“This is different.”
He stops and raises his head to stare at me. “Why? Because you know who I am now?” I shake my head. “Or because I know who you are now?” My silence is the only reply he needs.
He stands, then grabs me by the wrists and hauls me to my feet. He keeps hold of one arm as he drags me to his room. Once we’re inside, he slams the door and turns me to face it. Hanging off the back is a body-length mirror that reflects everything behind us.
I try to look at everything other than my own reflection and him behind me. His bed is in the center, draped in crisp white sheets. Nightstands sit on either side, completely empty on top, while a chest of drawers lies flat against one wall. Everything is dark and intimidating other than the linen.
“Look at yourself,” he demands, reaching around me to grip my chin and turn my eyes toward my reflection.
All I can see is the small, broken girl that I’ve always managed to suppress. There is no confidence, no happiness. My black hair falls around my shoulders in tangles, my shoulders slouch, and my fingernails are adorned with chipped black polish.
“You’re beautiful,” he starts, and for some reason, it makes me want to cry. “From the top of your hard fucking head, down to the ends of your delicate feet. Every inch of you is beautiful, regardless of your past.”
I bite my lip again and stare at him in the mirror. He’s so mistaken, but I can’t bring myself to tell him that. The only beauty I can see is him. Despite his past, his job, and his stubbornness, he’s the one who is beautiful. Broken but beautiful. The opposite of me.
“Anyone who has never wanted you is stupid—delusional. You’re a fucking siren.”
I turn, letting his hold fall. “You’re the beautiful one, Cyrus.” My words are sincere. I believe them more than anything else in my crazy life right now.
He smirks. “I’m a monster. Nothing else.”
He doesn’t need me to reassure him he’s so much more. No. He’s okay with being a monster. With being a killer and everything else. He’s come to terms with himself, something I haven’t managed to do myself.
“But I have a love for bad things, remember?”
“Even if those bad things include me?” he asks.
“Especially those bad things.” I smile.
Tonight, I got to see him. The real him. The one who is only a product of a shitty childhood and other trauma. The one who doesn’t care how fucked-up I may or may not be, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t make my heart flutter.
“Show me.” He says, stepping backward slowly until the backs of his knees hit the bed.
I contemplate going to him, but not for long. Even with every confession he just told me, I still want him in every single way.
I move forward, only stopping when I make it in front of him. I place my hands on his chest and can feel the beat of his heart on my palms.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Raking them down, I grab the bottom of his shirt and lift. It glides off his skin easily, revealing his skin beneath. I try to memorize every freckle, every muscle, every perfectly perfect imperfection. Scars, scratches, bruises. Nothing major, just reminders of the life he’s lived and the job he has.
I drop his shirt and run the tips of my fingers over his skin. He’s so soft and hard all at once. When I make it to his collarbone, I pause for a moment. “Do you trust me?”
He cocks his head to the side with curious eyes. “I do.”
I nod and continue. Moving to his neck, I grip it, letting the tips of my nails bite into his skin. His hand shoots up and grabs my wrist, but he doesn’t pull me away. When my other hand moves to his chest, his moves to the small of my back, wrapping his arm around me before we fall onto the bed. I straddle his hips with my legs, never letting the grip on his throat fall. I can already feel his dick stiffening under me, and it makes me moan. The denim of his jeans scrapes the inside of my thighs with every movement as I grind myself on top of him, but it doesn’t stop me. I move my hips back and forth and feel my panties start to dampen.
I lick my lips, then remove my hands to pull the dingy dress I’ve been stuck in since finding Bernard from my body. Exposed to the cool air and his gaze, my nipples pebble and my skin breaks out with goose bumps.
“Touch me,” I whisper.
He listens, running his hands along my sides, then up to my breasts. He cups each one in his hands and rolls my nipples with his thumbs. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. Just you.”
He moves his hands back down and grabs my waist before flipping me over. I close my eyes and wait for his lips to hit mine or even another spot on my body, but they don’t. When I open them, he’s moving from on top of me to the door, and gliding into the living room.
Before I can ask any questions, he returns with the furry handcuffs. “This is me, Spitfire. Raw,” He steps closer and runs the fur up my thigh softly. “Animalistic.” He keeps moving until he’s by my head. “Real.” Lifting my hand, he clasps one cuff on my wrist and the other on the headboard. “There is no leaving after this.”
