Beauty in the Broken

Cupping my head, he makes me look back at him. He starts moving again while his finger traces the seam of my ass. I squirm when he applies pressure on my dark entrance. I moan when he breaks the resistance of the tight ring of muscles. His finger sinks deep, and undiscovered nerve endings pulse to life.

“Do I need to stop, Lina?”

Yes, and no.

“Do you want this, angel?”

No, and yes.

He moves his finger. “Like this?”

Yes, and yes.

“Do you want me?”

I’m beyond words. He starts fucking me with his cock and finger like he knows this. I’m falling apart, inside and out.

“Tell me,” he urges. It’s the seductive words of an experienced lover who knows how to get what he wants. “Tell me you want me.”

I want him, and I don’t. He pushes my limits to extremes. He stretches me until my heart and mind splinter like a piece of wood axed in two, until I’m torn up inside. He pulls me until my grip slips, until I lose my hold and fall from grace. When I have no place left to go but down, he catches me and mends me.

Over and over, the pattern repeats, but like a tormented soul that dies only to reincarnate and live the suffering from scratch, I’m unable to stop. I’m unable to resist him. I come for him every time, no matter if he fucks me hard or commands me gently. He creates this weakness in me so that he can exploit it, because only in weakness is my body his. We both know this, but he wants it to be different. This is what he’s looking for so hard in my face. He’s looking for a fissure in my soul, the first crack he can exploit. I hold back the feelings and cry out my orgasm, collapsing in his arms. In this very weakness lies my only strength. He takes me by seduction, manipulation, and trade. Nothing I give is given freely. My love still belongs to me.

Chapter 18

Lina

Even monsters can be kind.

Damian holds the power over my money and decisions, but he’s not unaffected by my behavior. After the jelly bean incident in his study, he makes himself vulnerable by giving me power over his body, and by letting me know how much I hurt him when I helped set up Anne’s failed seduction. He goes down on his knees to bring me to orgasm as often as he can, and he brings the healed bat home. He looks into my eyes with raw passion when he climaxes inside of me, and he pays for my driving lessons. He lets me hear how much I turn him on with growls and grunts, and he tells me how much he loves the little sound I make when I come. I’m a slave to his touch. I’m not counting the days between my periods and ovulation. What’s the point? I’m never regular. I want the knowledge of my easy surrender to shock me, but it doesn’t. Maybe, subconsciously, I want this to make up for the past. It’s wrong, but what am I if not sick in the head? What is our situation if not insanely twisted?

Zane says Damian will grow tired of me now that he’s gotten what he wanted, but Zane isn’t there when Damian takes me several times in the middle of the night. My husband is insatiable. Sometimes, his needs leave me with an ache between my thighs and sore muscles all over my body, but I’ll lie if I say I don’t enjoy being used. It’s a coping mechanism, an addiction, and if I tell Reyno about it he’d tell me it’s sick.

We both are, Damian and me. In our own different ways, we’re sinners. We’re both lost and doomed, driven by needs that will never redeem us. Those needs are the axle around which our actions are spinning, and it fills this house with the deviant energy of our desires, of hunting revenge, and chasing closure.

Damian is trying to take away the pain he suffered the vengeful way. An eye for an eye. In his life, there’s no turning the other cheek. Harold took from him. He took that back and more. He took me. He took my freedom and my most basic human right, the right to make decisions. As for me, my soul won’t rest until I stand over the remains of the baby I never held in my arms. My heart won’t find peace until I put an angel on his grave to watch over him. Only then will I be free to mourn and let go. Our destructive ways run from days into weeks. Like planets bound to orbits, we’re stuck to our paths, unable to break free.

I find my own routine in our unhealthy environment. A warped kind of stability dawns, giving me time to think. True to his word, Damian gives me patience. He never asks about my baby or Willowbrook again. He waits for me to tell him I’m ready, and many times I’m tempted. Many times, I get close to giving up, to forsaking my oath of a white angel tombstone on a black heap of sand, but then I wake up in a cold sweat and shame, and I go back to the mundane tasks of living.