Page 191 of I Will Mend You

Too far gone in his delusion to listen, he cuts off my air. Spots dance before my eyes, my vision darkening. In my periphery, the men press in closer, their excited breaths penetrating the roar of blood between my ears.

I stare into Xero’s eyes and stroke the hand trying to strangle me to death, pouring every ounce of love into the caress.

“McMurphy,” I whisper into his ear.

Xero flinches at the word, his grip loosening a fraction. His eyes remain wild and unfocused, but my chest brightens with a spark of hope.

I whisper the safe word over and over, and each time, his hold slackens enough for me to draw in a rush of air. He breathes hard, his features forming a grimace.

“That’s right, Xero,” I say, my palm sliding up his arm. “It’s me. I’m Amethyst.”

Recognition flickers across his features. He looks into my eyes, his brow furrowing with confusion, followed by a glimmer of the man I love.

Around us, the men clap and chant for Xero to tear me apart. He’s oblivious to their presence, his attention honed only on me.

When his fingers loosen around my throat, I grab his wrist. “Don’t make it obvious.”

He hesitates, his breathing ragged, his gaze darting from side to side. The madness in his eyes dims, replaced by a burst of rage. Without a word, he throws me onto the bed. The mattress springs squeak under my weight, and I scream.

The movement jostles studio lights and cameras on tripods surrounding the bed, filling my vision with a blinding glare. I blink over and over, my eyes watering.

Xero positions himself between my spread legs, his hands sliding up to the neckline of my dress. He grabs the fabric with both hands and pulls, tearing it apart.

The audience’s raucous cheers become a distant roar, my world narrowing to Xero’s touch. He looms over me, his hands caressing my exposed breasts. His touch ignites my skin with sparks of electricity, and my breath quickens. I bite my lip to keep from moaning.

Does Xero even know what’s happening?

A foreign hand touches my knee, making me flinch and shriek. Xero’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing.

The groper is the man whose comb-over hangs down in wisps beside his ear. In a blur of movement, Xero grabs my cleaver and slashes his throat.

Blood sprays across the bed, splattering on my chest. I gasp, my eyes widening. The men crowding around the bed skitter backward to the farthest corners of the room.

Xero turns his focus on me, then climbs back onto the bed and places the cleaver in my hand. Heart fluttering, I close my fingers around its hilt. Grabbing the torn fabric of my dress, he wipes the blood off my breasts.

With trembling hands, I reach up to cup his face and whisper, “What did they do to you?”

Xero hisses through clenched teeth, making me flinch. Is he hallucinating? Before I can work out a way to get through to him, the hand that was holding the fabric slips between my spread legs.

My gaze travels over his muscled chest and down his abs to his thick erection. I shiver, the muscles of my pussy tightening. Xero slips his fingers through my slick folds, his eyes darkening with anger and need.

“You want me?” I curl my fingers around his shaft.

He answers with a low, rumbling growl and moves closer, allowing me to position his cock at my entrance. When I rub his crown over my swollen clit, we both groan.

Before I know it, Xero pushes into my pussy with a thrust so forceful that I scream. He pulls back, not giving me time to adjust, and snaps his hips.

His thrusts are hard, unyielding, delivering jolts of pleasure and pain. Wrapping my legs around his hips, I cling to his biceps. His breath is hot and erratic against my cheek, mingling with the smell of sweat and blood.

“Harder, Xero,” I groan, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Make me come.”

He draws back, his eyes meeting mine in silent understanding. Pulling away, he flips me onto my front and enters me again with another violent thrust. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and he pounds into me, his movements furious and frantic.

I push against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. As I turn around, some of the men from earlier enter my periphery, stroking their erections.

My fingers tighten around the cleaver. The first bastard to come in touching distance will be the next to die.

The rhythm becomes erratic, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. His chest rests flush against my back, his arm tightening around my waist.

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