A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

Still, Cristian kept going.

He knew he was sending me over the edge, my body twitching, shuddering. But he didn’t stop. He was torturing me with pleasure. With what he could do to my body without any fight from me.

Even in my haze, I knew that. Even in my haze, my hatred for him burned strong.

Right when I thought I might not be able to survive a second longer, his mouth left me. It was a brief, glorious moment of respite. For me to catch my breath. For me to realize my pussy was desperate for more.

Even if it killed me.

Cristian was on top of me in the next breath, surging inside of me. The headboard of the bed slammed against the wall. Something crashed to the floor. The house could’ve fallen down around us, and I wouldn’t have cared.

Cristian kept fucking me, plastering his mouth against mine, forcing the taste of my orgasm onto my lips. I didn’t want to kiss him. Didn’t need the intimacy of it. But he didn’t give me any choice.

Beyond that, I wanted the intimacy. I wanted to peel off his skin and crawl inside it. So I kissed him back, with anger, hatred and desire. I tasted his blood in my mouth.

He kept thrusting, fucking me relentlessly, mouth moving against mine, our naked and sweaty skin moving in tandem. My nails raked across his back, clawing—I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to sink inside of his fucking skin.

“You’re mine, Sienna,” he rasped as he fucked me. His voice was hoarse, thick with desire, with a maddening edge.

“Mine,” he repeated, yanking his head back so his eyes glued into mine. They were fucking endless. They were ruthless. Evil. I wanted to drown in them.

My body clenched around him as another orgasm washed over me, my body no longer my own. Cristian’s body went tense on top of me, and he roared as he came. Aftershocks shook my entire body as he emptied into me.

There should’ve been something that came after this. Conversation. Accusations. Shame. Wrath. All on my part, of course. At one point, I’d been angry enough to sink my nails into his face, marring his perfection.

But I had his blood under my nails from where I’d scraped at his back, my tongue still tasting the coppery twang from when I’d sunk my teeth into his lips. I was too exhausted to feel contrition, too exhausted for anything. Which was probably exactly as Cristian had planned.

He hadn’t even pulled out of me when I passed out. I hadn’t thought that happened in real life. If this could be considered real life.

I didn’t know how long he stayed, or if he even stayed. All I knew was that he was gone when I woke up.

As much as I wanted to lock myself in the room and not get out of bed for a week, I did not wallow. No. I got up at six the next morning. Sore. Angry. Wanting.

I didn’t have any of my clothes. Or toiletries. Upon opening all of the bathroom cupboards—the bathroom was the size of my first New York apartment—I found that every single product I used was in the cabinet, brand new and unopened. Right down to the organic toothpaste I used, imported from Italy. Which, as I brushed my teeth, made me all the more pissed off.

The clothes were a different story. I ran my hands along the dresses hanging in the closet. They were all in the style I liked, structured, tight, elegant, sexy yet professional. And they all had labels I recognized. Labels I could never afford.

The shoes were the same story. Heels. All six inches, as I liked them. I wasn’t tall, and I hated how petite I was. The higher the heels were, the closer I was in height to men who considered themselves to be gods. Which I loved. Pete had complained about them our entire relationship.

It was a weak man who felt insecure when a woman was taller than him.

Even in my highest heels, Cristian loomed over me. Even in his absence, he loomed over me.

Rifling through the drawers, I found underwear and workout gear. They smelled of Cristian, as if he’d diluted his scent into the fucking fabric softener.

I’d stomped around the house, looking for coffee, ready to do battle with whoever I found. I needed to make up for last night, to stab Cristian with a fucking butter knife. Which would likely be a death sentence. At that moment, I couldn’t seem to find it in me to care. Luckily for me, the kitchen was empty. I’d assumed Cristian was the kind of man who had a private chef. As if the amount of money he made meant he couldn’t boil an egg.

I really, really didn’t want to see Cristian. As furious as I was, I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t crumble like I did last night. Luck had not been on my side lately, but this morning it was. Not only did I find coffee, but I managed to find a gym in the basement. I’d thought of going for a run initially, but then I’d remembered the men prowling the grounds with large guns. I didn’t know what their orders were, if their purpose was to keep me in. I didn’t know how trigger happy they were. As furious as I was right now, I wasn’t going to let that anger get the best of me. When you were going up against someone formidable, they wanted you emotional. Emotional people made mistakes. And in this situation, one mistake would be the end of my life. Of Jessica’s. Of Eli’s.