What. The. Fuck.
“One week, Sawyer,” he says, his chin raising. His face is tomato red, his eyes blazing. Obviously, that didnotturn him on.
He’s the one who kidnapped the girl, but to him, I’m the bad guy. He wouldn’t be at the top of a cult if he wasn’t a hypocritical bastard.
He leaves before I can say a word, and I’m glad because I don’t know what to say. I face the girl too soon. I’m not sure if I mask my frustration in time. But I’m also not sure it matters. She knows I’m horny. She knows I liked that.
“You okay?” I ask, even as lust pumps my chest.
Her mortified face pinches into a glare before she turns her head, though her irises are still glazed from post orgasm bliss. It’ll be gone soon. Clarity will return with a vengeance, but the pain in my balls will remain.
The lower half of my body protests as I roll off of her, my arms stiff as my dick. I don’t look at her. I tell myself it’s because the hero I’m playing would be too ashamed, but it’s mostly because I don’t want to. Her eyes do something to me.
“So is this it?” she asks, her voice both empty with her breathless inhales and sharp with a crack, the ricochet of pleasure and shame mingling. Still, the broken pitch is slight. I can tell she’s trying to be strong. She’s almost there. “Is this whattrainingis?”
Her voice is so hopeless that my chest deflates with an exhale. If pleasure was enough to settle her instincts, this would be easier for us both. Orgasms, kindness, encouragement, alie or two, maybe a little make-believe—and it might even feel like home. If they’d chosen a more compatible girl, it very well could’ve been that simple.
But this one is a fighter, and fighters never bend unless there’s pain. Unfortunate, but true.
Pleasure plus pain. Over and over again until the two are so intertwined, it’s hard to tell them apart—flinches become sighs, tension equals lust. One can no longer exist without the other.
That’s her best shot at survival. And mine.
Seconds of silence pass before the girl rolls her head to face me, handcuffs clinking as she adjusts. The anger that warmed the blue of her eyes has dimmed, the color softening until it’s hardly visible; an unsettling showcase of vulnerability. “What the fuck is this place?”
I force a sigh, an apology of sorts, though it’s relief I feel. Not because of the question but the solidarity it implies, the first hurdle conquered. “A very well-guarded cult… I’m sorry, Luna.”
Sitting up, I retrieve the key Thorne slapped on the nightstand. She stiffens but doesn’t jerk or even flinch as I work the cuffs, my thumb grazing the thick blue vein jutting down her wrist. When her hands slip free, she yanks her sweater down to cover her stomach, then hurries to pull the comforter up to her waist.
“What do you people want with me?” she asks, sitting up, back hugging the headboard. Voice small—scared.
My sigh is genuine this time.You people.
“Theywant to make you what’s called a Seraph. It’s a sexual purifier, which basically means…” I let my mouth hang open a moment, hand twirling as if to brace for the words too nasty to say. But thatmustbe said if I want to stand a chance of distancing myself from the cult. “Like… fucking the demons out of people.”
I rub the back of my neck, head hanging. Embarrassed. Empathetic. Disapproving. “It’s sick. It’s twisted, but it’s your new reality. I’m so sorry. I really wish I could stop them.”
She stares blankly, horror freezing her face. She agrees, honesty is often cruel.
“They’ve given us a week together, but I’ll do everything I can to get you more time. I might be able to extend training to three weeks.”
She blinks, nose creasing. “Wha…” She shakes her head. “Why? What do they want you to… What does that mean?”
“It means over the next few weeks, we’re going to prepare you for your new role, as a Seraph… I promise I’m trying to help you. If they do it, they’ll hurt you. I’ve seen what they do to other girls, and it’s horrifying, Luna. I don’t want it to happen to you.”
She stares off another minute, her arms wrapping around herself as her lip fights a tremble. I don’t think she’s considering what I just said. I certainly don’t think she’s grateful.
They could not have chosen a worse person to mold.
New York City girl. Self-made. Probably has never done drugs under peer pressure. Eats pad thai on Thanksgiving becausefuck you for telling her what to do.
“There has to be some way out of here.” Her voice is low, more pathetic than hopeful. She wants me to tell her there’s a chance.
“If you find one, let me know… Believe me, I’ve looked. This place is a hundred acres of boobytraps and electric fences. There are more guards than I’ve been able to count, and I’ve never made it to any part of the fence line without running into one.”
She shakes her head. “There has to be a way.”
I just stare at her instead of answering this time. In truth, I do hope she gets away. After I’m gone.
