Page 11 of Marked

Edouard clicked his tongue and pushed me down by my shoulders as he got up himself, shielding me. “That’s a bad boy. You stay down for now.” Behind me, Maman gasped on a verbal protest, and I winced inwardly at her capability of reacting so god-damn late. But then, if she realized it this late, why was she still not speaking up? Telling them to go and screw themselves, but that she would take her son back home?

She didn’t. She left me there.

“D’accord, Blanche.” The Dictator said. “Your debt has been cleared, and if you still want the cleaning job, it’s yours.”

“Merci.” Her hesitation was short, and though she stood behind me, I felt it. Her hand on my head. A soft brush, nothing more, but it made me close my eyes in defeat. “Je suis désolée, mon chat.” The words came out in a whisper, but I heard every single one of them. They hurt me more than anything else.

As I sat there, kneeling in front of Edouard Beamont, I realized how naive I’d been. I couldn’t save her, because she couldn’t be saved.

Instead, I’d dug my own grave. The question was, how deep was I going to be buried?

“What did you—” Edouard looks down to where his cloak has been slit open. The hood covers his head, smoothly intertwining with the glorious, golden mask he’s wearing tonight, but even disguised like that, he has the power to control my entire range of emotions. I worked so hard over the past two years to become strong and self-assured, to avoid getting anyone close, yet here he is. In his full glory. And here I am. Thumping chest, shaking legs, and a heart that wants nothing more than to submit—submit!—and belong. Belong to the strong, warm, kind Edouard Beaumont. The one who still holds my heart after these years.

But my brain does not agree. I don’t agree. I’m an independent being who makes my own choices. And he is not my choice.

That doesn’t stop my heart from thundering in my throat, and my hands from sweating in anticipation. He’s angry, and that’s not good. It takes me a few seconds to drag my gaze from his beautiful face down to where his cloak has been sliced open around his waist. I don’t know what to expect. Ropes and ropes of clear red blood? It’s not there. Aside from the cut through fabric, I can’t see anything. “You fool,” Edouard hisses. He might be right, but at this moment, I’m too proud to admit that I may be a fool. When he opens the cloak with his knife, my chest clenches even further.

There.

Edouard’s dark eyes turn to slits as he gazes up at me, his lips pursed together in a disapproving snarl. “You cut me.”

“Well—” My voice shakes and I fucking hate myself for it. I clear my throat, swallow the rattling beating of my heart down. “You deserved it,” I whisper.

It’s true. He deserved that and he knows it. He deserves so much more for having looked after me during the rest of my teenage years, only to let me go when he was tired of me.

That’s not true, a small voice whispers. A small voice that has no right to be loud right now.

Edouard huffs theatrically. “I deserve that?” His finger slides over the black fabric of his tank top, where a visible slash has been made. There’s blood there, but only a little, the cut not deep. Edouard traces it carefully with the flat of his own knife, then brings it to his mouth. The Damascus pocket knife with its rosewood handle was a gift from his dad, and he always carries it with him. The glistening tip points my way as he parts his lips, swiping off the blood with his tongue. “So you have become a little ballsy over the past years? Hmm, I do love a bit of blood, as I’m sure you recall.” Oh, I do. My eyes take in the view, veins pumping with arousal, and I realize I’m panting when I hear my own puffy, rapid breaths. I look down to ensure I have tucked away my cock and have zipped up and closed my belt. That was a mistake, despite the toxic reaction my body has to his. Shame curls over me, blanketing me, protecting me from the reality of retribution. After what feels like forever, Edouard chuckles, relieving some of the tension. “And no, Romain, I did not deserve that.”

He takes a step toward me and I lift my knife. “Yes, you did. You always think that you can just do what you feel like doing, without looking at the consequences.”

“Consequences?” Edouard echoes. His voice has dropped to a rumbling tenor and he grabbles inside his pocket to retrieve a pack of tissues. Grabbing out a few, he cleans his hand from my release and the blood, then uses another one to dab at the wound. With the blood removed, it’s clear I didn’t cut him deep. In fact, it turns out to be nothing more than a scratch, damn it. “Which consequences? You mean expressing my wish to claim you as my pet by making you orgasm?”

I clench my teeth at the words. “That shouldn’t have happened. But yes, exactly that.”

Edouard takes another step forward. “And what exactly was the consequence?”

The knife trembles in my grip, but that doesn’t stop me from pointing it even higher. I want to threaten him, scare him away, I crave to defend myself from him. He’s my drug. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. And he…I shake my head, and wish for the thoughts to vanish.

“I won’t give in to you.” My voice sounds strained, much like my chest. So much tension. So much fear. “When your dad sent me to Saint-Laurent, he promised to keep you away from me.”

It’s true. The Dictator knew. He knew about my feelings for Edouard, knew how much it killed me to be stuck in my own desire and disgrace. And he had given me a choice. “I chose my future,” I voice my thoughts out loud, liking the sound of them, and repeat them once more, louder this time.

I had chosen to be separated from Edouard after two years of being inseparable, because after that day in church, I just couldn’t, anymore.

“And I would choose it again, if I had to.”

“You’re screaming.”

I huff out an exasperated laugh. “I’m not.”

“You so are.” He smiles then, one of those stunning smiles that makes him so irresistible and my chest tightens.

“That’s because you’re not listening!”

“Oh, I’m listening, already.” He takes another step toward me, and I hit my back against a tree trunk. Panic flutters through my stomach like a flock of flapping butterflies. “I just don’t agree with you.”

“But your dad?—”

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