The name of it swims somewhere in my brain, the brain that no longer has a filter.
“You’re a fucking coward,” I say, noticing that my words are slightly slurred. “You should be the one strapped down like a fucking animal.”
He grins. “Maybe. But look who’s top dog today?”
He traces a line down my arm, and though I can barely feel it, the casual affection he feigns makes me quiver noticeably.
“Do you like it when I touch you like that?” he asks quietly, his gravel voice rattling my chest.
I blink slowly, groggily. “It confuses me,” I answer. I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life. Well, maybe once. But right here, stripped of every ability to resist his questions, I feel dumb and drugged and completely fucking at his mercy.
And so very, very alone.
I glance up at him and I can see how much he’s enjoying this - this absolute position of power and domination. Not even my mind is safe from him now. All of my secrets, the ones buried deep, are his for the taking.
Elliot. Jase. Grandma. Kayla. Oh, Jesus. Nobody is safe right now. Please, fucking please don’t ask me about them.
He seems to read my thoughts, or perhaps he’s just reading the panic washing over my face in crushing waves that threaten to drown me.
“Tell me,” he says conversationally. “Did you like it when I fucked you, Juliette? I’m not talking about six years ago. I’m talking about in the clubhouse just weeks ago.” He trails his hand down to my ass, covered only with a pair of black panties. He slides his hand under the thin material and grabs a handful of ass, squeezing tightly.
“When you gave me your body to use exactly as I pleased? When I licked you here?” he slides his hand out of the material and reaches through my legs, pressing against my sensitive nub.
“Yes,” I reply blankly, staring off into the distance. I can’t lie. My brain won’t let me. But I can tell the truth.
Memories of our horrifying tryst come back to me like a tidal wave. His mouth on my most sensitive of places. The way he filled me, every last part of me smothered by his larger-than-life presence, until I was drowning in his darkness.
“Ask me what my favorite time was,” I say quietly. He seems taken aback.
“You’re going to kill me anyway,” I shrug as much as my restraints allow, which isn’t much, but he gets the idea. “Don’t you want to know how I liked you best?”
My voice is shaking, but I speak quickly. I want to get it out before he punches me or strangles me unconscious.
He laughs throatily, regaining his self-control. “Of course,” he says. “Tell me all about it, baby girl.”
I smile to myself as the words begin to form through my drugged haze. “I loved it when you held me against the wall and fucked me until I saw stars,” I say in a calm, measured voice. “I loved the way you made me come alive as you choked the life out of me. Because I’d just licked the tears from your face, and I could taste your grief on my tongue while you squeezed my sorrow away.”
My lips quiver into a smile as he roars loudly. Fucker. I’ve still got it, even drugged, bound and half-naked. I’ve still got that fire burning inside me that just wants to completely fucking obliterate Dornan Ross and everything he’s ever touched.
He snatches the knife up and for a moment I think he’s going to completely lose his shit and stab me to death, but instead he flips me over. I moan as the bed springs grab at me, trying to stop me from moving. After he’s finished I’m laying on my side, my blank hip pressed into the bed and my tattooed, scarred hip sticking up toward the ceiling.
“I don’t like that you covered my marks, Julie.” He brings the blade down and now I know what he’s got in store. I feel my eyes widen as I take a sharp breath, and then the searing, ripping pain begins.
“No matter,” he spits, cutting into my skin. “I’ll just put them back.”
The only thing that relieves the pain in any tiny way is making a lot of noise. It gives the pain somewhere to go - a voice in the world. It acknowledges what’s happening to each screaming nerve ending that’s being ripped apart.
So that’s what I do. I open my mouth, and I scream, and I don’t stop screaming until he’s finished cutting any trace of Elliot’s beautiful work from my flesh.
After he’s finished cutting my tattooed flesh away, leaving a mess of weeping blood and pain, he leaves. But first, he unties me. I wonder why, until he throws me a stained towel that used to be white and gestures to my stomach.
“Keep pressure on it,” he says, his black eyes gleaming in the harsh light. “If you fucking die on me before I’m finished with you, I’ll come down and drag you out of hell myself.”