He nods. “Fair enough. What else do you want?”
Fair enough?The way he accepts my words as if they’re a given, as if they make perfect sense, somehow only makes me madder. “Are youdumb?I want to scratch your fucking eyes out.”
“I’m not dumb,” he replies. “My IQ clocks in at around 145. I am, however, experienced in more ways than one. What else do you want?”
My mouth opens and closes. How can I verbalize that I want to claw him bloody, but I also want to be held by him? That I want to scream my lungs out, and also curl up into a silent ball? The emotions are conflicting; mainly, I want to do what Ialwaysdo, which is go somewhere alone.
Dorian’s thumb strokes over my waist. “I’m not going to judge you. What else do you want?Afteryou scratch my eyes out.” His lips tilt up in the corners with the beginnings of an infuriating smirk.
“I want…” I shake my head.
“Go on,” Dorian encourages.
“To be held.”
He nods. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You can claw at me, scratch at me, whatever. Neck, chest, anywhere but my face. Through it, I’m going to keep a hold of you. Then, I am going tokeepholding you.”
“No,” I say instantly, even though his suggestion sounds extremely appealing.
“Yes,” he agrees. “I’m not letting go of you until you’ve let all your emotions out, Mira. You will remain right here, in my arms, until I know you’ve diffused. Notsuppressed, which it sounds like is your go-to. Suppressing creates problems for later; diffusing takes care of the problem entirely.”
“What are you, a fucking therapist?” I snap. “Dorian, you know absoluteshitabout me. You knownothing. Don’t presume to talk about my life like you understand it, or about my emotions like you know how to handle them, becauseyou don’t.”
“Do you?” Dorian asks, gazing at me unblinkingly.
No. “Yes. I’ve never had a public outburst, I’ve never embarrassed myself, I’ve never come close to stabbing someone in a fuckingbar.”
Dorian isn’t offended at my jab. “I did come close to stabbing someone because of you,” he freely admits. “Then, I composed myself by punishing you. I’m giving you free leave to do the same. Scratch me, bite me, whatever. I have not been easy on you, and that won’t change. If you need to claw at me to lift some of the pressure building inside of you,do it.”
I swallow as I gaze at him. Idowant to hurt him. I’m remarkably pissed at him, at what he’s put me through, at the way he treats me like his property, and most of all, at the way heseesme. He looks beneath the surface and peers right into my soul. It’s alarming, disconcerting, and remarkably infuriating. I don’t want to beseen, I want to be left alone, and with him, I don’t have that option. Maybe itwouldmake me feel better to just… let it all out. Let everything loose.
“Take off your shirt,” I say raggedly, my hands curling into fists.
I only catch the barest glimpse of Dorian’s victorious smile before he releases me, pulls his shirt over his head, and slowly lays back on the pillow. I stare at the smooth, unblemished skin of his chest, imagining what it would be like to seemyscratch marks and bite marks on it. I envision him wincing tomorrow when he moves at a certain angle, rememberingme.The thoughts send a pulse of arousal straight to my core.
“Do your worst, Mira,” he invites softly.
I don’t go at him like a caged animal. Instead, I place my fingernails on his chest, just under his collarbones, and very slowly, very deliberately rake them downwards. I don’t apply enough pressure to break skin, but enough to leave red marks that stand brightly against his pale flesh. Dorian sucks in a sharp breath, and I feel his cock twitch beneath me. Upper lip curling, I shift forward, away from his growing erection. I don’t want to be turned on by him right now; I want tohurthim right now.
“Really?” I question lowly. “You’re getting hardnow?”
“You’re on top of me, digging your fingernails into my chest,” Dorian says coolly. “What did you expect would happen?”
“God, you aresoirritating.”
“That’s not going to stop or change,” he warns me. “I am goingto get turned on by you. Eventually, I am goingto fuck you, and you’regoing to like it. Until then, I’ll continue indulging myself by playing with your body like it’s my favorite instrument. Like it’s an object that exists solely to please me.”
I know he’s taunting me, trying to get me to lose control. Logically, I know it. Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain isn’t at the wheel right now. My emotions are steering me right now, so his taunt works. I claw him again, gouging deep with a low growl, then slap his chest. My vision turns red as sheer rage overtakes me; I don’t even realize what I’m doing. I slap, claw, even lean down tobitehim like I’m a vampire, wanting to do anything that’ll bring him pain. I want him to be as uncomfortable in his own skin as he makes me. And, somewhere deep down, I think I might want to mark him as much as he wants to mark me.
Eventually, hot tears start rolling down my cheeks, and my attacks turn from vehement and crazed to sloppy and pathetic. I cry for many things; not just the indefinite loss of freedom I’m experiencing because I had the misfortune of crossing Dorian’s path, but also grief for just how hard I had to fight to earn that freedom in the first place. Every day was a battle for survival with my stepfather, and the fact that I came out alive is a miracle. I barely slept, I barely ate. I never ended up making it to my science fair because he broke my leg so badly, I spent the next week in the hospital. I got out from under Clyde’s control, never to return, only to find myself under Dorian’s control just a few years later.
Ideserveto be free. Ideserveto be able to live my life. I’ve earned that right through bloodshed and hardship, and yet, it’s nowhere within reach. Each time I think I’ve finally achieved freedom, something happens that ends up proving the opposite. Freedom is a finely-spun web of illusion. If I’m not beholden to my stepfather, then I’m beholden to the whims of the United States’ broken education system. Beholdento the control of men likeDorian. There’s a catcheverywhere,nothingis free, and I amsickof it. If I could feasibly run away into the forest and live out my days in nature, with a pack of wild animals, I suspect I’d be far happier than I am now.
“Shh,” Dorian soothes, cutting through the whirlwind of thoughts cluttering my mind. “Shh, Mira. You’re alright. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Dimly, I realize that he’s sat up once again, and he’s holding me. My eyes are squeezed shut and I’m hitting his shoulders with my fists, but the gestures are weak. Mostly, I’m just sobbing, mourning.
Whatreallysucks is that this feels better than my usual routine of isolating until I can make the anger and rage go away. Dorian was right, this is a genuine release, and I hate him all the more for it. What happened before was merely creating problems for later, pushing my emotions down until they became humongous and built to a boiling point. Now, I feel lighter. It’s not a happy lightness, though. It’s merely an absence of weight. Really, it’s just… numbness, emptiness that carries vague whispers of cold with it.
