Page 87 of Twisted Cage

Faith

Can you ever be happy if you spend the rest of your life wondering if you were wrong?

With nothing left to say, I head for the bathroom, taking it in with new understanding. The bath sheets make sense now. He’s a big guy, and he’d dwarf a regular towel.

Bone-deep exhaustion settles inside me. I stare longingly at the tub that looks untouched and decide against it. Sinking into that warm water would put me right to sleep at this point.

Head hanging under the pounding spray, I watch Konstantin’s blood wash away from my thigh and stain the water swirling down the drain.

The minute he tore open his pants to see what I had done, when I glimpsed the V carving its way down his abdomen to the dark patch of hair, I was a goner. Already erect, I knew what would come next. I knew, and I didn’t walk away. I didn’t fight.

Because I wanted it. I wanted to be able to see his face this time, the way I had in that church. I wanted to watch his pleasure swallow him whole again.

I wanted to believe it had everything to do with me, with us… not her.

I’m losing myself. Bit by bit, slipping away under his constant assault on my resolve.

I refused to admit I’m his, but I did it with my thighs spread for him, so really, did I even win? Twice in one night, he took what he wanted and I did nothing to stop him.

Because I wanted it too, and apparently more than I wanted to win.

Each time he took me, he kept me from something. First, dancing with Logan. Then when I staked partial claim on the men who came for us.

He’ll try to keep me from going to the den… whatever this den is. He’ll fuck me, trick me, or lie to me so he doesn’t have to share the payback.

So he can be the hero. So he can have the upper hand.

Again.

A growl of pure frustration tears from my throat as I slam my fist against the tile. Every time he wanted me distracted and bending to his will, he came at me with the goddamned godfather rocket and scrambled every bit of good sense I’d gathered in the past year.

And I almost felt bad for cutting him.

Well, now I don’t. Now I wish I had cut him deeper.

I grab the loofah, slather it with bodywash, and go to work on his signature on my thigh. Tears leak from my eyes, swept away by the spray as I scour at my skin until it’s red and burning.

His name mocks me, only slightly faded from my efforts to scrub him away.

As mad as I am at him for marking me, I also feel the loss of the bold lettering. And I hate myself for secretly loving his unapologetic claim.

Everything he does serves a purpose. Even his name on my thigh. But I’m onto him now. Next time he puts his hands on me, I’ll be looking beyond, at whatever he’s trying to protect me from.

I wrap myself in a towel and head out to the bedroom. Just as I reach for my pajamas, I catch sight of the closet door.

Don’t do it.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn away. I last all of ten seconds before my hand is turning the handle and flicking on the light.

Three walls of suits hang neatly, mostly black, a couple navy, and a few charcoal suits on the end. Everything is clean, and still, it all smells like him.

I press my face to a crisp white shirt and breathe him in. The fabric is surprisingly soft. Three times with him and still, I don’t know what it’s like to roam his body with my hands, taste his skin—to feel what it’s like to fall asleep skin to skin, wrapped in him.

Reaching out, I hesitate just an inch from the hanger.

He’ll never know. This way I can have a bit of him and he’ll never know.

Before I can think too much about it, I ditch the towel and slip into the shirt. It reaches to my knees, but God, this is it. This is what he feels when he wears it. This is what it feels like to be wrapped in him.

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