It’s Ryland’s voice. He doesn’t sound like a robot anymore. He sounds terrified. And so far away.
Just like that night, their voices are fading away into nothingness, sinking into an ocean of blackness. My chest hurts. My hand tingles. I try to move the fingers of my right hand, but I can’t.
“She’s having a flashback or something. Dammit. Goddammit. You’re okay, angel. You’re all right. We’re here.”
I can feel Marcus’s voice, but I can barely hear it.
For several months after I was shot, I grappled with vicious panic attacks and flashbacks that seemed to rise up like tidal waves and drag me under. But it’s been over a year since I’ve had one. Since I’ve lost myself like this. Since the darkness has swallowed me whole.
I’m vaguely aware of being picked up, lifted into the air and carried down a hallway, and then I’m laid down on my back in a dark room.
Marcus’s face hovers above mine, framed on either side by Theo’s and Ryland’s.
Just like that night. Just like in my dreams.
In my dreams, Marcus always fucks me in a pool of my own blood, melding pleasure and pain, death and life. In my dreams, I can feel him trying to save me, trying to claim me.
To not let death take me.
I’ll never let you go.
I’m dying all over again, the same way I died that night. Because a part of me did die, no matter how many doctors have told me I was a miracle for surviving. I felt it happen. When the three faces above me faded from sight, melting away into the darkness, part of me died.
I don’t want to die again.
I want to live. I want them to save me.
Delirious, trapped between what’s real and what’s not, I reach for Marcus, wrapping my legs around him and pulling him closer, grinding my hips against his. His eyes flare wide, and I feel him harden against me, responding to the feel of my body instantly.
I gasp as his cock presses into my clit, the good feelings that spiral through me burning away the bad ones for a brief second.
More. More of that.
I circle my hips against his, and heat burns fiercely in his eyes, lighting up the brown and blue of his irises.
“Please!” I gasp. My voice is still a breathy wheeze, too little oxygen filtering in with each swell of my lungs.
“What do you need, angel?” he rasps.
I don’t answer with words. I just show him, tightening my legs around his hips and rocking against him, driving myself closer to a ledge I need to fly off of.
He groans. “Oh, Christ.”
His cocks pulses against me, and I can practically feel how hard and angry it is, how thick and hungry. I need him inside me. I need him to break me. It’s the only way to let the poison out, to keep me from dying.
“Please,” I beg again.
And I don’t know if it’s because he can’t deny me or because he can’t deny himself, but he gives me what I want.
He forces my legs apart enough to draw back from me a little, and his hands drop to the button of my jeans. He works my zipper down, then yanks my pants off my legs, tugging my panties off too.
I’m wet.
Not just from the blood that seeps from my body in my memory, but between my legs. Arousal drips from my pussy, turning cold on my thighs as Marcus stares down at me, towering over me like an avenging angel.
Or a devil come to life.
His jaw clenches as he roughly undoes his own pants and shoves them down on his hips. The two other man stand sentry behind him near the side of the bed, and just like in the garage that day, their gazes are rooted to us. Locked on us. Heat burns in their eyes, and neither one of them makes any move to leave, or even to look away.