Page 55 of Monster
“Ah, I see you’re awake,” he states when his dark eyes lock on me sitting on the edge of my bed. I don’t say anything, not because I don’t want to. God knows I fucking want to, but I can’t. My mouth physically won’t form the words, or even move at all. I’m a statue, frozen on the spot, completely vulnerable to him.
Vincent doesn’t seem to notice my lack of response, or he doesn’t care, because he moves forward until he’s sitting right next to me on my bed. His left, jean-clad thigh brushes up against my bare one and I can’t help the shiver which runs through me at the contact. I almost forgot what his touch feels like, what his touch does to me.
I have an almost irresistible urge to move away because the contact is too much after so long, but I resist. I can’t show him any weakness. I know it will only make him happy if I do that. He likes me to be obedient, compliant. Susceptible to his every whim.
Two can play this game, Vincent. I’m not the same girl who shot you six months ago.
I’m a different fucking person altogether.
Essa Jaymes Monroe died in that fucking car alongside her sister. All that remains is a true fucking creep.
I’m nothing but a creep now—just how it was always meant to be.
I hiss when his fingertips make contact with my skin as he trails his fingers along the side of my face. “Yeah, sorry about that, baby. You were being stubborn and as much as I didn’t want to, I had to get you here without drawing too much attention. You’ll probably have a headache for a day or so and your face will bruise. Well, it already is, but you know what I mean.”
“Why?” I manage to croak out. I almost cringe at the sound of my voice. I sound weak, pathetic. So unlike who I’ve become. It’s revolting, and I hate myself for it.
“Why what, baby doll? That question could be referring to so. Many. Different. Things.” He punctuates every word deliberately, knowingly. He continues to trace my skin, and his eyes follow the movement. I find myself staring at him staring at me and I feel the smallest, tiniest, spark in the deepest pit of my stomach and the feeling is so fucking foreign, I feel myself panicking.
I can’t feel anything for him. Not anything new, and especially not anything old. I refuse to let that happen. Ican’tlet that happen—I won’t fucking survive it again.
Vincent’s fingers run through my hair, and he grips my hair tightly at the base of my skull and yanks my head backwards. I let out a surprised scream as my gaze flies to him. The smile covering his entire face causes the biggest wave of fear to come over me and a deep sense of dread to form.
Fuck.
* * *
“What are we doing?”I ask as we walk down the stairs together. We’re not touching, but his presence is so intense, it feels as if he’s touching me all over. My head, my back, my legs, my pus—Shut the fuckup,Essa.
I roll my eyes at myself as we take the last two steps and without hesitation, Vincent places his large hand on the small of my back and leads me down the hallway. His touch blazes through my clothing and I swear I’ll have a fucking burn on my skin when he removes his hand.
I’m still naked from the waist down, save for a pair of panties he has let me keep on but the white T-shirt I’m in doesn’t particularly do much to cover me—certainly not with the massive amount of daylight you get in this glass house.
I push the thought away and keep moving forward. When I realize where we are going, I automatically straighten and steel my spine in preparation of what’s to come. Sure enough, we stop in front of the door to his game room. Vincent removes his hand from my back and as I go to take a deep breath of relief, all air gets sucked from my lungs when I feel Vincent's entire front press against my back, shoving me into the door—hard.
I can feel every fucking muscle of his pushing into my back. He feels… bigger. More muscular. And I don’t know how to feel about that right now. All I do fucking know is he’s burning me alive. His inferno is consuming me and I’m not sure I want it to stop. It’s toxic and utterly fucking wrong, but I crave it. I crave his danger, his anger. My creep is the ultimate fucking masochist.
“Fuck, baby doll. I fucking missed this…” he trails off as he dips his head. His lips skate across the delicate flesh of my neck. He gives me the lightest peck before pulling away again and I find myself wanting him to do it again.Needinghim to do it again.
“Your skin…” he kisses the sensitive spot right behind my ear. “Your scars…” he runs his tongue along the scar circling my neck and I shiver involuntarily as I arch back into him. “Your blood…” he bites down brutally, and I scream out as I feel his sharp teeth pierce my skin. Tears run down my face, but I don’t notice until their salty essence hits my lips. I quickly lick the tears off as Vincent begins to suck on my skin.
My entire body is on fire, and I swear I’ve fucking died and gone to hell because there is no way in hell Vincent is doing this right now. There is no way he’s touching me like he always did. It can’t be real. It can’t be.
“Baby doll,” he mutters, his words muffled with his lips pressed against my skin.
“Vincent,” I gasp breathlessly.
“You’re gonna pay for these last six months of fucking hell.” He licks the back of my neck one last time before he pulls away from me and steps back. His words and the loss of contact cause shivers to wrack my body and I slump against the door, unable to hold myself up.
“Let’s go,” Vincent barks out and the threat in his tone snaps me into action. I push myself off of the door and step back enough to shove it open. We both step into the room and I’m instantly assaulted with memories. Memories I don’t mind relieving—it’s what happened afterwards I would never wish to replay.
I shiver as I take a few more steps. My eyes roam across the room, taking everything in. The billiards table, the book shelves, the pole… I ball my hands into fists the further we get into the room. I’m so used to the constant gray skies, the glass walls allowing the bright light outside to penetrate everywhere is almost too bright.
I can feel Vincent’s presence behind me, but he doesn’t speak as we both move silently through the room—almost as if we both need the silence to process the multitude of things we are thinking. I don’t know what’s running through his mind, but I have a pretty good idea. The first time I was in this room, I stripped and danced on a pole for him, which was admittedly a lot hotter than I thought it would be, but it’s what happened afterwards that isn’t so pleasant. Slapping him and putting a gun to his head aren’t exactly the highlights of my time here.
Avoiding the direction of the pole, I keep walking, moving straight to the bookshelves. I have so many fucking questions for him and I’m dying to ask every single one of them, but I know he won’t answer me, so instead, like a normal person, I’m going to avoid it.
I step up to one of the shelves and run my fingers along the spines. I observe how there is never a single speck of dust on these shelves, but I never saw any cleaning people when I was here, nor did I ever see Vincent do any cleaning. So, I’m really curious as to how everything stays so fucking clean in this massive house.
