Page 107 of Leave Me Broken

“Talk to me. What is going on in your pretty mind?”

He might not think it’s so pretty after this. I suck in a breath and let it out. “I want you to cut me.”

35

Ash

I’m staring at Payson’s naked body lying on her bed, holding a knife and knowing what she wants me to do but not knowing if I can do it.

Bruise her ass? Sure. Choke her? Yes. Gag her, tie her up, and use nipple clamps? All bloody day. But cutting into her perfect, soft skin so it leaves a scar? I don’t know.

We are teetering on a balance beam; one side is a rock and the other a hard place. I’ve been telling myself I’m helping Payson, but I worry she might have dragged me into the dark instead of me lifting her to the light.

The knife lays heavy in my hand. Flipping it so Jason’s initials are up, I roll my eyes because he fucking pissed me off again today. He keeps pissing me off and I won’t hesitate to punch him again.

Payson’s body should have art made after it. She’s not built like a teenager, she’s built like a woman. Heavy breasts that don’t sit overly high on her frame, a good handful when I cup them. Her stomach is flat but soft, and when she sits there are the cutest rolls. Her hips round into the most beautiful set of thick thighs I’ve ever laid my eyes on. She’s simply beautiful and strong. Relaxed she looks so soft and her skin is like a light melted caramel. Seeing her move and work her muscles at practice is equally mesmerizing. Luca has to pull me from my head too many times when I’m lost watching her body work.

I lower my hand and press the very tip of the blade between her breasts. Her nipples stiffen but not from the frigid air this time. “Are you sure about this?”

“Yes. If you are cutting me, I won’t need to.”

What a blatant lack of logic we have between us. I don’t want Payson cutting herself, and I don’t want to do it either but if the knife is in my hands at least I can control it.

“And if I cut too deep?” My heart deflates at the thought alone.

“You won’t. I trust you.”

I’ve waited months for Payson’s trust. All of it, and now is when she gives it to me? “Where?”

“Anywhere you want. Preferably somewhere people can’t see in regular clothes.”

I hesitate for so long, deciding where to do this. She captures my hand and presses just enough the blade digs into her arm. My eyes fly to hers, watching the way her eyes flutter and her tense body relaxes in a way I’ve never seen before. Is this how she looks every time she cuts or is this because of me?

Payson’s blood is as equally beautiful as the little whimpers she lets out every time I dig the blade into her skin. Three new cuts. Two on her arm to match the others there and a small one on her outer hip.

The blade glides over her skin like butter as I drag it along her body—not cutting until I spot the scar on her ribs. It’s not overly large but a deeper pink than the other scars on her body. The scar caused by this knife in my hand. I don’t particularly enjoy knowing this is the knife Payson was using to cut herself at such a young age, but she seems to find something romantic about it.

I angle the knife so the blade lines up where she stabbed herself.

“Does it hurt?”

Payson has been so calm this entire time. Breathing steady, eyes heavy, and the faintness of a smile on her lips. I have been tense as fuck. I’ve never cut someone. Never really hurt anyone besides a few punches here and there. But here I am, kneeling over the love of my life, dragging a blade up and down her; slicing into that same body that I love so much. I should worry how I went from throwing my desk across the room at the mere thought of her cutting herself, to being the one who cuts her, but Payson makes any logic I have disappear. Especially when she is looking at me like this. We’ve hit a new level in our relationship and I’m not sure it’s a good thing.

“Not even a little.”

It should hurt. Her blood isn’t pooling, not even a steady stream. I’m not cutting deep enough for that, but it should hurt.

I hate that it doesn’t hurt her. Not because I want to hurt her, but because if it did, she would ask me to stop. I ripped her ass already, made her bleed from sex, and now from a knife less than an hour later.

Payson has infected me and I can’t stop myself from sinking the knife into her stomach, deeper than I have yet, deep enough to leave a vivid, permanent scar.

Her hips buck and she gasps as I make the last slash of the first letter. The next letter goes through her healed scar, and she cries out but still doesn’t push me away. She grips the sheets, and her breaths fall short.

I’m breathing enough oxygen for both of us. In and out, my chest heaves. I clench my jaw, finishing the s. “One more, babygirl. Can you handle it?”

I stab the tip in next to the bloody s before she answers. The blood from the first two layers is thick and running down her stomach, pooling on the bare bed beneath her.

I sit back on my feet and drop the knife to the floor. Then I smile. A real, probably feral smile like you would see from the big bad wolf but fuck, if I don’t love her new scars. They are art.

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