I bite my lip until I taste copper. I will not give him that. I stare at my reflection in the dark glass—my face pale, eyes wide, mouth bloody. I focus on the pain. I try to separate myself from it.
It is just sensation,I tell myself.Just nerves firing. Just biology.
But it’s not just biology. It’s hatred.
He fucks me harder. Desperate now. Angry that I won't shatter. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back, forcing me to look at the ceiling.
"You think you're better than me?" He pants, his sweat dripping onto my shoulder. "You think you're above this? You're just a hole. Just a warm place to dump my hate."
He speeds up. The rhythm becomes erratic, animalistic. He isn't making love; he's mauling me. He grinds his hips against mine, seeking friction, seeking release.
He bites me.
His teeth sink into the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. Hard. Breaking the skin. I hiss in pain, my nails scrabbling against the glass.
"That's it," he growls. "Bleed for me."
He drives into me one last time, bottoming out so deep I choke on a sob. He comes with a roar, a guttural, wrecked sound that vibrates through my spine. He spasms against me, pouring himself inside, hot and messy and violating.
He stays there, collapsed against my back, his heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. His breath is harsh in my ear.
Then he pulls out.
The emptiness is sudden and sickening. I feel the slide of his seed running down my leg, foreign and sticky. My knees buckle. I slide down the glass until I am kneeling on the floor, my forehead resting against the cool pane.
Silence falls.
The only sound is our breathing—his ragged, mine shallow.
I wait.
I count to five.
I push myself up. My legs are shaking violently. I pull up my briefs, my trousers. I fumble with the belt, my fingers numb.
I turn around.
Killian is standing there, trying to fix his clothes. His hands are shaking so bad he can't do his zipper. He looks at me.
He looks at my flushed face. At the bite mark bleeding on my neck. At the bruise forming on my jaw. At the way I am standing perfectly still, watching him.
The green in his eyes has changed. The adrenaline is gone. The rage has burned out, consumed by the act. And what is left in the ashes is horror.
He looks at what he did. He looks at the man he just assaulted. And he realizes that he didn't break me. He broke himself.
The color drains from his face. He looks like he's going to be sick.
"Don't wait up," he rasps. His voice is cracked, ruined. He can't even meet my eyes.
He turns and runs. He stumbles toward the bathroom, colliding with the doorframe before disappearing inside. The door slams. The lock clicks. The shower turns on instantly—a desperate rush of water.
I am alone.
My throat hurts. My ass throbs. My legs feel like lead. The bite on my shoulder burns.
I walk to the kitchen. My movements are stiff, mechanical. I pour a glass of water. My reflection in the dark window watches me—hair mussed, shirt torn open, eyes dark and empty.
I touch the bite mark. My fingers come away red.
