Page 52 of Twisted Cage

You don’t. I’ve tried. God, how I’ve tried.

Those doubt-filled nights my soul agonized over the idea of never finding her, despair carved me apart, stealing a piece at a time, until I didn’t think I’d survive another day.

And when the sun came up, and air still filled my lungs, I buried the all-consuming anguish in wild carnage.

From the day she ran, I’d begun forming a strong association between the warm, fresh blood I spilled far and wide searching for her, and her.

Now I see the connection for what it was… foreshadowing.

I toss back the rest of the liquor and head for her. She has to be asleep by now and I have to make sure she is okay.

I have to assure myself she is mine. Just mine.

And the possessive, bloodthirsty monster in me has to know if my blood still remains on her lip or if she scrubbed me free.

I’ll peek in, see her with my own eyes, and I’ll go.

The handle moves freely. Not locking the door behind me has to be a good sign. If she really wanted to keep me out, she would have. Mustering up every bit of patience I have left, I turn the handle agonizingly slow, the sounds of the latch slipping free, barely a whisper of a sound.

Leaning in the doorway, my hand on the handle, I study her. The lamp next to the bed burns, the soft glow caressing her face. As my eyes adjust, I make out the tracks of dried tears streaking down her cheeks.

And there on her mouth, my blood still stains her bottom lip.

Pcholka, Pcholka, Pcholka, what are you trying to tell me by leaving my mark on you?

With all of her ferociousness at rest, her face softens the way it does just before her smile lights up a room—before her charming laugh draws people to her.

Much in the way I pictured her looking at Rhodes right before he stole her first kiss.

I silently cross the floor to the side of the bed where she is lying with her back to me. She stirrs, burrowing her face in my comforter with a soft sigh.

Seeing her nestled in my bed, where she belongs, rouses something raw and possessive inside me. How much blood will she spill of mine if she finds out? Just the thought of her slicing me open ignites a strange fascination in me. A craving for her brand of pain that has my cock hardening even more, aching as it strains against my zipper.

Rhodes may have had her first kiss, but he’ll never be able to handle this Nikoletta.

But pain is all I know, and if she wants to slice me to ribbons, I’ll let her.

My knuckles throb under the force of my clenched fists as I fight my overwhelming urge to reach for her. I itch to rub the silky strands of her hair between my fingers. But if I start there, I won’t stop. I’ll pin her wrists over her head, tear away the scrap of warm, damp cotton covering her tight pussy, and take. Take until she screams uncontrollably, and I won’t stop until I reduce her to whimpers and sobbing my name.

Grigori’s ominous warning echoes through my head, and still I don’t leave. Instead, I retreat to the cushioned chair in the corner, tucked away in the shadows. I watch her sleep like the fucking creep I’ve slowly morphed into more and more with every time I exiled myself to the crypt. My laser focus fixes on the steady rise and fall of her shoulders with each peaceful breath until my breathing pattern matches hers. Ears prickling, my sense of hearing heightens, homing in on every delicate sound she makes. Her breathing, sighs, the occasional soft mumble.

Every version of Nikoletta lives here, between her in the flesh and every rendition of her in my memories. All facets of her converge. The girl I’ve protected from birth. The teenager from her journals. The woman I found enticing men on that fucking pole. The woman I took on the altar. The killer she’s become.

I drag my hand down my face. What the fuck am I doing in here watching her? Jesus. Every time I think I can’t get lower, I rise to the occasion. Dropping my hand in my lap, my palm cups my cock and before I can tell myself to stop, I stroke myself long and hard over my zipper.

Fuck.

I’ve already hurt her. All but destroyed this girl she’d been. I refuse to be this. To do this to her. Disrespect her by getting off like some fucking freak in the corner when I’m supposed to be keeping her safe.

That means keeping her safe from this new, warped side of me.

Before I can change my mind, I cling to the man I’d been, her protector before it had all turned to shit. Without another glance in her direction, I leave the room as silently as I crept in.

20

NIKOLETTA

Scalding-hot water pummels my skin from six showerheads. You could have an orgy in this disgustingly ostentatious shower and still have room left over.

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