“No...” She shakes her head. Her gaze cuts away from mine as she raises her right sleeve, exposing bruises that are beginning to fade. It’s hardly much to get upset about. It’s not hard to bruise up a girl like her if you’re rough enough, and it’s easy to lose control. It’s hard formeto avoid leaving marks on her.
Her lip trembles as she lifts the hem of her shirt, exposing some of the worst bruises I’ve ever seen on a living person. Her stomach and sides are shades of purple and pink. A yellow haze outlines anything that has begun to heal.Thismakes my heart quicken. Marks like that would have caused her a lot of pain. My mouth hangs open. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. I can’t believe how much it bothers me. It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
She has a way about her that makes me want to rip her away from all that hurt her so I can shield her under my own tattered wings.
“Goddamn it, Selena,” I say through gritted teeth. I step into her and run my hand along her bruises. “How the fuck do you feel an ounce of guilt over what we did when he doesthatto you?”
She keeps her gaze locked on the floor and doesn’t answer me. I force her to look at me by raising her chin. She looks ashamed.
“Don’t pity me,” she whispers, which is a really weird thing to fucking say, but not the weirdest thing she’s said tonight.
“I don’t pity you. I’m fucking pissed, though.”
She trembles at the sharp rise in my voice. She looks like she fears I might hit her. Iammad, but not at her. I’m pissed at her piece of shit husband. I’m a bad fucking person, the worst of the worst, but I would never hurt her like this. I could never lay my hands on her like that, even if I’ve done worse to others.
I don’t need to pity her, and she doesn’t need anything from me. She’ll gain her own wings, and then she won’t need mine.
Against my better judgment, I decide to spill my guts to her, expose my underbelly and let her inside, even while knowing she won’t like what she discovers within and that it will only push her away. She needs to know who she slept with.
I lean into her and get close to her ear. “Rabbit,” I begin, “I’m a murderer. More than what you’ve seen tonight. I’ve killed innocent people. I killed my foster parents. I went to prison and killed fellow inmates. I’m a killer. It’s what I’ve always been.”
Her gasp pulls cool air over my skin.
“I’ve fucked women when they didn’t want it. I’ve fucked women who couldn’t tell me they didn’t want it.”
She shakes her head as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing. She fights the realization that she’s let me inside her, a person so much worse than she imagined. Worse than anything she deserves.
A tear falls down her cheek and when I go to wipe it away, she rips away from my touch and runs into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. It’s a fair response to finding out you came on the dick of a heartless killer.
* * *
Selena
Oh god.Oh my fucking god.I pant against the door in a panic. In my heart I knew he was a killer when I saw him so casually choke out and then kill that man. As calm as watching a commercial on TV or mailing a letter. But I had no idea how much of a monster he was. Or that he’d killed so many. He’s sick and twisted. A fucking psychopath.
And I’m stuck with him.
No wonder he was so willing to kill me. He’s a seasoned killer. Realization pulls me under when I get the sick feeling that he plans to kill me at the end of this.
He has to. He can’t let me go. I know his name. I know too much.
I get in the shower and let the hot water run over me, listening to the heavy tick of the invisible clock above my head. I should feel more fear and less acceptance about what I’ve realized, but if my time is limited, I’ll make the best of what little is left. No matter which way the pendulum swings, death waits at both ends.
I wash up and get out of the shower. I slip the stiff towel around me, trying to hide the bruises beneath the rough terry cloth. When I step out of the bathroom, steam follows me. I carry my clothes in my hands. My eyes catch sight of my blouse and slacks folded on the dresser. I pick them up and sniff them. He must have washed them in the motel laundromat. Probably at the last shitty one.
He doesn’t look at me as he walks past and goes into the bathroom to shower. I slip on my blouse and slacks, but then I remember what happened with my underwear. I curl my lip when I recall wearing my panties after he jerked off into them. He made me keep the saturated fabric against my pussy all night. He loved that little show of ownership and control. But he doesn’t own me.
Asshole,I think as I pick up my clothes.
I’m not a fan of his, but I hate myself more for liking what I see when I look at him. For what I feel when I’m around him. I hate him for bringing out these feelings that rip me in two. One side tugs me toward being the good wife I was told to be in front of a room of people I hardly knew. The other side yanks me toward letting myself play with the lawless, and that side, like Lex, is stronger.
I get dressed and lie in the single bed. I push the stained cover toward my feet. The sheet beneath it looks clean enough, at least. I curl up in bed, my dark, wet hair soaking the off-white pillowcase beneath my head. I stare straight ahead at the peeling paint on the wall...until I hear the bathroom door slam.
Lex is naked. I pretend to be asleep, but I peek at the cords of muscles in his arms. He has a prisoner’s body—the type of physique a convict attains when there is nothing else to do but work out. His damp hair is brushed back. His taut back muscles connect to one of the most perfect asses I’ve ever seen on a man. I wish I had gotten to see how a body that perfect would have merged with mine. Perfect versus the most imperfect. Regret at that longing immediately fills me.
He’s a killer,I remind myself.