Page 16 of Inevitable Endings
I take a step back, but the corridor shifts behind me. The walls close in. Breathing. Grinning. Alive. There is no escape, only descent.
“Do you want to wake up?” he asks, cocking his head like a predator deciding whether to pounce.
“I... I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
He’s in front of me now. Tall, massive, intoxicating. His scent is everywhere—smoke, ash, leather, blood. Like war. Like sex. Like memory. His hands slide into my hair, gripping just enough to make me tilt my head back. My knees threaten to collapse.
“You want to wake up,” he says, his lips grazing mine.
His hand wraps around my throat, not tight, but sure. Anchoring me. Silencing me.
“You ache to be unmade.”
He pushes me backward, and the floor falls away. I land on a bed I hadn’t seen before, vast, covered in velvet the color of dried blood. Chains dangle from the corners, swaying like they’ve just been used. I don’t fight. I’m not scared. I’m… relieved.
The air grows hotter, thick with sin. The walls drip with melted wax and memory. This place, this dream, isn’t just a dream. It’s a reflection. Of desire. Of shame. Of truth.
He kneels between my legs, dragging the hem of my nightgown up with two fingers, his eyes locked on mine like he’s daring me to look away. I don’t.
“This,” he whispers, sliding his hand up my thigh, “is where you keep me now. Not in your memories. In your hunger and grief.”
My mouth opens to protest, but he presses two fingers against my lips, silencing me.
“No more lies,” he breathes. “You like this. You dream of the devil because you were never afraid of Hell, you were afraid no one would find you in it.”
And then he tears the nightgown open.
The cool air bites at my exposed skin, but it’s his mouth that makes me gasp, possessive kisses that scorch their way across my stomach, my ribs, my throat. Every touch is a claim. Every movement is deliberate. Like he’s not fucking me. He’s branding me.
My wrists are bound with red silk, pinned above my head, tight but not cruel. Not forced. A choice I made the moment I followed him here.
“You always wanted to be broken,” he growls into my skin.“But not by pain. Not by fear. You wanted it done by someone who sees your darkness and doesn’t flinch. Who devours it.”
His hand slips between my thighs. Two fingers. Deep. Slow. Perfect.
My hips buck. My body betrays me. I want to scream. I want to cry. But I do neither.
He watches my every reaction, eyes hungry, reverent.
“This is your mind, Isabella,” he whispers against my throat. “I’m not real. Which means everything I do to you… is what you want done.”
Tears rise in my eyes, not from pain, but from how good it feels to feel again. To be claimed. To be seen and still wanted.
“Why do I want this?” I choke.
He leans in close, lips brushing my ear, voice like a psalm carved in sin.
“Because I’m the only place your chaos makes sense.”
And when I shatter, he holds me through it, breath warm on my skin, hands steady, voice the last thing I hear before the dream dissolves into ash—
“You dream of Hell to find me. But Hell hasn’t claimed me yet.”
Chapter 9
The Art of Breaking
