And now, I’m fucking terrified.
CHAPTER EIGHT
KAGE
She hasn’t spokena word to me in months, and I knew better than to attempt smoothing the tension over. After I’d played with her cunt—after she’d come twice so hard on my fingers I swore she’d snap my bones—I’d thought she would be more open to such encounters.
That thought had lasted only as long as it took for her to curl into a ball and sob harder than I’ve heard her cry yet. Hearing someone beg from the depths of their being for their parents is something I don’t think I ever want to witness again. I’d broken her, whether I’d meant to or not, and I still have no clue how to fix that.
My eyes flick to hers, finding her tense and nervous as I clench my teeth and hold in my laughter. It doesn’t sound right or jovial—like laughter should. It sounds as hideous as the scars on my throat; rough, gasping, sputtering. My father butchered me while Carter had screeched with deranged laughter. I’d seen him do this to other men before me. I knew what it meant when he turned the gas stove top on and calmly set the shears in the dancing flames.
It was agony and terror and loss all rolled into one horrifying moment that spanned the stretch of eternity.
And I think that’s how I made Summer feel when I forced her body to betray her mind.
Although I feel guilt, I also don’t. Because Carter is hunting us both, and if he somehow got ahold of her, a few fingers in her pussy would be nothing compared to the ways he’d sexually torture her.
Her green eyes slip back into focus as I shove those thoughts far away and smirk, jotting down my response.
I was going to be nice and let you look away, but brats deserve punishment.
Clicking the top of my pen with my thumb, I hand the notebook back to her and grin beneath my mask as those eyes flare and her cheeks flame. She glares at me, hand trembling as she grips the book.
“What, you sick fuck? You’re going to rape me now? May as well get it over with,” she hisses, voice wobbling, tears swimming. Fuck. She needs to learn that crying in front of me only makes me snap faster. I didn’t like it when she begged to be taken home, but I am obsessed when she begs for me to stop andreallymeans it.
I know I am a sick fuck, like she said. But there are worse monsters than me, and Summer is mine. I’d never hurt her beyond what I know she can tolerate. I’m far too obsessed with her to ever let things go irreparably far.
Conjuring up a fitting punishment for her words against me, I scrawl my demand on the crisp, lined paper.
No, but you will bathe me.
Her eyes flick to my prose and back to my face just as quickly, as though the words have burned her retinas. Her face goes pale, her delicate throat bobbing as she swallows.
“No,” she croaks out, far less forcefully than I think she means to.
Clenching the pen, I write:
Yes, you will. I won’t touch you, but you will touch me.
Her face is as red as a juicy apple, and my cock throbs in my jeans. I’d been pissed when the upstairs shower stopped working, but now I’m all too happy to be stuck down here with her.
“Or what?” she hisses.
Tossing the notepad and pen aside, I stand on sore, tired legs, hand settling over my belt buckle. She blinks up at me, that beautiful fear swirling in her eyes and making my entire body hum like a swarm of bees in anticipation. Loosening my belt with one hand, I tug the leather through the loops of my jeans, the noise it elicits soft yet somehow foreboding.
If she won’t wash me in the shower, then she’ll bathe me with her tongue.
Starting with my cock.
Stepping forward with my belt dangling from one hand and the other unzipping my jeans, she whimpers and scuttles backwards as quickly as she can. Even before I met Summer, I knew she wouldn’t challenge me physically; I’d watched enough of her cute little work out videos to understand she is the furthest thing from agile and athletic.
But that’s why she has me.
“Leave me…leave me alone, fucking asshole, or?—”
I am on her faster than she can wield that forked tongue of hers, using my belt around the back of her neck to keep her face right where I need it. She claws and kicks and the chains rattle so loud it drowns out the sounds of her pretty cries, but it’s comically easy to subdue her.
Stepping on the slack of her chains, her hands are forced to the mattress, her body wriggling but mostly immobile. She’s perched on her knees, unwillingly worshipping at the feet of her new god.
