Page 24 of Possession

I’m screaming, thrashing in the hold of the guard as it goes on and on. It’s fucking awful, and my fighter just takes it. To prove he’ll behave. So he can keep me. So they won’t hurt me.

Briggs tases him again and again until he collapses onto his hands and knees and vomits.

“Animal!” Briggs shouts again and kicks the fighter in the gut—then he storms away down the hallway that runs along the guardroom.

“Jesus Christ,” O’Neil mutters, swiping a sleeve across his forehead as Briggs’s footsteps fade. “Just get up easy, okay, big guy? Get back in the cell. It’s over.”

The fighter gets shakily to his feet. The guard who was holding me back shoves me away and darts out of the cell as the fighter walks unsteadily toward it. The second he’s inside, the gate clangs shut behind him.

“Oh mygod,” I mumble, darting toward him. I don’t know exactly what I think I’m going to do, but it quickly becomes irrelevant because he grabs me and hauls me toward the mattress. He pushes me down on it and grunts a warning to stay. Then he stalks off and starts pacing back and forth across the cell.

Outside, the guards argue among them themselves. One of them leaves. The others remain, glancing now and then at the fighter as he paces across the cell, eyeing them. His movement isstiff, a little uneven. I can tell he’s in pain, but when I start to get up from the mattress, he growls at me to stay put.

The guard who left returns with a mop bucket and cleans the floor—because, goodgod, he just got beaten and tased until hethrew up. Then they all leave, closing the guardroom door behind them.

When they’re gone, the fighter stalks to the punching bag and starts hitting it. For a while, I just let him. He’s upset, and though I’m relieved to be back here with him, he still scares me a little. I hate that fact, but it’s there. He’s too strong. He’s too angry.

But … he has every right to be angry.

As for his strength, it’s incredible—and it’s not just physical.

I don’t know how he’s so fucking resilient, but the scars on his body and little things about his behavior tell me he’s been enduring these circumstances for a long time. He’s been held captive. Abused. Tortured. I think … fuck, I think that’s why he doesn’t talk. He obviously can. It’s not a physical disability. It’s mental. Or maybe a choice.

But he did speak today, and what he said was “mine”—and he meantme.

No one has ever claimed me before.

Go away.

Be quiet.

Let us pretend you don’t exist.

That’s what I expect from people. That’s what I know of myself. That I’m unwanted. Unnecessary. In the way.

A nasty little voice inside me says,He claimed you because he didn’t want to be alone. Because there was nothing else to claim.

Maybe that’s true.

Maybe I’m wanted only for lack of other options.

But he didn’t have to want me. And he didn’t at first. He pushed me away. And they expected him to kill me.

He claimed me instead.

He allowed himself to be abused to keep me. I wasn’t hurt—because he protected me.

I get up from the mattress. Cautiously, I approach him. He keeps hitting the bag. With him naked, I can see every muscle in his body flexing as he pounds the leather side of it.

I guess I’ve never stared at a male body before. I guess I never understood how beautiful it can be. The structure. The power. His lats pop out along his side with every punch. His abs flex. Muscle shifts along his arms and legs and through the curve of his ass. His heavy cock swings between his legs.

Self-consciousness starts to niggle at me. He’s so much stronger than I am. So much tougher. His scarred body bears wounds that haven’t yet healed from his match. He just got beaten and tased. He has a fresh wound, a bullet graze, on his shoulder.

In comparison, what am I?

He stops hitting the bag. He stills it with his hands and looks over his bleeding shoulder at me. Then I see it. A hint of vulnerability amid the anger. He needs something and can’t ask for it.

Or maybe he doesn’t even know what it is that he needs. But I do. I know. So I put my insecurities aside and hold out my hand.

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