Page 77 of Deviant

Her hands ball into fists below the water, but she keeps her breath steady, bites down any insults that are no doubt swirling in that intelligent brain of hers.

From the angle I’m at, I have a near perfect view of her chest. Her body has definitely benefited from the change in her prison arrangements. Her breasts are looking fuller, her rib cage has stopped protruding and that gaunt, starved expression on her face has faded.

It’s all I can do not to reach out and just take her.

As I bring the cloth down over her front, she opens her legs, just a little, as if urging me to cross that line. I can’t tell if it’s a conscious decision on her part. Looking into those suddenly fierce eyes suggests that it’s not. No, she’ll still outwardly fight me if I try anything and yet that makes it all the more tempting.

Part of me wants that fight, no, needs it.

I’m dying to pin her down and force myself inside her and feel as every cell in her body fights against me.

I want to feel her anger, and her hate, I want to grapple with all those twisting emotions.

And more than anything, I want to prove to her that it makes no difference. That she can fight, and scream, and protest in any which way she pleases, I will have her, I will have all of her.

Only, I can’t do that right this moment. I have to bide my time. It’s a subtle war I’m fighting, a psychological battle.

I’ve already stripped her body down, broken it into as many pieces as I could. Now, I’m going to do the same to her mind.

Two weeks. Two weeks I’ve been in this room, in this bed. At first, all I did was sleep.

But now I’m recovered, or as recovered as I can be. My body is physically fixed. My leg is no longer refusing to take my weight. Even the burn on my chest is healing enough that it doesn’t continuously hurt.

And yet he hasn’t kicked me out. Hasn’t hauled my arse all the way back to the darkness.

Nor has he touched me.

He may have taken tiny liberties with the first bath, but since then he’s acting more as a nursemaid than my abuser. He’s washed me, massaged oils into my skin, taken care of me the way a lover would their sickcompanion.

It’s driving me mad. It’s making me crazy.

I don’t want his touch. I don’t want anything from him.

But why the fuck is he doing this? Why isn’t he just taking what he so obviously wants? Why is he pretending to care, pretending to be someone he’s not?

Every touch he makes, every slight brush of his hands against my skin makes me shiver and I feel equal levels of repulsion and need.

I can’t look him in the eyes, I can’t even look at Gabe anymore. My shame is too great. My guilt and my self-hate are taking over everything. I wish I could just disappear, could just fade off and daydream the way I did when he and his mates were raping me. Surely, such an end would be better than this new form of torture?

Every night he sleeps beside me as if I won’t gut him the moment I get the chance, and every morning he leaves, with that smirk on his face and the knowledge that I’ll be here, naked, still in his bed when he returns.

Smug fucking bastard. I hate him. I fucking hate him.

I want to be back in the darkness. I need to be. I have to get out of this room because it’s tricking me, fooling me into thinking that this man is not the monster I know him to be.

I clench my fists, curling up the stupidly soft sheets, and I snarl before I can stop myself.

Beside me, Magnus turns, opening his eyes and with horror, I realise that I’ve woken him. I really am becoming reckless, aren’t I? Reckless and stupid.

Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe he’ll react now, lash out, hurt me, and remind me once more that he is the literal spawn of Satan.

He pulls me closer, pulls me so that I’m pressed up against him. Goosebumps erupt over my skin, something crawls down my spine and it feels both delicious and horrific all at the same time.

I don’t want his attention, I don’t want his touch, and yet I crave it as if nothing in this world could ever compare. As ifnothing but the feel of my rapist’s skin against mine will do. A shudder runs through me and the contempt I feel is undefinable.

He lowers his face to mine and that look in his eyes, it’s so much worse than the usual contempt he holds for me. No, this look, this hunger, it fucks with my head, makes everything too real.

His hand grazes my cheek. It’s a soft, considerate touch that’s so different from the way he normally behaves.

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