Page 63 of Cruel Cravings

Brontë selects a few bandages and antibiotic ointment from the kit. He reaches for my right arm first, even his slight touch making my pulse beat harder.

“I don’t want you touching me,” I tell him. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

I’m ignored again. Disregarded as he peels the first Band-Aid from the wrapper and then carefully applies it to a thick scratch I must’ve gotten from running in the woods.

So many branches had whipped against me, it’s no surprise I’m cut up. At the time, with my adrenaline rushing and terror growing, I’d ignored the stinging pain. I’d forced myself to keep going.

Brontë’s massive palm slides over the bandage once it’s applied as if making sure it’ll hold. His touch is warm and heavy, almost clumsy. He can’t perform basic tasks others do; he’s not human enough to do so.

It becomes clear as I watch him move onto the next scrape. He’s doing what he’s seen others do, his thick fingers fumbling with the cap on the antibiotic ointment.

“Do you hear me? Are you too slow to understand?” I snap at him. “I don’t want you touching me! So don’t fucking touch me!”

His large hand makes the tube of ointment look miniature as he squirts a line of gel onto a nasty scrape on my shoulder. I jerk against the binds to emphasize what I’ve said.

“Why won’t you listen to me? I don’t want your hands on me!”

“Behave,” he grunts.

I give a delirious-sounding laugh and a shake of my head. “Behave?” I grind out. “BEHAVE!?”

He’s moved onto a scratch on my cheek. I jerk my head out of his grip and glare at him, intense loathing burning in my gaze. “I hate you,” I say, and I mean it. I mean it with every bone in my body. “I fucking hate you! Why can’t you leave me alone!?”

He pauses for a second as if thrown by my declaration, then his thumb and forefinger clip my chin all over again. He carries on applying some of the ointment to the scratch on my cheek.

Frustration explodes from inside me. I scream all over again.

“I HATE YOU!” I shriek, tugging and fighting the binds some more. I wrench at them so hard, the tube of ointment slips from his fingers and the metal cuffs clang against the wooden bed posts. “IhateyouIhateyouIhateyouIhateyou!” I repeat like a chant. “I fucking hate you and I wish you would fucking die! I want you dead! You’re pathetic, did you know that? You’re fucking pathetic!”

He goes still, his head slanting to the side. His dark green eyes hook mine as he watches the hate purge from within. As I scream every horrible, vile, cruel thing I can think of at him, hoping deep down that he’ll change his mind.

He’ll realize I want nothing to do with him and he’ll finally just… leave.

“You’re hideous!” I hurl at him. I add a laugh that sounds crazed and manic, bursting with desperation. “Did you know that? You’re hideous and I can’t stand the sight of you! I’ve never wanted you, and if you thought I did… if you thought whathappened between us… you’re wrong! You make me sick. You’re not even a man. You’re some monster and no one would ever want anything to do with you!”

The cruel words tumble out of me one after another until I do what feels impossible. I strike a nerve and Brontë’s large hand clamps shut around my throat. He cuts me off midsentence, squeezing at the sides to restrict my air. He leans closer, his dark and violent eyes boring into mine and sending a chill down my spine.

I sputter the tighter he squeezes, choking me hard with little effort, though I refuse to blink. I refuse to break contact. I defy him just like he’d defied me when the tables were turned.

My glare communicates one thing—do it.

Hurt me. Punish me. Make me pay for what I’ve done.

He understands. I can study the shades of ever-darkening green and read their meaning. A language we’ve developed without even knowing we have.

His grip gradually loosens from around my throat ’til his hand rests at the base with no pressure at all.

I’m out of breath, my chest rising and falling fast. He’s gripped me so roughly, he’ll likely leave a bruise on my throat. You’d think I’d learned my lesson, but I won’t give in until this is over and one of us loses.

“I mean it,” I whisper. “I mean it all.”

“No.”

“YES!”

His choking grip returns, crushing my windpipe with ease. He forces my head back as he bows his closer to mine and I realize what he wants.

The temptation that swirls in the air between us. At least from his end.

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