It cuts through the static. The rage. The noise in my skull that never shuts the fuck up—gone. Just…gone.
No screams. No flashbacks. No hell.
Just her.
Just peace.
I groan and bury my mouth in her again, licking like I’m starving, sucking her clit until her thighs shake. I slide two fingers inside, pumping hard and fast, curling them just right. Her walls clench. Her back arches. Her breath breaks on a cry as she comes, soaking my hand and mouth, her body spasming under my mouth.
I don’t stop. Not until the last tremor fades.
When I finally pull back, her legs twitch and fall open, her chest rising in soft, steady breaths.
I drag my fingers from her, watching the slick glisten in the low light. Her body’s loose, pliant, her face relaxed for once. I’ve hurt her so many times—ripped her apart piece by piece—but now she sleeps wrapped in me. Like I’m safe.
The corner of my mouth twitches.
She’s not safe.
Not from me.
Sliding up her body, I settle between her thighs, my cock stiff and leaking. I grip it tight and stroke, letting her warmthsurround me. My head drops to the crook of her neck, and I inhale deep.
Fucking hell.
I pump harder. Faster. My teeth scrape her skin. I bite down when the pressure builds, tasting her sweat, then blood, as I break the surface.
She stirs. A soft sound. Then stills again.
It’s enough.
My release rips through me, my cock jerking as I spill across her stomach. I keep stroking through it, growling into her throat, marking her skin with every breath.
When it’s done, I drag my tongue over the bite, tasting iron and salt and her.
And lie there, breathing her in.
Because this is the only place—the only time—I’m not in hell.
With her.
Covering her in everything I am.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock. Her skin is flushed and sweaty. I run my finger through the mess on her stomach, smearing it across her skin, my breathing slowly returning to normal.
“Kitten,” I whisper, kissing the mark I left on her skin, “what am I going to do with you?”
Afresh bottle of pain pills sits on my nightstand.
“Thanks, Arsen,” I mutter, dry-swallowing two.
My body aches. My head pounds. My stomach growls. I need coffee, food, anything to feel human—but mostly, I need to get out of this room before I lose what’s left of my mind.
Every day’s the same.
Wake up. Pop pain pills. Stare at the ceiling.
Take more pills to make me sleep.
