Page 24 of Heresy
He slams me against the rough plaster wall. The impact steals the air from my lungs, my head cracking against the surface with a dull thud. My feet scrabbled for a foothold on the floor, toes barely brushing the floorboards as he pins me with his weight, one powerful arm barred across my chest, trapping my own arms at my sides. His body is a cage of muscle and leather, and his eyes, blazing with a cold fury, lock onto mine. This is about absolute ownership.
This has nothing to do with jealousy.
His mouth crashes down on mine, a punishing force that grinds my lips against my teeth. There is no softness, only a punishing, bruising force. One hand fists in my shirt, twisting the torn fabric and pinning me to the wall, while the other tangles violently in my hair, yanking my head back to give him better access. The scrape of his stubble is rough against my skin, and the taste is of whiskey and a rage so pure it’s metallic. This isn't a kiss; it's a brand, a claim, a brutal silencing. He bites down on my lower lip—sharp, deliberate, hard enough to draw blood. A choked whimper escapes my throat.
He breaks the kiss, but his face stays close. His thumb roughly smears the drop of blood beading on my lip. His words are a low growl, meant for me and for the silent audience in the doorway. "Whose," he snarls. "Are. You?"
Before I can answer, his teeth sink into the soft flesh of my shoulder, a searing, animalistic pain that tears a raw cry from my throat. He has marked me. He pulls back, his gaze dropping to the fresh, bloody bite mark. "Mine," he murmurs, his voice thick with possessive satisfaction as he watches a trickle of blood run down my skin.
His free hand becomes a claw at my waist, grabbing a fistful of my skirt and roughly shoving it upward. The cold plaster is a shock against my bare skin. My survival instinct screams, and I thrash against him.
My fighting only fuels his cold fury. He pins my hips with his body, driving a knee between my legs to force them apart. As his hand comes up to my chest, his fingers find my nipple through the thin fabric of my shirt and pinch, hard. A sharp, new agony makes me cry out, the sound swallowed by the dim hallway. It’s far from a caress; it's an act of punctuation, a cruel emphasis of his control.
His hand leaves my chest, and I hear the sharp, metallic tear of his zipper being undone. The sound is brutally casual in the tense silence, the last barrier falling away.
He enters me with a single, powerful, violating motion.
The pain is a sharp, tearing invasion. Air gets trapped in my throat, any scream choked into silence. His thrusts are a brutal, punishing rhythm, slamming me against the wall until the impacts reverberate through my skull. His eyes are locked on mine, watching me break.
"Tell me," he grinds out, the words punctuated by a bruising thrust.
My silence is the only weapon I have left.
"Say it," he growls. He suddenly withdraws from me, the abrupt emptiness a shock, before he slams back into me with punishing force. A short, harsh, humorless laugh escapes him as a sob of pain is torn from my throat. He leans in, his voice avenomous poison. "You think you have a choice? You think your silence matters?" He punctuates the words with another brutal thrust. "You belong to me. Your body. Your defiance." He grinds into me. "Even your pain. It's all mine."
Again, he pounds into me. My traitorous body, even as my mind screams, begins to respond to the deep, coiling heat of being utterly claimed. He feels the tremor in my thighs, and a grim, joyless smile touches his lips.
"You will learn," he growls.
With one final, impossibly deep thrust, my body betrays me completely. A broken sob is torn from my throat as a violent, involuntary convulsion rips through me. It is more than pleasure. It is annihilation. My cry is the trigger he was waiting for. He drives into me one last time, a harsh, guttural groan tearing from his own throat—the sound of a beast finishing a hunt, a raw, frustrated release of pure, possessive rage.
The moment his harsh groan fades, it’s over. He pulls out of me abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock to my system. The fragile, painful heat is gone, replaced instantly by the cold, damp air of the hallway. He steps back, a single fluid motion, adjusting himself with a casual indifference that is a fresh and deeper violation than the act itself.
He doesn't look at me. Not yet.
His gaze finds Fuse and Static, still frozen down the hall. It’s a silent, lethal threat that promises a painful death if his authority is ever challenged again. The two bikers, who seemed so predatory moments ago, shrink under his stare like chastened boys, unable to meet his eyes.
Finally, his head turns slightly. His gaze doesn't find my face, but the fresh, bloody bite mark on my shoulder. A mask of cold, hard satisfaction settles on his features.
"Now you know where you stand," he says, his voice flat and final.
He turns and walks away without a backward glance, disappearing into the darkness of his office. The door clicks shut, and the sound breaks the spell. The other members in the doorway melt away, refusing to meet my eyes, leaving me alone in the silent, dim hallway. The strength that held me upright dissolves. My legs, suddenly weak as a newborn foal's, give out completely. I slide down the rough plaster wall, the friction a dull scrape against my skin, until I’m a crumpled heap on the floorboards.
My body is a roadmap of pain: the sharp, throbbing fire in my shoulder, the deep, bruising ache between my legs, the sting on my lip. My mind is a whiteout of pure, numb shock. Then, the cold seeps in—the cold of the floor and the chilling, absolute cold of my own humiliation. My shirt is torn open, my skirt still bunched around my hips. I am wreckage left behind after a storm. And they are watching. I can feel their eyes on me from the main room, the silent, curious eyes of the pack.
Get up.The quiet voice in my head is not a command; it’s a raw, ragged plea.Don’t you let them see you break. Get. Up.
My limbs are shaking, but I obey. I use the rough wall to haul myself to my feet. I don't look at him. I don't look at anyone. I keep my eyes fixed on the staircase. I pull the tattered edges of my shirt together, a futile gesture of modesty.
Zero walks a few paces behind me, his footsteps silent. His presence is a constant, chilling pressure at my back. The long walk through the main room is a gauntlet of silent judgment, with my own personal reaper ensuring I complete it. Every step is an effort of will. I do not limp. I do not cry. I keep my chin high, focused on the single goal of reaching the cold, concrete sanctuary of my cage.
He follows me up all four flights of stairs. When I reach my door, I stop. He moves past me, produces a key, and unlocksit. He swings the door open and then steps back, a silent, final order.
I step inside.
The doorto my cell clicks shut behind me, the sound not of imprisonment, but of sanctuary. I lean my back against the cold steel, my body trembling. My hand instinctively goes to my shoulder, my fingertips probing the deep impressions of his teeth. The physical pain is a grounding reality. A brand. A claim.
And it is familiar. But the artist is different.
