Page 119 of Tear Me Down
My husband is downstairs fighting a battle without me, and as much as that means to me, I’m sick of not retaliating myself. I know I should be taking it easy, but I can’t let that man die knowing he’s had this effect on me. If he does, he wins anyway, and I’m not going to stand to the side and let someone else prevail over me again.
I stand from the chair without warning and begin to make my way to the door, walking right past them without so much as an ‘I’ll be right back.’
“Ash? Where are you going?” I ignore Ser’s inquiry, continuing my stride out the door and down the hall. There’s only one thing I want to do, and it’s proving that piece of shit wrong. The last thing he’s going to see before he dies is that he didn’t break me, and he sure as hell didn’t turn my own husband against me.
The anger is flowing freely now, and the heat that ignited in my body is coursing through with ease. My mind may still be coming out of the storm, but I’m in the eye of it, bringing clarity before the worst hits. Fast steps, almost a jog, sound out behind me, but I’m sure to get to the elevator and press the button before they reach me.
“Ash, come on, you don’t want to see what’s down there right now,” Carter pleads, standing in front of the call buttons like that’s going to stop me now.
“The hell I don’t.” The bell dings, and as soon as the doors open enough, I slip inside, eyeing Carter and silently telling him to either get out of my way or get in. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he almost thinks about yanking me out, but he doesn’t. He slides in as well, briefly cutting eyes at Serena walking down the hall before the doors close. We both know that if Damien saw me walking down there alone, he’d be pissed, and I’m not sure any of us are ready for him to lose his cool after everything that’s happened.
“Ash,” Carter starts, using that irritating soft voice this group uses on victims. “You don’t have to…”
“Yes. I do,” I interrupt and speak curtly. “He’s not going to control my mind like that. I have a family to worry and think about, and the last thing I need on my conscience is him thinking he’s won.” The elevator opens again, and at the end of the hall I see Damien and Zeke talking, clearly in some fiery conversation by how close they are to each other. Zeke’s hands are busted up, but he looks just as stoic as Damien. Both are standing with such tension and hatred that it looks like they could burst into a frenzy of fists and screams at any moment. They react to the elevator’s sound, and turn their heads toward us. Damien instantly steps in our direction, making his way down the hall like he’s hiding something in that room.
“What the fuck, Ashia. You're supposed to be resting. Are you okay?” As he quickly closes the gap between us, I grab his face in my hands and pull him down to meet my lips. His tongue instantly forces its way in and moves against my own as he wraps his arms around me, gently caressing my body. His embrace is one of affection and longing, while he can clearly sense my determination and anger.
He’s always been able to decipher my emotions, sometimes even better than I can myself. Something between us just clicks, like we can read each other’s thoughts. He pulls away just long enough to give me a knowing glance, sensing why I came down and silently asking if I’m sure. I don’t have to nod or respond as I look into his gaze, and there’s only a brief moment of silence before he grabs my hand. He leads us to the door and allows me to walk in front as we step up to the reinforced entry. Shockingly, Zeke steps in front of it at the last moment, stepping in like he’s trying to protect me and blocking the door.
“Ash, don’t…”
“Let her through,” Damien commands him, but he hesitates, giving both of us a worried glance before he opens the door and steps out of the way. Zeke’s head hangs low, like he’s reluctant to allow us to pass, but thankfully he does anyway, and I watch as he leans against the wall next to the frame.
We walk through and the mood completely changes. The air feels heavy and thick, coated with a lingering iron taste and something else that almost instantly provokes my gag reflex. Blood coats the floor and walls, almost blending in entirely with the black flooring and walls, and while it’s hard to make out, I swear I see teeth and body parts scattered along the floor. Without even looking directly at my attacker, I can feel the violence that radiates from the room. Pure rage, hatred, and sadism linger in the air, and while I know that, logically, that should have me cowering and running away, I don’t. This was done in my name, and it strengthens the powerful feelings that forced me to storm my way down here.
My eyes are brought to the table off to the side, the dark surface also covered in blood, and many of the tools are obviously thrown around with disorganization. Evidence of a mad man, or a psychopath, on a mission. So many instruments and tools lay on top, all ranging from things like pliers and wrenches to knives and saws.
Those are just the things I recognize. The others are…questionable, something only a deranged mind would create, and I know Damien constructed them—potentially with his own two hands. There’s something that looks like a makeshift hole puncher, two wooden boards with nails through them, and some kind of probe that’s hooked up to a couple of wires. Almost all of the objects on this table seem to have been used. Either that, or some of them were just splattered with the aftermath of others, but it doesn’t seem likely.
The whole time I was upstairs in La-La Land, he’s been down here, fighting yet another battle for me, but he’s done it in the most excruciatingly beautiful way. I try to suppress the shiver running down my spine, but I don’t succeed. The feeling is almost as mixed and erratic as my emotions right now, ranging from disgust, interest, and arousal. His screams already haunt this room, echoing quietly behind me as I imagine the carnage as it was being performed. Perhaps it’s my own psyche playing tricks on me, but with acts as heinous and divine as these, they’re sure to leave a mark on the physical world.
I feel as Damien walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, encasing me in a hold that might as well be a demon’s wings. He’s exquisite, an ethereal punishment trapped in a human body. My dark angel. My God of War, a icon of violence that only softens for me and those he’s sees worthy. I realized long ago that his darkness matches mine, only that he feels at home in it, and he presented the throne next to him that was made special for me. I shouldn’t feel so accepted in this atmosphere. So cherished and loved, but as the familiar heat pools in my lower belly, I fall into the epiphany that this is our domain. One we both dread, but flourish in.
His everlasting hold on me tightens, and as his hard dick presses into my back, I melt against him, embracing our connection and feeling my chest swell. Hot and heavy breaths escape his lips, brushing down my ear and neck as he tries to contain his own urges, heightening my arousal. I shiver again as his hands roam my body, trying to be careful of my cuts and wounds, but as I press myself back against him, he adds pressure, understanding that I want to feel it.
The tension between us is palpable, and as one of his hands glides up my body to my throat, I shiver again, having needed this touchmore than I needed to breathe. His hand wraps around the top of my throat and jaw, not squeezing at all, but gripping subtly to show his dominance. The other hand moves down to my lightly bloated stomach and faintly runs across, back and forth, in a motion that would normally be soothing, but obviously turns him on even more. His cock pulses against me as he presses harder, proving his need. I turn and kiss him gently, a silent promise ofsoonbefore I turn back to the table.
I look across, noticing Damien’s favorite knife tucked away in the corner, seemingly untouched as I reach down to grab it. As I unsheathe the blade, I see it completely clean, as if he wanted it in perfect condition for when he finally used it. This knife is similar to the one that was used, though this one is much more elegant. It curves just right at the end, and the serrated edges point out in perfect waves, carefully constructed to leave wounds that would be almost impossible to close back up. I’ve seen this knife in action plenty of times by now, but watching him wield it is a sight I’ll never tire of.
He was waiting to use this, and now he’ll get to, just not how he expected, I’m sure. As I continue to look over the blade, he resumes his soothing movements, and I feel myself relax as his breaths get heavier. It’s almost as if he’s literally pushing our worries away, forcing me to slip into a peaceful state like he always does, until I hear a strained, deep moan from behind us…
We both turn to see Dranan regaining whatever consciousness remains, and I'm finally forced to lay eyes upon him again. His face is deeply bruised, along with chunks of skin missing from all over his body. His breathing is rigid, and his ribcage looks deformed from the obviously broken bones. He almost looks fictional, as if Damien pulled him right off the page of The Walking Dead. The chunks missing from his limbs look as if he was left to the elements and ripped apart by a wild animal, and as I continue to look over the scraps of what’s left, all of the tools behind me start to make sense.
I think I know what the hole punch does now. His toes look flattened, cracked, and split open. Hell, from this distance, his feet look webbed, as if his toes were pressed down and sewed together—his fingers look identical. The small bleeding dots from either side of both of his knees, or what’s left of them, match the same pattern as the nails through these wooden boards.
Even though I should be sickened by what’s in front of me, I’m more or less intrigued, like I should piece together what happened here and store it away in my memories. Damien’s methods of torture are like a dance, a cold and calculated ballet that moves with grace. I walk up to him, close enough to be sure he can see me, wanting to be the last thing his eyes stare at before he dies. He can barely keep his swollen eyes open, but I know curiosity is getting the best of him as we stare at each other.
Damien walks up behind me and grabs me again, though I make it a point not to break eye contact with Dranan. I'm guessing if he could, he’d be speaking right now, attempting to sling any last insults our way, but from the close up of him and the drool escaping his mouth, his jaw looks to be broken. From the slight part of his lips, I can see where the teeth are missing, and the cuts that run down both sides of his face make his appearance look ghostly.
Damien begins to run his hand over my hip again, and despite the racing thoughts through my mind, I feel the slickness between my legs. This beaten, bloody, and mangled man hanging in front of me shouldn’t enhance my arousal, but I’ve fallen too deep, and the feelings only solidify my rightful place.
Standing tall next to my husband.
Never taking my gaze off of Dranan, I reach back with my free hand and unlatch Damien’s belt just before popping the button of his jeans. He tightens his hold on me ever so slightly, clearly hesitating and wondering if he should let me continue, but he doesn’t try to stop me as I pull down his zipper and slip my hand inside his boxers. My hand grazes the soft, taut skin of his hip until I reach the base of his hard cock, causing him to draw in a quiet gasp.
That gasp turns into a growl that sneaks its way to my ear, and it grows into a groan as I wrap my fingers around his shaft. He bucks into my hold, showing his desperation and driving me to move. I glide along his cock, stroking him slowly as he begins to use his hands to scour my body and match my pace. It’s clear that he’s still trying not to hurt me, but he doesn’t understand that I need him to. While this may be for me, and for us, this show is also for the bastard hanging in front of us. A presentation of proof that he hasn’t taken anything away, and that everything he has said will die along with him.
I squeeze his dick a little harder than necessary to get my point across, and it twitches in my grasp. His body tenses against me as I stroke his velvety skin with deliberate movements, and he finally gets the hint. He adds more pressure to the touches on my body, grazing over the cuts and bruises to purposely make them sting. Small bites from the wounds pop against my body and bee-line to my core, making me pick up my pace only a little. His hands move with mine as one travels to my hips and starts bunching my wedding dress in his hand, desperate to feel what’s underneath.
