I trail lower, down her throat, slow enough to feel her pulse against my fingertips, my eyes tracing a path to the hem of the T-shirt. The cotton does nothing to hide her from me. She’s wearing simple cotton panties and a bra beneath my shirt, and even that is too much.
Weak. She’s your weakness.
I pull my hand back like I’ve been burned and stagger away from the bed. The cabin feels too suddenly small, the walls closing in. I need distance. Space. Anything to break the magnetic pull she has on me even while she’s unconscious.
The bathroom is ice cold, the stone floor’s chill biting through my boots. I brace both hands on the edge of the sink basin, head hanging low, and force myself to breathe. It doesn’t help. She’s still there—in my head, under my skin, and wrapped in my shirt like she belongs to me.
My hand moves to my belt without conscious thought, undoing the buckle with fingers that shake from restraint, not hesitation. I shove my jeans down just enough to free my aching cock, and the relief is immediate and damning all at once.
Fuck, this is wrong. I know it. I just don’t give a fuck. I’m not a decent man—never have been, never will be. Maybe that’s why she wanted me in the first place. Perhaps she saw the monster and mistook it for something worth saving.
I wrap my hand around my length and groan, low and rough, the sound swallowed by the dark. My other hand braces against the cold stone wall as I work myself with punishing strokes. In my mind, she’s awake. Looking at me with those wide blue eyes—half fear, half something that looks a lot like need. The image plays out in my mind, her beneath me, gasping my name. Her small hands on my chest, her nails sinking into my skin leaving marks. The fucking sounds she’d make when I touched her, when I finally claimed what I’ve been denying myself for a year.Would she fight me? Claw and bite? Would she beg, voice breaking on my name? Or would she go quiet, wide-eyed, lips trembling the way they did when she kissed me?
The thought tears through me, sharp as a blade.
I pump faster, harder, my breath catching, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Every fantasy is a betrayal—of her innocence, ofthe line I shouldn’t cross.Doesn’t matter.I’m so far gone that whatever moral line existed has been obliterated. I’m tempted to go out there and touch her, but I stop myself. It might not stop at touching, and while I’m a bad person, I draw the line at rape. I glance out the door, my gaze catching on the line of her slim but muscular thigh, the curve of her cunt under her white panties.
What would it be like to see her virgin blood on my cock?
Would she bleed a lot? A little?
Fuck.I grit my teeth against the tension in my balls. Release hits me hard and sudden, violent in its intensity. I grit my teeth as I spill into the basin, shoulders shaking with the force of it. The beat of my heart hammers in my ears, followed by the ragged sound of my breathing, and for a second it’s bliss and nothing else.
Then reality barrels back into the room, reminding me of what a fucked-up situation this is. I clean up quickly, splashing icy water on my face, on my hands, washing away the evidence but not out of shame.No. Just to clean up.
A bitter thought twists inside me, sharp as glass:this is why I pushed you away. I tried to save you. Tried to keep you clear of me, of this life. Doesn’t matter. Guess God had other plans.
I layer her with a couple more blankets, then I stomp out to my truck to retrieve a pair of handcuffs. I have to stop her from escaping and this should do. I cuff her right wrist to the iron headboard, the click sharp in the silence.
Insurance. Not mercy.
“You’re a weakness. My weakness,” I rasp, my voice raw with anger and disappointment. “I can’t afford to keep you, but I also can’t afford to kill you.”
On the small dining table are paper and pen. I scribble down a note for her and place it on the nightstand beside the bed, along with a bottle of water and a protein bar. She’s going to be raging mad when she wakes up, as she should be, but I’d ratherface her rage than see her eyes shine with tears. After that, I build a big fire in the hearth, hoping it will last her until I can come back. At the very least, she won’t be cold through the night. Before I leave, I grab the bucket I usually use for ash and set it right next to the bed for her to use.
She won’t be able to use the toilet while she’s handcuffed.
I pause in the doorway, satisfied with myself and how I’m leaving her. She’s going to be okay. With one last look, I force myself out into the night, the cold mountain air burning like penance in my lungs.
Even as I drive away from the cabin, putting miles between us, there is no escaping the truth that clings to me like a shadow.
Saint is mine.
Completely.
In every way, shape, and form, and as fucked up as it is, there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that.
Saint
The smellof pine leaks into my dreams, leaving me confused. For one disoriented second, I wonder if I’m at the church retreat center where Dad sometimes takes the youth group on weekend trips. A sudden rush of joy fills me from the inside out at the thought.
Log cabins, forest air, and the scent of summer and s’mores around the fire. I miss those days so much. I try to sink into the memory a little more, let it wrap around me like a warm blanket, but my subconscious demands I wake up.
Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.
Panicking, I blink my eyes open, squinting against the brightness.
Did I sleep through my alarm again?
