Page 51 of Psycho

“I did not fucking beat you.”

I’m annoyed that she would think I would beat a woman, but then, I realize, in her mind, it’s probably not a far stretch from the things I’ve done. The things I will likely continue to do.

I help her sit up, and she glances down at her bare breasts and squeals.

“You pierced my nipples.”

She glares at them, like she can somehow make them disappear.

“You pierced my fucking nipples,” she repeats, with something that sounds like disbelief.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I shrug my shoulders, and admit it.

“It seemed best for you to get it all done at the same time. Less pain.”

She grabs the pain medication, takes it, and is quiet for a few minutes, while she sits with the glass on her lap. It’s almost as if she doesn’t want to ask.

“If you didn’t beat me, why does my back hurt, Massimo?”

I bite down on my lip, stifling the laugh, and then give her the answer.

“That’s from the tattoo, little lamb.”

“Tat-?”

She doesn’t finish her word. Instead, Anastasia lifts her gaze to mine, and her eyes widen, as her cheeks flush bright red. I could dodge the glass that comes hurtling toward me, but I don’t. I’ll give her this. It hits me in the stomach with a hard thud, causing me to grunt, before crashing to the floor, and shattering.

“You cannot tattoo someone against their will.”

Rising off the chair, she stomps over to me, with fists balled tight.

“You cannot pierce someone against their will. Do you fucking understand me?”

Fuck, she’s adorable like this. I enjoy her angry side. The victim behavior does not do it for me, but this. Fuck, it’s beautiful.

I drag my fingers through my beard, as I tilt my head at her, with a smirk on my lips.

“I think I do. You’re saying that I cannot pierce, and tattoo, someone against their will, correct?”

“Yes!” she screams, the anger radiating from her.

“I understand your words, but you’re wrong, little lamb, because I just did.”

She steps on the broken glass to get to me, and punches me, as she screams in pain. I growl, “Goddamn it.”

Quickly, I sweep her into my arms and rush her to the bathroom. Setting her on the counter, I grab tweezers from the cabinet, and pull out the pieces of glass, while my blood boils.

“So careless. You threw the damn glass, and shattered it.”

I inspect her foot, making sure it’s not deep enough to require stitches.

“Who’s Michael?”

She darts her eyes to the wall, as she hangs her head down, with a sadness I don’t think I’ve ever seen on her face.

“He was my son.”

“What happened?” I ask, as I clean her skin, to make sure she doesn’t end up with an infection.

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