Page 53 of Twisted Cage

Maybe that’s what it was designed for. Konstantin doesn’t strike me as a big ole whore, but then I never would have guessed he only fucked me because he had a boner for my mother, so what do I know.

I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears threatening to well up. God, will there ever be a day that knowledge doesn’t hurt?

Despite the buffet of options, rainfall, handheld sprayer, or the multiple showerheads hammering me now, nothing washes away traces of him lingering despite the half hour I spend under their spray.

His scent haunts me. The smoke-tinged leather, with a hint of pepper and bergamot, luring me in and pissing me off at every turn. The naive girl who lost her virginity to him—the one who still stupidly wants him, is so fucking hopelessly drawn to the rich, spicy smell.

I want to straddle his lap, tuck my nose along the crook of his neck, and breathe him in. More than that, I long to drag my tongue along his skin and relish the taste of him bursting on my tongue.

Knowing his sounds now has me salivating. Hearing them again last night when he kissed me, his erratic breathing, the desperation in the way he held my face–it took every bit of willpower I had in me to fight the way I wanted him and instead embrace the fury. I crave hearing them again. The growl of a man struggling to hold everything back, followed by a gasp and a groan of surrender. The echoing in my head has me squeezing my thighs together.

I muster all my willpower and try to shove the craving and memories away his smell invokes.

Only his cologne wraps around my childhood memories of him as well. A time when I associated his scent with safety, making the push and pull between betrayal and devotion excruciating.

Resting my forehead against the tiles, I close my eyes and take slow, even breaths through the pain pinching my heart. He devastates me, and still this yearning will never end.

I’ll never shake him.

Not even twenty-four hours into my life sentence of being in close proximity to him, and already, I’m about to go out of my damn mind.

I have no interest in leaving my sanctuary of the shower, but if I spend much longer, he’ll think I’m hiding from him and I can’t live with that.

Sure, a part of me wants to hide, but the other part—the louder part—wants to be in his face at every opportunity until he experiences a fraction of my misery.

Fuck if I know which me I’ll be when I finally make my way out there this morning.

I shut off the water and reach for the plush bath sheet I found in the linen closet. Gathering the terry cloth around my shoulders, I scrub at the ends of my hair since I hadn’t been able to find anything even close to the size of an ordinary towel to wrap the dripping strands in.

Swiping my forearm over the mirror, I choke on the air I draw into my lungs. My gaze locks on Konstantin’s blood still staining my bottom lip. I scrubbed all traces of him from my skin, yet I didn’t touch that spot.

Unable to tear my gaze from his mark, I swipe the spot with the tip of my tongue. The metallic flavor is muted. Subtle. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m sucking my bottom lip into my mouth and scouring every last bit of his flavor remaining on my lip.

Mine.

I’m condemned to him always tasting like he’s mine.

Releasing my lip, my stare lands on the now clean, glistening spot. A profound sadness takes root with his mark gone and stupid tears well in my eyes. Pain moves through me, leaving a pulsing ache in its wake.

I want to succumb to being his. Despite everything, I yearn for it. Even if my pride doesn't demand I keep my distance from him after his betrayal, my path forward does. Power means controlling my future, demanding respect, upholding consequences for betrayal, even if those consequences leave me bleeding too.

And he left me bleeding more than any of them.

Heart aching to the point breathing became almost impossible, I turn away from my reflection. I grasp for the mundane, hoping one foot in front of the other will take the edge off the fucking despair eating me alive.

In a matter of minutes, I have to be on, immersing myself in the part I need to play, my mask firmly in place.

Digging through my bag, I pass up my favorite dresses and snag a pair of jeans. I love the freedom of a dress. I especially love the access to my knife while wearing one, but right now, with him, a dress leaves me too exposed. A vulnerable feeling that also has me reaching for my cardigan to top it all off. Warm and soothing, I burrow behind the soft knit.

With his kiss still alive in my mind, his taste seared on my tongue, my nerves snap with awareness. Even the caress of the denim along my skin threatens to transport me right back in that crypt where he held my hips as I rocked on his thigh in the dark. Desperate for any part of him he’d let me have.

Let me have…

My back snaps up straight.

That was the stupid, innocent girl in me.

I no longer settle for what men let me have. I take. I seize what I want with as much confidence and force as men do, as much as a Romanoff, making sure they won’t overlook me again.

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