No.
So easy to pull her apart. If I bit her as hard as I could now, I think I’d break right through.
Stop it.
Her nails dragged along my skin. Her moans in my ear coming from those soft lips, her legs tightening around me in a way that could trap me here. She was toxic, all-consuming.
I stopped. Against my will, I stopped. Steadied myself. Urging myself to cease before I couldn’t any longer.
“Arkady?” Her voice was wavering, or was I dizzy?
I pulled my head from her neck to look at her, my grip on her shaky.
“I ...” I shook my head, unable to know what to say. Would she hear me? Or would she use it against me if I told her?
She lifted her hand to my cheek, her fine nails brushing over my skin. “Are you well?”
“No.”
She nodded, dragging her nails over my scalp, allowing me to regain my bearings with no explanation needed.
“Hungry?” she offered, her fingers dancing in my hair.
I lowered my head back down to her shoulder, closing my eyes. I could feel the tension melting like the fat on the meat she was cooking. For once, the fever of destruction was tamed without even the least bit of interference.
“That must be it,” I whispered, but I didn’t let go. My arms engulfed her waist, and I let my eyes rest for a few precious moments.
I needed to remember this sense of control. She might not be the ruin I thought she’d be. It gave me a brief vision of hope that maybe I was good for her, and that was all I needed to sustain me.
“Something is wrong with me.”
“Which part? You have to be more specific than that.”
She glared, flicking water from the tub.
“I mean”—I cleared my throat—“whatever do you mean, my most perfect, sweetest wife?”
At least that made her laugh.
Petronille sank farther into the water, the bubbles crowding as she gathered them with her arms. I settled on the stool next to her, just watching as I leaned against the tub.
“I just ...” She tried to brush it off, but her eyes were glassy.
I took one of her hands, extending it in front of me as I used the washcloth, smoothing up and down her arm, massaging her palm gently as if to ease out her words.
Her lip trembled.
“Petre,” I said. It only made her tremble more. “What is wrong?”
“I liked it.” She swallowed. “I liked ita lot.”
“I would be worried about re-instilling our special word if you didn’t,” I teased, but I recognized this conversation.
“Am I so depraved that I need violence to feel that level of excitement?” She rested her head on the side of the basin.
I reached over, wiping the cloth on her shoulder and cleaning the mark on her chest from before. “It is not the violence you like, it is the control.”
“How?”
