Page 96 of You Were Always Mine
“Not that one,” he cuts in, low and sharp, his thumb pressing into my waist. “Not the innocent bullshit. The filthy one.” His mouth ghosts the line of my jaw, each word a strike. “The one where you wanted me to fuck you while Mum and Dad were asleep down the hall.”
My lungs stumble. The room spins with candlelight and memory. I never thought he’d remember, let alone throw it back at me like a weapon.
“Kai…” I whisper, but it’s barely a sound. My knees are weak, my body betraying me, because just the mention has me burning.
He doesn’t give me space to deny it. His forehead presses to mine, breath hot, eyes locking me in place. “Say you remember, Scar. Say it out loud.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head, nails digging crescent moons into my palms. “I don’t… I didn’t mean it, I never?—”
The denial scrapes raw against my throat, but it’s all I have, this flimsy armour of shame. My chest burns because I can still hear myself. That night I told him the words, drunk on my own reckless imagination. I thought he’d laugh, dismiss it, let it vanish into the dark. But he didn’t.He kept it. He polished it sharp. And now he’s cutting me with it.
His fingers tighten at my waist, dragging me closer until the candlelight wavers between us. “Don’t lie to me, Scar.” The command is soft, almost tender, but it coils with danger. “You remember every filthy word.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head harder, my voice breaking. “Stop. Please—just stop.”
But he won’t. His thumb lifts, catching my chin, forcing me to look at him. His gaze is steady, dark, unrelenting, like he’s peeling my soul apart.
“You think shame will save you?” His breath brushes my lips. “It won’t. Shame only makes you wetter.”
The words detonate inside me, shame flooding deeper, hotter. I want to slap him. I want to collapse. I want to disappear. But my thighs press together on instinct, betraying me.
“Say it,” he whispers again, forehead pressing to mine, his voice breaking with hunger. “Say you remember.”
My lips tremble, the words strangled in my throat. I want to bite them back, to bury them where they’ll never touch air again, but his eyes hold me—unyielding, merciless, begging and demanding all at once.
“I… I remember,” I choke out, the admission spilling like poison, like a confession. My lashes are wet, my whole body trembling as though speaking it aloud makes it real, makes me filth itself. “I remember every word.”
The silence afterwards is brutal. His thumb strokes along my jaw, not gentle, not cruel—just claiming. The flicker of the candles feels too bright, like they’re exposing me, like the whole house is listening.
“I told you,” I whisper, shame burning my chest, “I told you I wanted… that I wanted you to—” My voice breaks, collapsing into a sob. “—to fuck me while they were home. While Mum and Dad were just down the hall.”
The words taste like ash and fire. My shame, my sickness, out loud between us. I can’t even meet his eyes anymore.
I try to pull back, to hide my face, but he doesn’t let me. His forehead presses harder to mine, his breath hot, shaky, almost reverent.
“Fuck, Scar,” he murmurs, voice cracking like he’s both ruined and worshipping me. His fingers dig into my waist, pinning me there, as if that confession alone just sealed us into hell together.
His hand slides up, rough and certain, until his palm covers my mouth. The candles flicker across his face, painting him half-saint, half-devil, the curve of his lips soft even as his eyes blaze.
“Shhh,” he breathes against my cheek, close enough that his words melt into me. “Careful, baby. You want them to hear?”
The shame slams into me, molten and unbearable, but my body betrays me, pressing forward into his chest like I can’t stop myself. His grip on my waist tightens, dragging me closer, until the heat of him is all I know.
“You whispered your fantasy,” he says, low, filthy, every syllable cutting right through me. “Now I’m going to make you live it.”
I shake my head weakly, eyes stinging, but his hand holds firm over my mouth, smothering the protest, turning it into a muffled moan that makes his breath hitch. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers, obscene and reverent at once. “I’ll keep you quiet.”
His free hand trails lower, deliberate, slow as death. Mythighs quiver, knees locking together out of instinct, but he pries them apart like its nothing, like I’m already his.
The floor creaks faintly above us—Mum shifting in her sleep? Dad rolling over?—and my blood runs cold. I should shove him away, scream, run. Instead, I cling to him harder, nails digging into his arm as he presses me back into the couch, swallowing my ragged, trapped breath behind his palm.
Every nerve in me is on fire. Every thought is overwhelmed by the obscene fact that he’s doing this here, now, with them asleep above our heads.
And God help me—every second feels exactly like the fantasy I prayed I’d never confess.
His palm covers my mouth before the words can escape, swallowing the gasp that claws up my throat. The heat of it silences me, forces me still, forces me to feel every rough line of his skin pressing into my lips. My shame surges, but so does the ache.
