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He slapped my tit, and I widened my eyes fearfully. “Moan for me, Starla, I want to hear you. I want to hear how much you love it.” His eyes were so dark, so hungry, so cold.

I practiced fake moaning plenty of times with Brandon. I could do it again, couldn’t I?

Moans poured out one by one. Loud, high-pitched and performative. He groaned along with my moans. Eventually, the sound of his own groans was enough to get me wet down there. His cock slid in and out a little easier. The pain was still there, but at least I could get through it without whimpering or screaming from being hurt.

“Your pussy is all mine, got it?” His hands move from my thighs to my chest, holding me down, fucking into me harshly. “Don’t leave,” he hissed. “Don’t you dare leave, little bluebird. I want you to remember.”

I remembered. Every thrust, every second, every red-hot spike of pain. My body trembled, convulsed, but there was no escape.

He moaned, hands clamping around my neck, choking the whimpers out of me. My vision flashed black and white, blooming stars and agony. I saw my own hands from far away, thin and useless. I saw my legs, splayed, painted with blood.

He was losing his mind. I heard it in the way his breath shredded itself to pieces, in the way he ranted. “You’re mine, you’re not leaving, never ever. Not like the others. Not like my mother.” He bucked, grinding against me.

The whole world became a tunnel, dark and clotted with suffering. I was gone, faded to a ghost, eyes rolling in my head. He forced my legs open wider, his hands bruising the flesh. I was stretched and leaking, my own blood making it wet. He didn’t care.

He stared into my eyes while he rammed inside. “Look at me, Starla. Look at me while I make you mine.”

I looked. I saw the void, empty and endless, inside him. It was the same dark I ran from, all my life. Nowhere to go, nowhere left to hide.

I think I drifted the rest of the time. Drugs weren’t needed this time, my mind just blacked out. When I came back, he was finished. He was sitting on the bed, holding his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking.

“Malakar?”

It took a moment for him to realize I spoke, maybe because I said it so quietly. My voice was almost gone from screaming.

He looked up and gazed at me as if he forgot I was there. For a moment, he looked pained. The bad Malakar was gone, I could see that, because he looked almost human.

“I know, you’re confused. Monsters weep too, little bluebird. Even the worst monsters like me.” He smacked the side of his head, then smacked it again. “I’m terrible, fucking terrible.”

He kept smacking his head, over and over, like he could knock the monster out if he just hit hard enough. The sound was dull, hollow. I just lay there, every part of me throbbing, wet with blood and sweat and shame. Maybe if I stayed silent, he’d disappear. Maybe I’d disappear.

He started to sob—no, not really sobbing, but shaking. Small, pathetic sounds leaking out of him. His hands dragged down his face, leaving red streaks from where my blood smeared across his skin. He looked at his palms like he didn’t understand what he’d done.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he whispered. His voice was thin, barely there. “I never wanted—fuck, I’m so sorry. I just wanted you to stay. I just wanted someone to stay. The dark takes over and I go away, and the dark just fucking controls me.” For a second, his eyes found mine—wet, desperate, almost pleading.

He looked so young, for a moment. Broken, like the little boy still hiding inside the monster suit.

I could’ve screamed at him. I could’ve cursed him, told him he’d ruined me, branded me, made me less than nothing. But I just stared, empty inside. What was the point? My voice was gone. My hope was gone. I was a ghost, already halfway out of my body, drifting above it all.

My mind and body was still in shock from the torturous pain. What was I supposed to do?

He reached out, his hand trembling, and brushed the hair from my face. Soft, almost gentle—like he was trying to repair me with a touch, glue the pieces back together. “Don’t look at me like that, little bluebird. Don’t look at me like I’m a monster.”

But he was. We both knew it.

He stood, moving slowly, like he was walking through mud. He opened the dresser drawer and pulled something out—a small bottle, a cloth. He soaked the rag, his hands shaking so bad I thought he’d drop it.

“Shhh,” he whispered, coming back to the bed. “It’s okay. I’ll make it quiet for you. You don’t have to feel anything now.”

He pressed the cloth over my mouth and nose, holding me down with one hand. The smell hit me, burning down my throat. I fought—weak, useless flailing. My head spun, the world blurring at the edges.

“Sleep, little bluebird,” he murmured.

The darkness rushed in, swallowing everything. My last thought was that maybe, just maybe, he wished he could disappear too.

Chapter 8

Love Doesn’t Exist Here