips back into him. “Good.” He thrusts again, harder this time, and I bite back another cry, my fingers gripping the edge of the sink so tight my knuckles turn white. He’s hot like a furnace, his heat sears itself into my back, and all I can focus on is him—the way he fills me, stretches me, takes what he wants without asking.
His pace is brutal and relentless, each thrust slamming me harder against the mirror, making it rattle with the force. His hand moves to my hair, yanking my head back roughly, exposing my throat to his teeth. He bites down, hard, enough to make me gasp, and a dark chuckle rumbles in his chest.
“You think you can just do whatever you want?” he growls against my skin, his breath hot, burning. “Go on dates with other men? Make me feel things I shouldn’t about myfriend?”
His words are like a slap, and I feel a mix of anger and desire flood my veins.
“I didn’t make you feel anything you didn’t want to feel.” I try to push him away, but he’s stronger, and faster. He pulls out, twists me around to face him, pins my hands above my head, pressing them against the cold, tiled wall, his grip like iron.“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, his voice low and deadly. “Not even close.”
He thrusts deeper, his movements rough and punishing, and I feel myself tightening around him, my body betraying me. He knows it, too—he can feel it, the way my body responds to him despite everything, and it drives him harder, faster.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice raw. “Say you’re mine.”
I hesitate, and his hand tightens around my throat, cutting off my air, just enough to make my vision blur, and my breath stutter. “Say it,” he growls again, his lips brushing against my ear, and I feel a shudder run through me.
“I’m yours,” I gasp, the words barely audible, my heart hammering in my chest.
He releases his grip just enough for me to breathe, but his thrusts don’t slow; if anything, they become more frantic, more desperate. He slams into me, over and over, his breath hot against my neck, his hands everywhere—gripping, squeezing, marking me.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice dark, and possessive, and I feel the edge coming, sharp and hard, and I know I’m going to shatter.
And when I do, he’s right there with me, his growl vibrating against my skin, his hands clutching me so tightly I know I’ll bear the bruises tomorrow. But I don’t care. All I care about is him—this moment, this madness, this fire that burns between us, dark and dangerous and all-consuming.
12
FLASHBACK II
ROMIRO
Age:13
The room isn’t quiet, but the sounds start fading. The murmurs, the clinking chains, the faint cries from somewhere far off—it all blurs into static, buzzing faintly at the edge of my awareness. My eyes are open, staring at nothing, the cracks in the concrete floor shifting in and out of focus. My chest rises and falls, but I don’t feel the air moving in or out. I don’t feel anything.
It’s better this way.
The fog is thick, wrapping around my mind like a cocoon. It dulls everything, keeps the pain and the fear at arm’s length. I sink into it, letting it pull me under. There’s no need to fight it. Fighting doesn’t change anything.
I don’t even think about the others anymore. Their voices blend together, a mix of cries and whispers. I used to care. I used to wonder if they’d survive—if I’d survive. Now, it all feels pointless.
My body is here, but my mind drifts. It floats somewhere distant, untouchable. Flashes of the past come and go, jumbled and indistinct. My mother’s face, blurry and faded. The sound of my own laugh—a laugh that sounds strange now, like it belongs to someone else. My brother’s sharp gaze. The way the sky looked when I used to play outside. Blue. I try to remember the color blue, but it feels fake, like something I imagined.
The thought comes, unbidden, cutting through the haze like a knife. I don’t want to be here anymore.
Not in this room. Not in this body. Not in this life.
I’m tired. My legs ache from sitting in the same place for too long. My ribs hurt from the last time I was being “defiant.” But the worst pain isn’t in my body. It’s somewhere deeper, somewhere I can’t reach.
