With him, I don’t understand. I don’t get it. He’s forced me here. The deal I made I made for my brother. We both know that. I’m Killian Black’s captive. It’s bullshit he says I can leave any time I want and we both know it. Hell, I’m not allowed anywhere but in three rooms of this massive house, and can’t even walk outside without a goddamned chaperone.
But when he touches me, it’s like my body comes alive. It craves his touch. His hands on me. His mouth. His cock inside me, splitting me in two.
When he knelt between my legs and opened me up, fuck, I can’t even…I could have come from the look in his eyes alone. Then he put his mouth on me and I was lost.
I was his whore.
I am his whore.
Because after that, when he stood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ordered me to the floor, I wanted to kneel. To bury my face in the carpet. But I also needed to be made to do it. And I guess in a way, that’s where he’s trustworthy. He will make me.
And this is exactly why he’s dangerous. Because with him, I’m not in control.
I glance at the clock. It’s a little after two in the morning. It’s raining again, I hear it coming down hard against the windows. I throw the covers back and get up. I can’t sleep. I want a drink.
I’m only wearing a tank top so I grab an oversized sweater and slide my arms in, cocoon myself inside it, only realizing my feet are bare when I step out of my room and into the hallway, which isn’t carpeted but hardwood. I almost go back inside to grab a pair of socks because this house always seems to have a chill, but it’s quiet and dark and I decide to go downstairs and just find a bottle of something to bring back to my room. I know where he keeps the liquor, obviously, and it’s one of the rooms I’m allowed in.
I fume at that. I’m allowed in the library. Like I’m a child.
And like a meek, scared little thing, I obey his rules. That knowledge turns my stomach. When did I become a rule follower? When did I obey anyone? It’s not something I’m used to, hasn’t been for a long time. Not since Jones got us out of that house. Before that, I obeyed because it wasn’t me who was punished when I didn’t. It was Jones. Every time.
The memory is crippling. I stop halfway down the stairs and close my eyes, force it back into the closet of my shame. I keep my past there. The years between mom and dad’s death and the day Jones turned eighteen. I wish I could obliterate that time from my head. Get amnesia or something. Although one thing those years and the ones following taught me were that I can put them away. I can shove them into the farthest corner of that room, close the door and lock it. It’s just that the lock is flimsy and pieces of the past seem to creep through the unending cracks in the walls.
But at least I have that room. Those years broke Jones in a way I’ve never been able to put him back together again.
My feet don’t make a sound as I walk down the fourteen steps. I glance around the dark space. One lamp is left on in the living room and although it’s a dim one, it’s enough to guide me. I make my way to the library, open the door quietly, although it appears to be dark. I can’t imagine he’s still in there, but I exhale in relief when I confirm. Leaving the door open so I don’t have to switch on any lights, I go directly to the cart that contains bottle after bottle of high end booze. After a quick inventory, I decide on a bottle of vodka and a glass and turn to leave. It would be better over ice, but I can’t risk that so I’ll have it at room temperature. I’m just glad to have the liquor at all.
I close the door behind me and am heading to the stairs when I hear a sound. It’s quiet, a door sliding open. My heart leaps to my throat and I spin around, expecting everyone to be in bed, expecting to be alone.
The rain is loud, it sounds like a flash flood out there. You never know how powerful those things are until you see one for yourself. See it hurtling boulders and trees like they’re nothing.
That’s all I can think of as I watch him coming in from the sliding glass doors that lead to the back of the property. He’s soaking wet, still dressed in the same button-down shirt and pants he’d had on earlier. Except he’s not wearing shoes. He’s in his socks, and they and his pants are covered in mud. He’s making a mess as he takes three steps inside, sees me, stops.