I fuck her hard, relentless, the way she wanted. Each thrust is my promise to protect her, each sound she makes a prayer to a god that never answered her.
She claws at my back, hips grinding up to meet me. “Harder,” she whispers.
I’m about to come, but I snap my hips forward, faster and deeper, forcing down the need to empty my balls inside her.
She comes once, then again, the aftershocks making her sob. I don’t stop. I fuck her through it, refusing to let her go until I’m done.
When I finally come, I spill inside her, then pull out and collapse next to her, both of us panting.
She curls into me, skin slick with sweat.
For a while, we say nothing.
She’s the one to speak first. “I think I love you,” she says, and the words are so soft I almost miss them.
I stare at the ceiling, letting the feeling settle. I don’t know what to call it. It’s not love, not the way the world defines it.
It’s obsession.
It’s war.
I brush her hair back, then press my lips to her forehead.
“I won’t let them take you,” I whisper.
She smiles, then drifts off to sleep.
I watch her, memorizing every line of her face. Every bruise. Every scar.
My girl.
She’s my sweetest sin and my greatest redemption.
Chapter 9: Amara
Iwaketosilence.No hands at my throat, no weight pinning me to the sheets, just the cold void where Julian slept. If he even sleeps. My sheets are twisted, damp with sweat and other things, and when I roll over the ache between my legs flares. I half expect to find him beside me, grinning like the devil, but the space is empty except for a faint indentation where he was.
There’s a spot of blood on the pillowcase. My mouth or his? I can’t remember. I flex my jaw and it clicks, a reminder that last night was real, not a fever dream conjured by insanity. I pull the covers up, then back down. The urge to linger in bed—safe, hidden, untouched—is as strong as the urge to get up and pace, to see if the world has changed. To see if I have.
I sit up. My thighs scream in protest, bruised where his hands clamped down. My hips, too. He left marks everywhere, and they look so pretty against my skin. I check the clock. 6:19 a.m. I have three hours until my first class, but my body has decided I don’t deserve more sleep.
I take a shower, scrubbing hard. The water is hot and scalds me. I run my fingers over every blemish he left, counting them.
By the time I emerge, the sun has slanted in through the tiny dorm window, throwing bars of light across the floor. I towel off, then sit naked on the edge of the bed. For a moment, I consider calling my father. I imagine telling him that I’m not doing the Hunt. That I’m here to learn and grow. But I already know the answer.
You’re a Marcus, Amara. You will endure.
I dress in my uniform: the skirt, the blouse, the blazer with its embroidered crest. I pull my hair into a low ponytail, then let it down.
The dining hall is almost empty at this hour. I make up a plate—eggs, toast, black coffee—and find a table by the window, same as always. I eat mechanically, watching the early risers drift in and out. Some glance at me, then away. Others linger, whispering behind their hands.
I am a curiosity now. A warning, maybe. Or a trophy.
Eve is across the room, talking to a first-year girl who looks like she’d rather die than be here. Her hair is down, wild, and she’s wearing a pair of oversized headphones around her neck. She glances my way, holds my gaze for a second, then raises her eyebrows in an exaggerated “are you alive?” gesture.
I smirk. I am, for now.
Classes blur together. In Ethics, the professor talks about moral relativism, but my mind wanders.What is the morality of letting yourself be used? Is it worse to enjoy it? To want it?
