“Stop,” I whisper, tears welling in my eyes. “Just stop.”
He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. “Why? Because the truth hurts? Because you want to believe in some fairy tale where I’m secretly in love with you? I’m not, Arlo. I’m not that man. I’m not any kind of man. I’m a monster. And you…you’re my favorite chew toy.”
He releases my chin, and I slump back against the pillows, defeated.
For one breath back in that forest, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something behind the violence. Something close toreal. He doesn’t care about me…he just wants to control me.
I hate him.
I hate him so fucking much.
But I hate myself more—for still wanting him to lie. For wanting him to be anything but what he is.
“So this…this whole thing is about sex? About some sick need you have to control me?”
“Sex is just the tool, kitten. What this is about is power. I want to own every part of you. Your fear. Your pain. Your pleasure. I want to be the only thing you think about when you wake up and the last thing you dream about before you sleep.”
I shake my head. “I won’t let you.”
“You already have. Look at you. Broken. Beaten. And yet, there’s a part of you that’s still hungry for me. A part that’s begging for more. Don’t try to deny it. I will feed every dark, twisted desire you have until you’re completely and utterlymine.”
My gaze drifts back to the bite mark on his arm.
“Why? Why get that tattooed? If I’m nothing but something to fuck and control…”
He looks down at the ink, thumb dragging across it like he could wipe it off. When his gaze lifts again, it’s colder.
“Because it wouldn’t fade,” he says finally. “Didn’t matter how much blood I spilled, how many people I gutted, you were still there. Under my skin. In my head. I thought maybe if I carved it into me, I could control it. Contain it.”
A humorless smile ghosts across his mouth.
“Guess that didn’t work. Don’t mistake it for anything noble. It’s not love. It’s an infection. You got in, and I can’t cut you out.”
The words hit, but I don’t flinch. I’ve run out of reactions. Out of denial.
What do I even want from him? An apology? A confession? Some pathetic, half-assed attempt at redemption that would make all of this mean something?
There’s nothing he could say that would fix what he’s done to me. He’s spent weeks turning my life into a fucking game—chasing me, breaking me, taking me apart just to see what’s underneath. Every moment that felt real was just another move on the board.
And the worst part is that somewhere in the middle of all that destruction, I started hoping he’d stop. That he’dseeme.
Fuck, I’m so stupid.
I wanted more from the man who killed my father.
I wanted something human from him…and that’s on me.
Grief swells in my chest. For my father. For what’s left of me. For the tiny piece that still wishes Priest meant it when he said he cared.
I shove the blanket aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the sharp flare of pain as my feet hit the cold concrete.
“Arlo.”
I ignore him and push to my feet.
“My father. What were his last words?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me.
