I keep my hands at my side, turning my face so I’ll look anywhere but at him. But he takes a few steps toward me, standing over me threateningly.
“Go ahead,” he insists.
I can tell it’s a command, and I have a feeling that disobeying won’t get me anywhere. Swallowing my anxiety, I lift a feeble hand up and land such a weak punch on his chest that it’s barely more than a caress.
He snorts. “Is that the best you can do?”
Anger pools once more in the pit of my stomach at the sound of his mocking tone, but I bite down on it.
He notices, though. He always does.
He couples his mocking voice with a loud chuckle that makes my anger harder to repress. “I said,Seraphina, is that all you can do?”
My full name in his mouth doesn’t sound half as nice as it usually does.
It’s getting increasingly difficult to push down on the anger that is boiling in my veins, even though I know he’s doing it on purpose. Provoking me into throwing a real punch.
His loud laughter, assaulting my ears, makes me see white. Suddenly, it’s not just the mocking that angers me. It’s everything. He may love me, but it doesn’t stop him from fucking with my mind. Pushing flight attendants out of airplanes and killing drivers. Expecting I’ll divulge vague suspicions about Lucy after I’ve seen how reckless he is about life. Keeping me in a state of constant denial, punishment and reward. His mood always changing from one extreme to the other, without warning, keeping me on my toes. Making fun of me.
As usual, that’s the one that really gets me. I can handle death, even the reckless kind. My hands are just as bloody as his. I can handle his changing moods. Mine aren’t exactly stable. I’ve started to look forward to the physical pain he inflicts in such a cavalier manner.
But the mockery, I hate. I will always hate it. Seraphina Connor is not a joke.
Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m falling on him,punching him repeatedly, all my anger coursing out of my fists and against his chest. I barely notice it when he clutches my wrists, pinning my arms to my sides as I continue to thrash around, overcome by my burning fury.
“Well, well,” he chortles, not seeming to care in the least about how his mocking drives me frantic. “Looks like you do have a bit of verve in you after all.”
The sound of his voice tells me the laughter isn’t real. Underneath is a cold harshness that would scare me if I weren’t still seething.
“Now, as promised,” he says, holding onto both my wrists with one hand. Which only makes me go crazy with angry humiliation as I realize how easily he can restrain me.
The next moment, he’s ripping off his shirt, and I freeze suddenly. His chest is covered in bruises. I’m the cause of them.
Fuck. I’m the cause of them.
I stare at his chest, feeling weak at the knees. I hurt him. I can’t believe I hurt him.
My heart strangles in my throat. He’s the man I love, and I hurt him. I want to die. I want to be buried underground again. What kind of a monster am I? I hurt the only person on this Earth that I love.
The next thing I know, I’m kneeling at his feet, shaking in remorse, begging for his forgiveness.
He doesn’t answer, merely clutching the front of my dress and pulling me up so my feet barely touch the ground.
“Now for the next part,” he says, his voice so quiet it sends a shiver down my spine.
“The next part?” I manage to repeat.
“The one where I get to do whatever I want to you on the balcony,” and the harshness gives way to a dangerous darkness.
I shiver again, but now, my overwhelming guilt ebbs just enough to allow my core to throb with desire. I have a feeling Iknow exactly what he’s planned, and somehow, despite dreading it, a thrill courses through my veins.
Still holding me upright by my collar so that my feet barely touch the ground, he marches me straight to the railing and flips me over on my stomach so my head is dangling into nothingness.
I bite down on a terrified cry. He’s done this to me already. And this time, beneath all the fear, is the absolute conviction that he will not let me fall.
He flips up my dress and I experience a tingling sensation of déjà-vu. I hear him chuckle again as he takes in the wetness between my thighs.
“My little glutton for punishment,” he gloats.
