My leggings and underwear are pushed down, discarded on the floor as I clamber onto the vanity top, rejoicing in the cold screech of the faux marble against my warm arse.
I press the tip against my skin, dimpling it in, testing out a line like I might have forgotten how to cut, like I might have lost my nerve, as though I won’t follow through on my intention.
But of course, I’m going to. From the moment I saw my asinine face filling the screen I was going to.
I push harder, digging in, piercing through the thickness of my skin to bring the first tiny bead of blood. The pain is a tease, just enough to make me salivate for more.
Biting on my lower lip, I draw the small blade farther along my thigh. The rush builds, suffusing through my body, a thousand pain messengers who also bring a numbness, a calm that spreads out like a massage on the inside of my brain.
The sharper the pain, the harder the massage, until it’s digging out the knots that cause me constant discomfort, smoothing the long tissue so it stops freezing me with a succession of cramps.
My mouth falls open, the metal too blunt to dig deep but lighting a thousand more tiny fires as the edges catch rather than slip through like butter. The jaggedness is a novel experience, the taste in the back of my throat worthy of a Michelin star.
I’m so absorbed by the flood of chemicals pumping into my brain, exciting my neurotransmitters, wrapping me in messages like warm arms crushing me in a hug, that I don’t hear the noise of my outer door opening. It’s not until the bathroom door slides across that I realise someone’s stolen into my room.
Seb stands, staring at the blood flowing from my inner thigh. He licks his lips as he sees the crimson spatter as my numb fingers drop the scissors and they hit the floor.
I stare at him, waiting for the condemnation, the pity, the laughter, the hate.
Instead, he moves a step closer, sliding the door closed behind him. His voice is low, rumbling, thick with lust and wonder as he asks, “You do those for me, Princess?”
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
SEB
A switch flicksover in my brain when I see her. See the blood dripping down her inner thigh. The pupils in her eyes expand so far, they look like containers full of the deepest, darkest night.
Everything in my body goes hard. My muscles. My emotions. My cock.
I drift closer, unsure of what to fixate on first, wanting to take my time and see it all, store it forever, lock it into a vault in my mind that I can take out in eighty years to marvel over, to tilt it and see how it sparkles and shines.
She tips her head back at my question, opening her throat. Ready for mauling.
And I will. While the bloods still pulsing from her wound, while her body’s still shaking from the rush of endorphins.
I reach her, grabbing her so she can’t get away. My fingertips sink into the flesh of her upper arm, hard enough to bruise.
With my hand holding her steady I look at her, slowly, my eyes crawling over every inch, luxuriating in the exquisite details that twist my heart in my chest and pump a flood of pleasure into my brain, sending it soaring.
Rowena told me what happened with the video. She’d wanted to go after her. Instead of encouraging her, I used that desire to talk her into giving me her key.
I thought I wanted to follow Esme to see the chinks in her armour, to worm my way in while she was down, to get under her skin and stay there, teasing out the answers she refuses to volunteer.
Instead, she shows me something I don’t even know I want until I see it.
The scissors are on the floor. My eyes trace the spatter of blood from them, memorising every drop, its placement, the pattern it forms across the tiles.
My hand drops to her thigh, my thumb circling the skin near the fresh wound, seeing how the motion dimples her flesh, how it changes the way the blood hits the light. It shows how it’s congealing along one side, how it flows deeper from the centre of the cut than the ends.
With my left hand, I plunge my fingers into her hair, my fingertips brushing against her scalp.
“Can I see? Can I touch you?”
She nods, eyes cast down now so I can’t see her fat pupils. Rather than going straight to the wound, I tip her head back, angling her to receive my kiss. Her lips are gentle. Appreciative.
Her eyelashes flutter as I pull away, her hands curling into fists as I kneel before her, seeing her muscles tense. I collect the scissors, putting them in my pocket to address later.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, turning to kiss beside her knee. “I remember the first day you turned up at school, your hair was so glossy all I wanted to do was touch it, see if it felt as smooth as it looked.”
