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I didn’t know who I was anymore. I didn’t care. He fucked me through the orgasm, never letting up. His mouth bruised its way down my neck. He sucked a purple hickey into my collarbone, then bit hard enough to break skin.

I cried, clawed at his back. He grunted, bit me again, and came inside me for a second time. Another wave of heat. Another spurt of filth.

My stomach rippled. I wanted to be full of him forever. He lay on top of me, panting, his breath shallow and ragged. His weight was crushing. I didn’t want him to move.

I turned my head, looked at Brandon. Still out, still snoring. On the edge of the bed, death waiting. But I didn’t feel like I was next to death. I felt alive. Safe. Was I insane? Was this what my mother saw, in the dark, when she whispered to herself and smiled?

He rolled off, dragged me on top of him. I was limp, too spent to resist. He nestled me against his chest, hand in my hair, petting me. “I missed this, Starla. Missed you,” he muttered. “Couldn’t breathe without you.”

I curled closer. I wanted his smell all over me. I belonged here, didn’t I? Maybe that was the only real thing left.

He stroked my back, gentle like nothing bad ever happened. “I can’t let you go again. If you run, I’ll find you. You know that now, don’t you?”

I nodded, face buried in his skin. “Don’t let me go. Please.” Was I begging? I wanted to die.

He hugged me tight. “Never,” he promised. “No one loves you like I do. No one ever can.”

My mind spun. I thought about my father, his hands between my legs, about Brandon pressing his boot against my chest, about the group home, peeling paint and old ghosts in the corners. Nothing ever made sense until this. Nothing ever felt real except this. I wanted to belong. I wanted to be his bluebird.

He was the only one who ever truly cherished me, and cared enough to keep me. Brandon wanted to keep me, but it was different in the way he went about it. Brandon wanted control, Malakar wanted love and company. He wanted someone to stay.

He must have felt it. He kissed my cheek. I trembled in his arms. Didn’t care that I was sticky, could barely breathe, or that the world was collapsing outside this bed.

We laid there for a long time. I faded in and out, drifting in the dark, feeling his hands and his cock and the warmth of his breath on my forehead. I wanted to sleep forever. I wanted to stay inside this monster’s arms and never wake up to the ache again.

Chapter 33

Mine

Malakar

My bluebird lay here, curled into my flesh and bones. She was mine, forever. Nothing could separate us. I’d make sure of it.

I had to go before the sun rose, I couldn’t let Brandon see me here, not yet. I wanted to fuck with him first, before I took her away forever.

My bluebird, my perfect creature, we are going to be so happy together.

Chapter 34

Swallow It, Bluebird

Starla

He was gone when I woke, as if he were never here. Brandon woke up groggy and irritated. He wasn’t stupid, he knew something was off. He did drink a lot last night, but he was groggier than he usually would be after drinking.

“Where did you get those fucking hickeys?” Brandon cornered me in the kitchen the next morning. I froze and touched my neck.

Think, Starla. What could be a good excuse?

“You don’t remember? You were black out drunk last night and we did some stuff together. You were so out of it, I figured you wouldn’t remember.” I watched his face and hoped that was the right thing to say.

He squinted in confusion and rubbed his head. “Did I? Fuck, I don’t remember much, so I must’ve gotten pretty fucked up.”

I watched him, the careful slide of his eyes, the way his jaw worked a little harder than usual. Suspicion clung to the air. I tried to look small, innocent, grateful, like a girl who never thought about monsters in the dark or the hands that crushed her throat.

“Yeah,” I said. Kept my voice soft. “You were out of it. I think you hit your head on the wall at some point.” I put my palm up to my neck, pretending to rub a tender spot. “You were…rough.”

He studied me. I could almost feel his gaze going over every inch of my skin, weighing every word. If he pressed harder, if he really looked, would he see the sickness inside me? Would he guess what I’d let happen while he floated in his blackout, dead to the world?