My fingers felt over my new injury, gently rubbing my swollen knuckles. I didn’t answer his questions, I just tried to wiggle away. . . anywhere away from him, but I couldn’t slip his grip. He had control; it was a gift from his father, given when he ceased to exist. An inheritance no one should want.
“Let me go,” I pleaded.
“Jolie, I will never let you go.” His voice was sensual, coated in the charms of a powerful magician, one I was luckily, immune to. “I own you. I own your mind. . .” his fingers wandered through my hair, small circles drawn by his index and middle finger placed invisible designs on my scalp as if he was massaging the words into my brain.
I tried hard not to focus on what he was doing, on his method of hypnosis. He was right–he was already in my head.
I fucking hated that.
His fingers moved away; his hand dropped to the hem of my dress—the open jacket of his that he’d dressed me in. It still smelt like him, both sweet and sour. He smelt like dead roses–not flowers past their sell-by date, but floral, with a dark edge. . . hypnotic.
He smoothed through my curls, not the ones on my head, the ones between my legs. As a sexless slave, a worthless whore, I didn’t get the honor of a razor. Though, I didn’t want it.
The valued ones never got to shave themselves.
I felt more tears sting my eyes as a familiar shame crept over my body, keeping me warm. . . too warm. I felt sick, and I had to swallow hard to hold that feeling at bay. Three fingers forced their way inside me. No warning, no gentleness. Nothing but brutality in the place of intimacy. A feeling I was all too familiar with, thanks to him.
I jumped back, trying to escape the pain. With my fingers still holding my swollen hand, I silently counted the fractures in my bones to distract myself from my groaning in agony.
My body pressed against his, and I felt it—the swelling of his crotch digging into my spine.
He was enjoying this.
Enjoying me and my pain while my body struggled to remove his invading fingers.
He fucked me hard; he fucked me deep, losing his fingers inside my uncooperative body. He moaned into my ear as he found the ridge inside of me that had me moaning, too, in a new kind of way, and whispered, “I own your body.” He pulled his fingers out of me and moved them to his mouth. I heard the sound as he licked my taste from his digits. “I own your fucking soul.”
He threw me into the distance, and I crawled into a corner where I found a little comfort in the cold memories that didn’t involve him. Corners were familiar. I lived in them, unworthy of a bed, shielding within a daydream, hiding from reality–a place so much darker than my worst nightmares. Darker than this. And then the walls of my mind that were blocking him out, crashed to rubble when he unbuckled his belt and moved towards me.
Memories scurried to the surface of my skin, reminding me I had survived this pain before.
I’d survived worse.
I kept my eyes low, submissive and dedicated to the commands I didn’t want to obey, and the pleasure I didn’t want to give, in exchange for my pain. His pure white shirt landed in front of me, in a crumpled position on the cherry-red carpet. A carpet that would hide minimal bloodstains should I misbehave or fail to please him.
My heart hammered when his trousers dropped to join his shirt, his boxers falling, too. The heavy buckle of his belt hit the carpet, face down, buried in thebright fibers, just like mine was about to be.
His socks were still on–something that always bothered me, but I couldn’t place why. . . maybe I just wanted more reasons to hate him, even if I didn’t need them.
Cold tears slipped from my eyes; tears for my pain; the ones I was already experiencing and pains yet to come. I cringed again when his fingers brushed my skin. The cloud of confusion that overcast my thoughts whenever he granted a touch that didn’t bring physical pain was around me. A tender touch, that instead, crippled my emotions.
But this touch wasn’t like that. It was painful. Bruising.
His tenderness lasted no more than a second. His brash hardness was back with vengeance. His dark shadow, the presence of evil, loomed over my back as he dragged me from the safety of my dark corner. I scratched at the walls, trying to hold on to something, but there was nothing to save me as he tossed me into the center of the room, out into the open with nowhere to hide.
My scars burned against the carpet as my head hit the ground. My instincts kicked in. My hands, even with all their injuries, pushed me from the ground, and I lurched to my feet.
My legs rushed me to the floor-length window; I wasn’t stupid enough to try the door. I knew I couldn’t escape, but I still had small remainders of my destroyed hope. Hope that I could draw attention. . . hope that I could encourage a good Samaritan to be my savior.
I pounded the window with heavy fists, my stress levels rising with my fear. My injuries worsened with each thud, causing whimpers I didn’t want to vocalize.
“Help. Someone, please, please help me!” my scream vacated my mouth, sounding no more than a whisper.
I was too high to gain anyone’s attention. At least five floors above the ground. A balcony occupied the space on the other side of the glass. I wondered, if I could get out, would I be able to throw myself into the crowd who were enjoying frolicking in the pool below? Would I be able to end the misery brought to me by the promise of a future with Hell.
I didn’t have time to search for such answers, never mind find them.
Hell’s arm locked around my waist; his shadow sealed me to the window, sealing my fate.
