Page 63 of The Devil In Disguise

My feelings towards Kylo have never been so confusing. Half of me screams that I hate him again, while the other half wants to track down and kill anyone who had a hand in hurting him. No matter what my feelings are towards him, death is not what I wanted for him.

I’ve never had a stronger urge to hurt somebody. The darkness that I keep locked tight in a box wants to come out and play.

He stands a few feet away, raking his hungry eyes over my figure when an idea comes to me. Sending a quick prayer to the moon, I put on my best performance yet.

“Maybe he wasn’t as invincible as I thought he was,” I whisper.

The side of his lip tips up. “You’re starting to get it, baby girl. I’m gonna fuck the memory of him out of you until the only thing you feel is me and whatever I give you. You want that, don’t you?”

Men think they are entitled to anything they want. What makes this okay in their sick, twisted minds? If I don’t make it out of here, I will fight until I die trying. That’s a promise.

Blood rushes to my face once again, but where he sees a blush, I know it’s anger boiling under the surface waiting to explode.

“Yes,” I breathe out. Without giving him the chance to give me directions, I slip my hand under my dress and slide my underwear off, sinking to my knees.

His eyes shine with desire, that evil glint never leaving. Understanding what I’m implying, he chuckles darkly and removes his belt. “See, I knew you’d be a perfect little cock whore.” Discarding his pants, he takes a few steps back until he’s sitting on the mattress, waiting with spread legs. “Crawl over here, slut.”

Holding my underwear in one hand, I obey, swaying my hips from side to side. He looks down at me with a challenge in his eyes. My body is close enough to where he doesn’t notice my hand slip under my dress again. Bringing my face close to his erection, my eyes flick up to his and I use my panties to rub the length of it, watching him.

In one fluid movement, I move my hand away and stuff the cloth into his now open mouth at the same time my dagger comes down on the root of his dick. Then again. And again. His shriek is barely contained and he overpowers me moments later, shoving me to the ground and straddling me. The warm blood gushing out of his wound is spilling onto my stomach and I hold my breath, trying to not throw up at the sensation.

“You fucking bitch!” He punches me in the face and my eyes roll back with the force. My eyes adjust to the sight of him rearing back to punch again and I instinctually bring my hand holding the knife over my face, jabbing the first body part I reach.

I stabbed him in the fucking eyeball.

He screams again and stumbles to the side, covering his injured eye. I take the opportunity to crawl over to him again and stab his shoulder. His blood paints most of my upper body and I do my best to ignore it all. Who knows if it’s blood or tears dripping down my face, and at this point, who cares?

He kicks my knee in, hard—especially for someone who’s been stabbed multiple times. Is this man made out of steel?

His bloody, flaccid cock hangs freely, asking for me to grab it and pull. When he levitates his chest up from the pain alone, I find a morbid satisfaction in his suffering. Using the sharp blade to sever the rest of his dick off, I leave him panting for air.

I find myself wanting to help him out.

Crawling over his weak body, my hands have a slight tremor when I bring the knife up to his throat. His hands move to grab me, but he’s too slow. I slide the dagger through the side of his neck and pull forward. Thick, crimson liquid spurts out and lands on my face and chest. Time seems to freeze for a moment and nothing moves except for my thunderous heart, slamming against my chest.

He isn’t moving or breathing anymore, but I don’t believe it.

What if he wakes up?

I stab him again in the chest. Then, I keep slashing him until the sobs consume me and I’m wailing in the empty room.

He can’t hurt anyone else now. He can’t hurt anyone else now.

There’s blood and body matter everywhere. It’s all over me, all over my hands. Shaky hands come up to my chest, the beat of my own heart serving to ground me, reminding me that I’m still here.

For now.

I have to get out of here.

As if the universe decided to play some sort of deranged joke on me, gunshots start sounding off in the distance followed by banging. Terror sucks the very breath from my lungs. Heart banging in my ear, I push myself up in a hurry to the door, stumbling in the process. My stomach protests harder once I stand too quickly, not giving me a chance to hold back any of the barely-there contents in my stomach. It joins the rest of the mess on the floor.

Cracking the door open reveals a pitch-black abyss. There’s no more music playing and nothing is visible, but I take my chances anyway and slip out of the room. Each step I take is another deep breath in an attempt to calm my mind and keep the tears at bay. Albeit, they are still falling and I’m still shaking.

Strong arms haul me aside and my first instinct is to yelp and thrust my knife in the direction of my attacker. Spiced wood invades my senses and in the dark, I try to make out the man holding on to me. My mind must be playing tricks on me at the wrong time.

His groan meets my ears and my breath catches in my throat.

“Kylo?” My voice breaks audibly.

---