"Liesl." He moves toward me slowly, like I'm a frightened animal that might bolt. "Listen to me?—"
"No." I hold up a hand, stopping him. "Don't. Don't try to explain it or justify it or make it sound reasonable. You kidnap people. Innocent people. That's what you do. You kill people, you…"
"Yes." His voice is flat now, emotionless. "That is what I do."
The admission just makes me hate myself more. Because even now, even knowing what he is, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin. I can still feel the warmth of his releaseinside me. Can still remember the way he looked at me as he made me feel things I’ve never felt before.
And part of me wants him to do it again, despite everything.
I press my hands to my face, trying to block out the sight of him. Trying to make sense of the war raging inside me between desire and morality, between what my body wants and what my mind knows is right.
"I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't—I don't know how to?—"
How to want someone who does terrible things. How to reconcile the gentleness he’s just shown me with the violence he orders. How to be attracted to a man who kidnaps innocent women and uses them as pawns in his power games.
How to live with myself for wanting him anyway.
"You think I am a monster," he says quietly. It's not a question.
I lower my hands and look at him. He's still half-lying on the bed next to me, pushed up on his elbow, watching me with those cold blue eyes. He’s still naked, gorgeous and muscled, his softened pierced cock lying on his thigh, and I have to struggle not to stare despite the war raging in my head right now. There's no defensiveness in his expression. No anger. Just a kind of resigned acceptance, like he's heard this before and knows exactly what comes next.
"Yes," I whisper. "I think you're a monster."
He nods slowly, like I've confirmed something he already knew. "And yet you let me fuck you. You came on my cock. You begged me to come inside you."
The words are brutal, and I flinch like he's struck me.
"So what does that make you,ptitsa?" He tilts his head, studying me. "If I am a monster, and you want me anyway?"
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don't have an answer for that. I can't articulate why I'm compromising every moral principle I thought I had. I can't explain how I can be disgustedby what he does and still feel my body respond to his proximity, still want his hands on me, still crave the way he makes me feel.
"I don't know," I finally manage. "I don't know what that makes me."
I slide off the bed, my legs still shaky, and look around for my clothes. They're scattered across the bathroom floor, mixed with his blood-stained shirt and the towels I used to clean him. The sight of them makes my stomach turn over again.
"Where are you going?" he asks. His voice is curiously flat, like he’s purposefully hiding his emotions from me right now. A part of me aches for him, for whatever pain is under that sound, for whatever he’s feeling in this moment, and I don’t know how I can feel that way. I feel like I’m going crazy.
"Back to my room." I don't look at him as I gather my clothes. "I need to think. I need to—I can't be here right now."
He doesn't try to stop me. He just watches as I dress with jerky movements, my hands shaking so badly I can barely pull up my shorts. When I'm finally clothed, I risk a glance at him. He's still sitting on the bed, naked and blood-stained, beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that looks almost like understanding.
"This doesn't change anything," he says quietly. "You are still mine. You are still here. And I am still what I am."
The words should sound like a threat. Instead, they sound like a promise. Or maybe a warning.
I don't respond. I just turn and walk out of his room, closing the door behind me with a soft click that sounds too loud in the silent hallway. My room is exactly as I left it. I lock the door behind me and slide down to the floor, my back against the wood, and finally let myself fall apart. The sobs come hard and fast, tearing through me with the same intensity as the orgasm he gave me less than an hour ago. I cry until there's nothing left,until I'm empty and exhausted and numb. Then I drag myself to the shower and let the water until it’s hot enough to burn, then scrub at my skin until it's raw and red. I try to wash away the feel of his hands, the scent of his cologne, the evidence of what we did, even though a part of me wants to keep all of it.
It felt so good. But it was wrong. I tell myself over and over that it was, but it doesn’t change that I can still feel him inside me. I can still feel the warmth of his release, the ache between my thighs where his piercings stretched me. I can still hear his voice in my head, calling meptitsa, telling me I was good, claiming me as his.
The water runs cold before I finally turn it off. I dry myself off, pull on clean clothes, and climb into bed. I curl into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest, and stare at the wall.
I should hate him. I do hate him. But I also?—
No. I can't finish that thought. I can't acknowledge what else I feel because acknowledging it makes me complicit in everything he is, everything he does.
I can’t let this happen again.
11
