Page 28 of Bathed in Blood

That’s what this is: a worst-case scenario, all coming together in the perfect way. Somewhere within these two weeks, he got the ingredients right. Maybe it’s because he didn’t fuck me,even when I begged. Maybe it’s the way he’d hum to himself, long after he thought I’d fallen asleep. I’d lay still, keeping my breath even as his hands combed through my hair. He’d whisper stories, some so outlandish that if I hadn’t seen what he was capable of firsthand, I’d think he was lying. Everything that feels right is so wrong that I’ve started fucking talking.

I can taste the food he brings.

I haven’t tasted food in years.

And most horrifying?

I look forward to him every night, his warmth when he stalks in, dark and watchful. Hanging on to his self-control by a hairpin, he undresses, showers, and tugs me into bed with him. If I’ve eaten well, taken my medication that they no longer sneak into my food, and do all the basic self-care things that seemed too taxing at the beginning, he makes me come apart on his tongue, fingers, thighs, but never cock.

He’s denied me every time I’ve begged to return the favor, my mouth salivating at the thought of him.

Despite his father’s threats, I haven’t performed.

A dangerous, smoldering seed of hope has infiltrated my chest. Even if I spend the rest of my life between these four gray walls, it would be worth it to avoid beingher.

I drag my nails across my thigh, scratching a phantom itch where they branded me, the skin raised and angry. I can feel her even now, my nails chewed down to the quick, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been… craving the release a performance offers, an outlet for all the anxiety and rage. Someone’s screams that aren’t my own, someone’s pain I don’t feel.

But Christian hasn’t hurt me, not in any way I didn’t want him to.

The perfect storm.

Catastrophic when it makes landfall.

A category five, without a doubt.

My eyes linger on the circle branded into my thigh: the Sullivan S in old English font, J, A, and V woven into the ornate border. They had it custom made for me. I’ve been careful, so careful, to keep it hidden, as if him seeing it would prove what I really am: an animal that needed to be cowled. Tamed. Forced again into servitude.

With it on display, I’m an exposed wire that just spasmed in a nearby puddle. My breasts are full, my nipples already peaked, my core wet and throbbing with anticipation. Christian has respected me. He kept his promise. I wasn’t ready; I hadn’t healed. He doesn’t know that what I’ve been made into is a beingpasthealing. My physical wounds are nearly gone, bruises faded back into my pale skin. The other ones, deeper ones, will never stop festering. I turn in the mirror, studying myself from another angle, my long red hair dripping in waves down my back, stopping just underneath my shoulder blades.

I want Christian Vanegas to be the one to rewrite the past four years of my life. I chose him.

I get to fucking choose.

Another hour passes, another sixteen trips to the bathroom to check my subtle makeup, to reapply the perfume he brought me. Another two or three times, I carefully removed his expensive bottle of aftershave, inhaling the deep sandalwood and bergamot.

When the lock turns, I can’t stop the gasp that leaves my mouth. Suddenly, my nudity feels like a terrible choice—too forward,desperate. I haven’t had to try to seduce a man… ever. I’m inexperienced in consent, and it's all occurring to me right now. The door swings open harder than usual, Christian’s dark green eyes glaring holes in the floor as he stalks in.

My legs move without my permission, taking a step back, even though all I want is to fly forward, pressing every inch ofmy body against his. Lana would beg him; the princess would demand.

I want to demand it tonight, to take because he lets me.

I want it all.

“Hi,” I breathe.Fucking hi?Fucking hi, Lana?

His eyes jerk up from the hardwood, and the cold look he gives me sinks straight into my bones. If it had lasted longer than a few seconds, I might’ve dissolved into tears on the spot, but then, heseesme. Christian’s eyes dip to my breasts, now heaving violently in tune with the unforgiving way my lungs are forcing air in and out. When his eyes dip lower, towards my throbbing core, I shift, opening my legs enough to let him see how wet I already am, how badly I want this.

Need it.

I need to take this back.

My choice. I need it to be him.

My savior, protector, kidnapper, and tormentor.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes out, tossing a black tote bag to the floor beside him before burying both hands in his hair. His angry tone has me taking another step back, my entire being begging me to lay down.

To be small.

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