They’ll leave marks. Marks for my family to see.
I grab her wrists, pressing both her hands to my chest. That’s better.
“It could be the kind of pain that you like.” I squeeze her wrists. “Or not. Test me.”
The warning in my tone does the trick. She goes still.
“Good girl.” It feels weird to call anyone that, but with her, I can’t stop it.
Skylar deserves the praise. She deserves my cock in her pussy too.
Both of us do.
“What are you going to do to me?” Her eyes go even wider, her breath nothing but rasps.
She gets off on fearing me almost as much as I enjoy putting that fear into her.
“Get everything we need down here, then take you upstairs to the bathroom, change your bandage, and then clean you up.” My legs are still half-numb when I stand, the lingering ache a reminder she spent the whole night curled in my lap. I revel in it because it’s Skylar who did this to me. “After that, I’ll feed you.”
“In the farmhouse?” All color drains from her face. “We’ll sit with the others?”
“Hell no. Here.” I motion to the table.
I take her there, setting her down. One hand stays wrapped around her throat, a silent command to stay put.
She narrows her eyes. Her pulse beats wildly against my fingertips.
She’s fire wrapped in defiance, and I feel every spark of it. The rising confidence within her turns me on like no other.
“Even if I disobey, you won’t dare actually harm me,” she growls, baring her teeth at me. “You’re lying.”
“Keep being a brat, and you’ll see just how much of a liar I am.” A part of me hopes she will, just for the pleasure of playing with her. Another time. “Listen, Trouble. I’ll be right back. Stay here.” A pause. “It’s the cleanest. The safest.”
“Fine.” An adorable huff is all I get before I climb the stairs.
A glance at the clock in my kitchen shows it’s a little after seven a.m. Reese and Grandpa should be up by now, as both of them wake up at the crack of dawn. The rest will join them soon.
If they haven’t already.
When there are living-hides for them to play with, my family gets riled up. The energy shifts around the farmhouse. The promise of violence turns them hungrier.
Just in case they decide to drop by, I draw the blinds around my house first. Next is packing everything I need for Skylar.
The picnic basket I bought on our last trip to town sits under my sink.
The others assumed I needed it for work. I never bothered correcting them. Never told them I meant to use it for actual picnics. And I will, with Skylar, in less than two weeks. Not this one—after today, it won’t be sanitary—but still. Picnics.
Imagining a future with her has me hard again. I shove the images out of my head. Fast.
Clean, deep bowl. Warm water from the kettle. Two washcloths. Liquid soap. A first-aid kit. Change of clothes for Skylar and me, five shirts and sweatpants, just in case.
I pack it all.
Last but not least, an egg salad sandwich for me. Mango puree and coconut water for her.
Back down to the basement I go, locking up behind me.
The water sloshes in the bowl. The stairs are warm beneath my feet.
