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His hand left the wheel, slammed onto my wrist so hard I thought I heard it crack. I didn’t scream. I just kept stroking him, desperate, greedy for anything but this rage. I wanted him to focus on me. Not the voices in his head. Not the blood on his skin. Not the memory of what Brandon did. I wanted all thoughts on me.

“Malakar, please.” My breath came in short, fucked-up bursts. Tears stung my eyes, blurring the dash lights, the moon, the world behind glass. “Don’t listen to them. Don’t listen to the dark. It’s just us.”

“I can’t stop it. I can’t stop thinking. I hear them in my head, bluebird. Him. My dad. He tells me to do it again and again and again. You’re not safe. You’re never safe unless you’re mine. If you’re not mine it’s all black, just black, and I want to kill him again just to listen to his bones break. I want to kill them all. I want to rip out every heart in the world until yours never hurts again.”

He was crying. I saw it. Real tears, wet down his nose, caught in the hairs of his jaw. He didn’t notice. He kept ramming his foot down on the gas. Eighty, ninety, too fast for these roads.

Monsters really do weep too.

“Stop the car, Malakar.” My mouth flopped open, I barely got the words out. “Please. Pull over. It’s just us. Focus on me.”

I squeezed his cock harder, palmed it in circles through the denim, feeling him twitch and throb just beneath the old, stiff fabric. He was hard as stone.

He whipped the car to the shoulder so fast we skidded. Gravel and dirt sprayed the windows. For a second, I thought we might tip, the world slamming sideways. But we didn’t. The car shuddered, then halted. We idled there, engine ticking.

He turned and looked at me, for real this time. His eyes were wild, brown nearly black in the dark, lashes matted with tears.

“You’re the only thing that matters.” The words came out a broken snarl, like he was talking to the devil inside his skull. “You’re my fucking bluebird. The only thing I ever loved. I shouldn’t hurt you. I shouldn’t ever, and I still do it. Why do I always ruin everything?”

His voice pinched up. I thought he might scream, or hit himself, or break something else. But I didn’t let go. I kept squeezing him, kept stroking, trying to anchor him with the feeling of my hand.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. My digging fingers popped two buttons on his jeans. “Just come back to me, Malakar. Just feel this. Ignore everything else. Nobody is here but us.”

I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I was fucked up. He just murdered a bunch of people, dragged me out of a hospital while I’m still in pain from what Brandon did, and here I was seducing him.

Deep down, I still craved him. That was the sickest part.

He stared at my hands, a look of awe and hate and hunger all tangled into one. Then he grabbed me, yanked me sideways, and rammed me onto his lap.

I straddled him, knees wedged between the gear shift and his rock-hard thighs. My hospital gown flared around my hips. My skin stuck to fake leather. He palmed the back of my head and crushed his mouth to mine.

His lips tore at my mouth. He bit the inside of my lower lip, hard enough that I tasted blood instantly. I moaned and ripped at his zipper with both hands, fighting to get his cock out.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t talk. His hands bunched my gown up around my ribs. His fingers dug into the bruises, all the places Brandon broke me and the docs tried to sew back together. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I rocked against him, rocking his cock against my ruined cunt.

He was leaking already. Wetness smeared on my palm. I lined him up, frenzied, shoving my panties aside with one awkward, broken movement.

He grabbed my hips. Lifted me and slammed me down.

The pain was pure white. Every inch of his cock shoved up inside me was like a knife, a fucking explosion inside my guts. I cried out, everything in me tearing open.

I was still hurting so fucking bad from my miscarriage. My vagina was sore from bleeding so much.

That didn’t matter to him. He fucked me hard and fast. Out of control.

He bounced me on his lap so the crown of his dick battered my cervix, again, again, again, as if he was trying to rupture my insides. My body screamed. I wasn’t healed. I wasn’t ready for this, not at all, but he didn’t care. He needed to fuck it out, fuck the voices away, fuck all the pain out of my body and cram all of his own back in.

I sobbed. It was so loud in the tiny car.

He pressed my face to his throat, moaned into my hair, grabbed my ass so hard I thought the flesh would rip. My breath hitched, throat locking on every movement.

“Take it,” he ordered. His hands bruised my ribs, jolted the pain higher and higher. “You’re my bluebird. My whore. Take all of it.”

I bounced on his cock like a good girl. I could feel blood leaking down my thighs. I could feel my body clenching, desperate, ached to perform even when it wanted to quit. The pain was fire, it brought white and black flashes at the edge of my vision.

“Hurts,” I sobbed. “Malakar, it hurts, it hurts so bad.”

He gripped my jaw, turned my face to his. “You can take it. You always do, bluebird. You’re the only one strong enough.”