Page 59 of Rage

“You enjoyed this…watching me kill?” she whispers. Her pulse jumps in her neck and I want to strapherto the table, taking my time to give her multiple little deaths. My thumb swipes across her full bottom lip.

“And if I did?” I ask huskily, cock twitching at the lack of disgust in her voice. She never ceases to surprise me. Her complete and utter acceptance of everything that I am slowly sealing up the gaping wounds from my youth.

Freak. Abomination. Ticking time bomb. Schizo.

I’ve heard them all, but never from Sarah’s lips. All derogatory terms labeling me as “other.” Despite our rough beginning, she’s never seen me as someone inherently bad. She recognized I needed help, that I allowed my grief to contort me into someone I’m not.

I’m not a killer, not anymore.

“You—He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asks, whipping her head over her shoulder. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it looks like his head turned toward her in the slightest movement.

My lips twist into a scowl at the corpse.

“Mine,” I want to growl at it. I haven’t forgotten Dr. Anders and how he taunted me even in death. But Sarah’s inmyarms and carryingmychild.

I make my decision while her gaze is turned away from me.

Anders didn’t get to see me claim her. If he isn’t dead, then his last fucking moments will be watching what it looks like when a woman gives herconsent, what she sounds like when shewantsthe cock slipping inside of her wet sheath.

Mine. My Sarah.

It’s time I claimed her again.

Sarah

The hairs on my nape rise and I shift closer to the table, peering into the open chest cavity. It’s slow, infrequent, but one, two pumps. The fucker’s heart keeps trying in vain to pump blood instead of giving up and sending him directly to hell.

Flames lick my insides. There’s so much blood here, congealing beneath the splayed out body. But it doesn’t bring me grief like watching the life ebb from within Crissy’s body.

Hedid that. He doesn’t deserve my turns and I should make his last moments even more fucking torturous.

Hands pull at my hips and I gasp, lips coasting down my neck.

“Dayton,” I whimper, arching and tilting my head back. He can’t—Deft fingers slip within the waistband of my scrub bottoms and a moan escapes my mouth. I shouldn’t encourage this.

“I want you,” he growls into my skin, fingers sliding through my dark curls and aiming straight for my clit. My panties dampen immediately, his touch lighting a fuse. I still don’t completely understand the spell he weaves on my body, making it pliable in his hands.

I can’t remember a time I’ve told him no and meant it. Something hard presses between my cheeks, pulling another whimper from my throat.

“I told you. I enjoyed watching you. And now, I want to hear you, little raven. Let the last sound he hears be my name on your lips.” A finger slips inside me easily and whatever resistance I thought of putting up, fades into vapors.

“Dayton,” I moan, hips jerking against his hand. Blood still coats mine and death hangs in the air like a sickly sweet cloud. This is the last thing we should be doing. Zaiden pays me no heed, not that I’d actually offered a complaint.

A second finger joins the first, and my walls clench around them greedily. It’s not enough.

“You want more? Tell me. I want to hear you.” Lust thickens his voice, sending goosebumps racing across my skin. It’s so deep and raspy. I like it when it’s right in my ear as he’s pounding into me.

“Fuck me, Zaiden,” I gasp out, intentionally using his first name. That rasp, that gravel, tells me Dayton has left the building. Sweet, tender Dayton. No, it’s Zaiden who fucks like he’s punishing me for making him want me.

I know myhusbanddoesn’t have a personality disorder. Dr. Shaw and I discussed it at great lengths and I’ve leaned on his expertise, on his wisdom and insight into the mind of someone who had a less than ideal childhood–a childhood I couldn’t fathom. I’d blushed when he’d told me that theswitchI’ve noticed in Zaiden time and time again, is merely his shell shedding. He’s safe to explore and expose his inner self to me andtake charge.

Like now.

“Get on the table. I’ll help, but if this is what you want, then this is how we’re doing it. If you don’t want this, say it now, Sarah.” I momentarily blanch, then force myself to remember what this man has done. He’s not just a rapist, he’s a child killer, ending a life before it even had a chance.

“Help me,” I say, mourning the loss of his fingers when they slip from me to do as I asked. We walk closer and I avoid looking at the congealed blood too long, putting weight on my hands and lifting a leg.

It’s awkward and slow going, but we both move cautiously, his hands moving from my hips to protectively shield my bump. I end up on hands and knees between spread thighs. My nose crinkles at the limp, bloodied cock beneath my gaze.

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