Barely turning her head to the side, she clarified, “When I was in my coma. I heard you. I felt your hand in mine. I heard everything you said, what everyone said. It was like being trapped in a glass box. I screamed and screamed, but no one heard me. I felt trapped inside my own body. Everyone who came to see me talked about how sorry they were, how they were praying I woke up, but not you. You talked to me as if I were alive. You told me all your fears, your dreams, your hopes for the future but, more importantly, you included me in those dreams. So much so that I believed you. Over time, I looked forward to your visits, the time you would spend with me. Mainly, I craved your touch. I depended on it and grew to need it like a drug. So you see, I can’t be separated from you. Ever. If you send me away, you might as well put a bullet in my head and kill me yourself, because I can’t live in this fucked-up world without you. I’m addicted to you, Jackson.”
Her words hung in the air, raw and potent—a confession that shattered the fragile truce between us. Her addiction to me, a dependence she’d developed while trapped in that liminal space between life and death, was a testament to the bond we’d forged in the crucible of our shared trauma.
I couldn’t deny her, couldn’t push her away when her very existence seemed intertwined with mine. The thought of her withering without me, of her spirit breaking under the weight ofthis war, was a price I refused to pay. My protective instincts, already screaming to keep her safe, now warred with the desperate need to keep her near, to be her shield against the storm that threatened to consume us both.
I reached for her, my hand wrapping around her slender neck as I pulled her close. Her confession ripped open my soul, a fierce affirmation of a love that had been tested and forged in the fires of Hell.
“You’re mine, Karlyn,” I rasped, my voice rough with emotion, the possessiveness in my tone a stark contrast to the gentle lover I knew she needed me to be. “I can’t be gentle. I don’t know how.”
My gaze met hers, and in her wide blue eyes, I saw not the fear of a victim, but the quiet strength of a survivor, a phoenix rising from the ashes. She was no longer the girl I’d found broken, but a woman who had found her voice, her resilience, and a love that had become her anchor.
“Then don’t be.”
Growling, I slammed my lips down on hers, unable to stop the inferno she’d just ignited. My kiss was a raw, desperate affirmation, a claiming that transcended words. The pain, the fear—it all dissolved in the heat of this moment, leaving only the fierce, undeniable truth of our connection. Her confession had unlocked something within me, a need to possess, to protect, to claim her as my own with a ferocity that had been simmering for far too long.
But as my tongue met hers, a tremor ran through me, a whisper of doubt from the man I once was, Jackson Williams. He recoiled from the sheer violence of it, from the primal urge that threatened to consume every last vestige of control. This wasn’t just passion; it was a surrender to the darkness, to become the monster, the predator that lived in my blood.This iswrong, a phantom voice warned.She deserves tenderness, not this savage claiming.
Yet, the scent of her, the desperate fire in her eyes, drowned out any nascent guilt.
I was no longer just Jackson Williams, nor the predator Ravage. I was both intertwined and inseparable, a man forged in the fires of Hell and bound to her by a love that defied all logic. But which ‘I’ was truly in control? The warring factions within me clawed at each other. The protective Jackson yearned to shield her, to speak words of comfort and devotion. The beast inside me, the Ravage I knew I could be, craved dominance, the satisfaction of absolute possession. The conflict waged a silent war behind my eyes, a battlefield of desire and self-loathing.
Ripping her shirt from her body, I exposed her soft, pert breasts encased in a simple white bra. Her creamy, milky skin glistened like melted white chocolate. As I tore her bra from her body, I watched as she threw her head back and moaned.
Hungrily, I lifted her, needing to suckle her breast as my dick railed against the zipper of my jeans. With her legs wrapped around my waist, I slammed her against the wall. The sound of her cry, a mixture of pleasure and pain, echoed in the narrow space. I sucked a nipple into my mouth, biting it hard as she cried out, her nails yanking and pulling at my hair.
“More!” she urged. “I need more, Jackson.”
Her moans intensified, a melodic symphony that ignited a fire in my veins. I deepened the kiss, my tongue exploring the sweet, forbidden depths of her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her desire and the raw, intoxicating essence of her fear. My hands roamed her body, tracing the delicate lines of her scars, each touch a reverence, a prayer. The thought of her pain, of what she’d endured, had been my prison, but now, in the heat of our shared need, it became a fuel, a catalyst for a passion that had been simmering for far too long.
With a deep groan, I pulled away, my eyes locking on hers, a silent question hanging in the charged air. Her breath hitched, her blue eyes wide, not with fear, but with a raw, untamed hunger that mirrored my own.
“You want more?” I growled, my voice a low rasp that vibrated with all-consuming need. “You’ve got it, baby.”
A slow smile spread across her lips, a dangerous, intoxicating curve that promised a shared descent into oblivion. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears and a burgeoning wildness. “I’m yours.”
And with that, the last pretense of my restraint dissolved, swallowed by the inferno that had been building between us for too long. The world outside, the looming war, all the betrayals faded into an insignificant hum as we plunged into the heart of our own storm, a tempest of shared pain and forbidden desire.
Spinning her around, a knot of conflicting impulses tightened in my gut. Part of me craved this raw, uninhibited release, the sheer power of it. But another, smaller voice, one I usually managed to silence, recoiled. It whispered of consent, of gentleness, of a connection beyond mere physical dominance. Yet, the urgency, the burning need, drowned it out. I shoved her against the wall, the rough plaster a stark contrast to the softness I desired. My hands, acting with a will of their own, yanked down her pants, then ripped her panties from her body, exposing her soft, creamy ass.
A groan escaped me, a sound that was equal parts pleasure and a strange, unsettling self-disgust. I watched her arch her back, giving me a better view of her creamy core. The sight, meant to inflame, instead sparked a flicker of doubt. Was this what I truly wanted, or what I felt compelled to take? Quickly undoing my jeans, my fingers fumbled slightly, betraying a nervousness I wouldn’t acknowledge.
I reached for my cock, jacking it hard as she stepped out of her jeans, spreading her legs wide enough for me to see her glistening pussy. She was offering herself, a vulnerable, open invitation that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
Stepping up behind her, I grabbed her neck once more, the feel of her skin against my palm sending a jolt through me, a complex mixture of ownership and fear. Then I leaned close and whispered, “Tell me to stop, baby.”
“No.” Her voice was a low rumble, a surrender that should have been purely gratifying, but instead, it felt like a confirmation of a choice I was making against my better judgment.
“Tell me to be gentle.” My words felt foreign to my tongue, a betrayal of the raw edge I was cultivating. This was the choice I didn’t want to make—to push away the possibility of something softer, more genuine.
“I don’t want gentle.” Another surrender, another nail in the coffin of my self-control.
Lining up my cock, I whispered, “Tell me you’re mine.” My question hung in the air, a desperate plea for absolution, a way to justify the increasingly primal act.
“Yours. Forever.”
Her declaration, meant to seal the moment, instead felt like a condemnation. I had forced her into this, and now she was bound to it, and so was I. In the next instant, my grip on her throat tightened, a physical manifestation of the internal struggle, as I slammed my dick deep into her hot cunt. A roar tore from my throat, a guttural sound that was undeniably satisfying, but beneath the wave of physical release, a cold, hard regret began to form, a promise of a future I would have to live with.
My desire became a roaring inferno, consuming all reason. I wasn’t gentle with her. How could I be? My conscience,a whisper in the storm, screamed warnings of restraint, of tenderness, of her vulnerability. But my raw, desperate need, the beast I’d caged for too long, had finally broken free. Greedily, I took what she willingly offered, my body a vessel of desperate need, ramming myself into her like a man on the brink of dying of thirst. Each thrust was a brutal war waged within my own soul. The man I knew I should be recoiled, whispering condemnations of this unrestrained savagery, while the beast I was becoming roared for more, a deafening, exhilarating sound. This wasn’t mere release; it was a desecration, a betrayal of every principle I’d sworn to uphold.
