My body jolts. A strangled sound escapes my throat, soaked and pathetic. I hate this.
The underwear falls from my open mouth, but it doesn’t stay empty for long; his veiny forearm fills the space. I clamp my teeth down, and blood floods my tongue. His hips piston, deeper, harder. The pressure builds inside me, a storm surge of unwanted pleasure.No. Not this.My mind screams in denial, but my body is a traitor.
An orgasm rips through me. Violent. Shattering. My cunt clamps down around his cock, milking him, my entire body convulsing. It’s a violation. A betrayal. His deep groan vibratesagainst my spine as his hips slam one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside me.
His blood drips from my mouth as his cum floods me. The shame is so profound it feels like a physical blow. I’m nothing more than a vessel for his rage and his release. A thing to be used and filled.
And I hate more than anything that a part of me is shattering in a way that almost feels like relief.
The pressure on my throat eases. Air rushes in, burning my abused airway. I collapse forward, my cheek pressing into the damp sheets, my body boneless and shaking.
My eyes drift down, catching on the blood that oozes from the wound on his forearm. But just below it—barely an inch or two from the raw, torn flesh…a tattoo?
The same shape. My stomach drops. I stare, frozen, blood roaring in my ears.
“Priest… Is that my bite mark tattooed on you?”
He doesn’t answer. His breath is hot and ragged against my spine, his body still flush with mine, still inside me.
The silence stretches. He says nothing.
“Is it?” I whisper. “Tell me.”
He leans down and presses his lips to the crown of my head. A slow inhale follows—deep, drawn out—like he’s memorizing the way I smell. A strange, fractured gesture of…what?
He pulls away and rises without a word.
I watch through tear-blurred vision as he moves toward the dresser, grabs a piece of gauze, and presses it to the bleeding mark on his arm. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t clean himself off. Just walks out, barefoot, blood-slick, and silent. The door clicking shut behind him.
I’m alone in the wreckage.
My legs are coated in him. My thighs sticky. The sheets beneath me, torn and wet. I curl onto my side, the motion slicingthrough my ribs with a fresh wave of pain. A sob breaks loose before I can stop it, then another, each one sharper. I bury my face into the pillow, trying to silence them, but the tears keep coming, soaking through until the fabric clings to my skin.
I hate him.
God, I hate him.
I hate what he did. I hate what he took. I hate that every time I think of my father—it’s Priest’s face I see. I should want him dead. I do. And yet the only time the pain stops…is when he’s the one hurting me.
That’s what I hate most. That he’s the only thing that quiets the ache.
But the tattoo…that bite mark… It can’t be real. It can’t.
It has to be some sick joke. Because if it isn’t—if hechoseto carry that part of me, to carve me into his skin, to keep me…then nothing makes sense anymore. It means he wanted it. Wanted me. Wanted somethinglasting.
It means he made me permanent. And that thought is too much. Too perfect. Too twisted. Because for one terrible, broken second, I want to carve it off his skin and keep it for myself.
Just so I can believe it ever happened.
Even if nothing else ever does.
We’ve moved bunkers more times than I can count. Always trying to stay one step ahead. Arsen won’t tell me what’s happening—only that I’m not allowed to leave. And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most. Because I could’ve disappeared already. Not that there’s much left to live for.
I spend most of my days locked in whatever room they decide to leave me in. Most of the time, the only face I see is Arsen’s and he barely speaks. He won’t tell me anything. Not about my father. Not why we’re still running. Not why Dad was kept alive all those years just to die on the floor in front of me.
Our newest bunker is secluded in the woods. It’s old and smells of rust, dirt, and damp earth. But there are windows. Real windows, even if they’re covered in metal bars.
The door creaks.
