Page 39 of Cruel Cravings

But this time, it merely makes my smile spread.

I lean back in the chair and study him some more. “Why do you watch me? Does it excite you? Do you want me?”

Silence remains his language, though for the first time, he gives a reaction. It’s the subtlest, vaguest, quickest reaction possible, but it’s something—the muscles of his thick throat work over in a swallow.

That’s a yes.

I snicker and cut off yet another apple slice. “Men are all alike, aren’t they? They always want one thing from a woman. You know what? Here, as a token of good will, I’ll play nice with the man who’s made my life a living hell.”

I rise from the chair, holding his gaze as I approach, the knife in one hand, the apple in the other.

“But first,” I say, swapping the apple to the same hand as the knife. I use my now free hand to reach up for his mask. “We have to get rid of this.”

He tenses up in the chair, his muscles straining and veins protruding in his skin. Another reaction, which means another chink in his armor.

I giggle. “What’s the matter? Don’t worry, I won’t take it off. You wouldn’t want that, right? You wouldn’t want me to see your beautiful face?”

His jaw clenches under the mask.

I grip the edges of the hideous thing and lift it slightly, just enough to reveal his mouth. It’s as I thought—more scars decorate his jawline. He must hide behind the mask because he’s covered in them.

“Here,” I say, pressing the half-eaten apple to his chapped lips. “Bite.”

He refuses until I forcefully prod his lips open with the apple and push it up against his teeth. They’re surprisingly white and straight, even in better shape than mine. He does as he’s told, finally biting into the apple with a sharp crunch.

“Good boy. You do listen.”

I step back, suddenly snatching the apple away. At the same time, I drag the blade across his shoulder, slicing through the fabric of his shirt and cutting open his skin. Blood beads to the surface immediately, crimson and beautiful.

It shines on the knife just like I imagined, making my pulse race.

“Oops,” I say, my tone sweeter. “It slipped.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze bores into mine. There’s a fire burning in them now, like I’ve finally gotten to him on some level. I don’t need to see the rest of his face to know what he’s thinking—he’s pissed and wants a little payback.

Too fucking bad.

He’s bound and chained and I have all night.

I drag my finger across the flat side of the blade ’til I’ve collected a single bead of blood. Slowly, I bring it to my lips, making him watch as I taste him.

“Do you want more?” I ask. “I think I do.”

An hour later, the shadow man—who I’ve nicknamed Bull for fun—sits as bound and restrained as ever, still silent, but now dripping blood.

I’m strolling back and forth in front of him, basking in how the knife gleams with the dark crimson evidence of him.

His broad shoulders are a tapestry of fresh gashes and cuts, deep lines crisscrossing his skin, joining the dozens of healed ones. The metallic stench of blood lives in the air, the heady scent making my head swim.

It fuels me, setting off my adrenaline.

I stop in front of Bull and bite my bottom lip. “I’m running out of space. Time to shed some layers.”

Fisting the front of his shirt, I slice through the fabric with the knife. It falls open the rest of the way, revealing the wide, chiseled chest I’ve suspected was underneath.

His body bears more scars than I even imagined—it’s a road map of pain etched into his flesh. Old scars connect with even older scars. Some discolored, others irritated and red, a few ghostly and raised.

I forget about my glee for a second, swallowing down the natural revulsion I feel. My mind goes to what kinds of things he must’ve endured to have this many scars. What kind of fucked up things have happened to him?

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