I winced all over again at the stark coldness in her eyes. The anger burning in her every extremity. The absolute betrayal and hatred on her beautiful face.
Fuck, it’d hurt.
I hadn’t expected that to affect me. I hadn’t thought I was capable of actually being concerned about the welfare of others. Not now. Not since I’d used up every drop of compassion inside me.
But seeing her loathing me? Feeling her pull away? Watching the door into her heart being slammed firmly in my face had fucking butchered me. I hadn’t realized until that moment just how much I’d grown accustomed to her kindness. How she’d given me something of herself even while I’d been a bastard to her. Even when I’d trapped her, smashed her possessions, and made her get on her knees, there’d always been a piece of her that welcomed me.
A piece she wasn’t even aware of possessing. A piece that was so goddamn strong, it withstood my violence, my cruelness, my every twisted desire all because she could see past the mask I’d worn so long. A mask I didn’t even know how to remove anymore. A mask that had turned me into one of them.
A self-fulfilling prophecy of the tormented becoming the tormentor. I felt within my right. Fully vindicated to do whatever I damn well pleased because I’d earned it.
I know I have.
I’d sacrificed everything, for Christ’s sake.
So why the hell did I churn with sickening guilt?
Because, unlike you, she hasn’t switched off her empathy.
She’d given me understanding even while granting me forced pleasure. She’d bestowed absolution even as I commanded her against her will.
She’d run from me.
She’d cared for me.
She’d turned me inside out and upside fucking down, and I didn’t know how to cope in this new world I’d woken in.
I can’t do this. Any of it.
I couldn’t let her go. I couldn’t stomach the thought of the empty rooms above me whispering with black history and horror. I couldn’t sleep in a valley where there was no one to talk to. No one there to make me feel. Make me human.
But I also couldn’t control the contradicting emotions drowning me. A part of me wanted her to hate me. It’d lusted for that moment since I’d strangled her the first time. I wanted to be feared and detested. If she looked at me like the scum I was, then I had an excuse to be exactly what she thought of me. I could be explicit and sadistic. I could happily embrace depravity and vengeance because, maybe, hopefully, if I took out my revenge on her, maybe it would help me heal. Maybe her screams could replace mine. Perhaps her pain could erase every agony I’d endured.
I grew hard.
My head pounded.
My balance went off kilter.
Fuck.
I bent over in Storymaker’s throne where I’d sat all night, watching clouds obliterate stars and the rising sun annihilate the moon.
My stomach threatened to evict the creamy carb-rich dinner she’d brought from a world I was no longer a part of. Tiredness slammed into me.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t sleep in an unprotected room in this monstrous mansion. My concussion didn’t give a damn.
Heavy haze crushed me.
I toppled forward.
Ah, shit.
I was out cold before I even hit the carpet.
* * * * *
I woke to the faintest flutter around my stomach.
Barely-there caresses, soft teases, and erotic promises traced my muscles. I groaned. I was hard and needed relief. My balls were tight and heavy. My cock pulsed with the desire to release.
My hips drove into something unforgiving, seeking the warmth of the girl I’d been dreaming about. A perfect companion who always knew just what I needed and was always wet for me.
I thrust.
I winced.
My eyes shot open as common sense revealed I’d just dry-humped the library’s carpet.
Goddammit.
The room contorted and danced as my head swam. How much longer would I be at the mercy of whatever happened to my brain? Was Gemma right that I’d suffered a serious mental injury? Had I woken today as someone else, or had I slept soundly until—
Wait, what’s the time?
My eyes strayed to the clock by the bookshelves. A paua shell-carved extravaganza that didn’t fit with the rest of the smoky, masculine vibe of the reading den.
Holy shit, two p.m.?
I’d slept face-first on the carpet for eight hours?
My hips pulsed with another painful urge to climax. I flinched and fisted my hands. The urge to come became almost unbearable. A means to an end. A way to get rid of the tight desire between my legs and wake up properly.
Stop it.
Ignore it.
My body had other ideas. A crest of agonizing lust made my back arch.
This was yet another problem caused by that trespasser of mine. Until she’d come along, whenever my body had demanded an orgasm, I’d been able to ignore it. My hands hadn’t shook as I forbid them to touch myself. My heart didn’t race trying to override my unanimous decision not to self-pleasure.