Three Years(25)

He leans down and fishes something out of his jeans. Crawling up onto the bed, he straddles me, his hardness pressing painfully against my thigh.

He wraps that something around my upper arm, and I look down, seeing it’s a silk tie. Probably the same one he wore to the funeral, I think to myself. That makes me feel marginally better. Until I remember his plan for me, to breed me until I replace his dead sons.

Now I feel like shit again.

He produces a syringe from thin air and inserts it into my vein, pulling back so that my blood flows into the syringe, mixing with the clear fluid to form a dangerous red-tinged cloud of nirvana. I can feel myself tensing, waiting for that hit, and despair slams into me when I realize how addictive this shit is. I’m already looking forward to it, looking past the needle completely, not even caring if it might kill me. I’m already one step away from being addicted to this shit.

And I don’t even care. I just want him to hurry up and push the fucking plunger down and let me have my fix.

Jesus. I’m even thinking like a junkie with junkie words. My mother would be so proud.

I glance at the syringe, hanging out of my arm, as Dornan moves his hand away and down between my legs. “What, you’re not excited to see me?” he says, sneering as his hand obviously detects no wetness.

I move my other hand toward the syringe, brazenly attempting to grab it in order to inject the good stuff and at least make this a little more bearable, but Dornan slaps me away as though I’m a kid with my hand in the cookie jar.

“It’s quid pro quo, baby,” he says, spitting on his palm and rubbing his saliva between my legs, making my stomach roil. “Something for something.”

“I know what quid pro quo means,” I say, suddenly annoyed. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

He laughs, pushing into me forcefully. I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily. I’m not ready, and it burns.

“You’re especially tight today,” he says, moving roughly, quickening his pace. “I like it.”

I roll my eyes. “I think it’s called dry,” I reply sharply. “As in, not turned on at all. You disgust me.”

He smirks, slamming into me harder, making me cry out. “You sure about that?”

I stare at the ceiling. Sad and worn out and numb. “Yep.”

“Well, I intend to get off,” he says, ripping the leather cut open and squeezing my breasts.

“I know,” I respond slowly, as if he’s an idiot. He responds by wrapping his fingers around my neck and squeezing tight.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers suddenly, moving faster. “You are mine, you know that, right?”

I frown, looking at him in shock and revulsion, gasping for a breath.

“I own you,” he says through gritted teeth. “Say it and you get your reward.”

He puts his hand below the syringe, still full and sparkling as it hangs out of my arm. It isn’t really sparkling, but in my head, it is. Yes.

“I’m yours,” I say blankly, licking my lips as I watch his fingers move.

“Good girl,” he says.

I swallow thickly, groaning as he pushes down the plunger on the syringe, flooding my body with something better than the best orgasm anybody could ever have. Better than the best fucking sunshiny day. Better than first love and forehead kisses and rainbows.

Better than anything.

Bliss.

“Tell me again who owns you.” His voice is suddenly far away, and he pries one of my eyes open, forcing me to look at him as I ride the high inside my marshmallow veins.

“Say it,” he demands, louder this time.

I giggle, the drugs making their way through my limbs so heavy and soft. It’s like I’m a feather floating in the ether.

“I fucking hate you,” I whisper, giggling hysterically as he digs his fingers into my flesh, roaring as he comes, as he fills me with his hate. “You’ll never own me, you piece of shit.”

A moment later, when he’s finished, he backhands me across the face so hard I see stars.

It just makes me laugh harder, though.

I think I’m going mad.

But I don’t care anymore.





The next morning, I’m sporting a bruised cheekbone and a spectacular gouge mark in my arm from the needle of heroin that Dornan dug in not very carefully. I’m woken by the door flying open, and I push myself up to a sitting position in time to see Dornan standing in the doorway with a cunning smirk, balancing a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in one hand.

He looks like he’s going to storm in and kill me, which isn’t very reassuring. I shift backward on the bed, a sudden gush between my legs reminding me of what happened last night before he left. Eww.