Page 70 of Unhinged

ANISSA

His body isheavy against mine, his breath still rough against my neck. I should feel trapped. Instead, I feel… something way more dangerous.

Understood.

Complete.

And it scares the fuck out of me.

When he lifts his head, his eyes dark and unreadable, he stares down at me. “This doesn’t change anything.”

I grin at him and roll over, running my fingers along the lines of welts and scratches down his back and arms. “Oh, honey.” I wink at him to distract him. I don’t want to let him know how raw and vulnerable I feel right now. “You keep telling yourself that.”

I wince when he looks down at the bruises he's left on me. Fingerprints on my arms, scratches on my inner thighs. Bite marks and welts. Where others may look down and feel abused, this is mine. Iownit.

Hurting like this when we have sex is the most freeing experience of my life. I've never wanted anything more. Other people, even the Irish, treated me like I was a delicate fucking flower. And I'm not. I like being pushed, prodded, broken. I can't explain it, but there's something about being flayed open like this that makes me feel so satisfied. It's as if his pain makes mine more bearable. It's controlled.

"We should probably put… some antiseptic on that?" Now that the haze of lust is lifting, I see that I scratched the fuck out of him like a cat.

He reaches for my shoulder, and I wince. What the hell? I look down to see a bite mark that's already bruising.

"Oh my god. Fucking hell. I overdid it." His voice cracks as he says, "I'm sorry."

I put my hand on his shoulder and push him back a little. "Stop that. Don't you dare fucking apologize. That was brilliant."

The heat of his body, the ragged way he breathes against my skin, the weight of what we just did presses down on both of us. I know it does because of the way his forehead meets mine, and he breathes heavily.

He shakes his head. "I could've hurt you."

I meet his gaze. "I could've taken more."

Silence.

Heavy.

Charged.

Then, a shift—so small, so lethal. His grip tightens, his thumb dragging over the inside of my wrist as if checking for a weak point, needing to feel my pulse thrumming like something caged. “I know,” he murmurs. It feels like a confession. His voice is quieter now but no less dangerous. “That’s what terrifies you, isn’t it?”

My breath catches. I can’t look away. Because… he’s right. I’ve spent my whole life running, outthinking, outmaneuvering the few men who ever got close to me.

Until… him.

He doesn’t just chase me—he’s caught me. And he might just break me.

He stares into my eyes, and I worry he can read me, that he knows what I fear worse than death.

I breathe out a sigh of relief when he nods toward the bathroom. "Shower. Now. I got a text we need to respond to.”

But he doesn’t make a move.

"Oh?"

My limbs are heavy, my body aches, and my skin is raw where he spanked me, bit me, and held me down. I should get up and move, slip away like I always do. But this time, I don't. I can't. Because he's still here, and something's wrong.

"Matvei?"

I half expect him to roll away, put on that cold mask, that calculating detachment that reminds me I asked for this. Because I did.

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