Fable of Happiness (Fable 1)

I backed up until my spine hit the opposite wall.

I stood in silence as her body slowly calmed and her lungs gulped their fill of oxygen. Only once she stopped coughing and the blue tinge from her lips receded did she drop to her ass and touch both hands to her tender throat.

With glossy, hate-filled eyes, she glowered at me across the room. “You said...” Cough. Followed by a painful wince. “That I’d live...another...day.”

Crossing my arms, I didn’t speak.

I didn’t give her what she wanted.

She could wait forever, but she’d never hear me apologize, explain, or promise never to hurt her again. They would be lies. Whatever minor weakness I’d just felt were gone. Dead. Over.

Unfortunately, her face was now even more stunning. Her skin ghostly white, her cheeks bright red, her eyes a slash of leaf and earth. She looked touched by death and slightly unhinged because of it.

She almost looked like me.

With gritted teeth and sluggish movements, she forced herself to her feet. Swaying a little, she clutched the wall behind her and tipped her chin with anger. “You destroyed my things.”

“You’re in my home. That makes them mine. It makes everything mine. Mine to use. Mine to destroy. Mine to kill.”

Get it?

She bared her teeth like a feral cat. “If you use me, you can’t kill me.”

“Says who?”

“Says our deal!”

“A deal I’m still debating if the trade-off is worth it.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You’re a trespasser.”

She stiffened. “How long?”

I scowled. “How long what?”

“How long must I remain your plaything?”

“Until I tire of feeding you, talking to you, fucking you.”

“I want...” Cough. “To go home.”

I shrugged. “Not my problem you ventured somewhere you weren’t wanted.”

“If I’m not wanted, then let me go.”

“And risk you bringing more people to my door?” I pushed off from the wall. “No fucking chance.” Moving toward her, another bullet of desire exploded between my legs. Her fight was back. Her tenacity filled the basement. Her hatred heated my veins.

I might not like this girl but Christ she turned me on.

“What else are you hiding from me?” I dragged my gaze down her body. “Any other knives? Phones? Implements in which to kill me?”

Spreading her arms, she hissed, “My pockets are empty, you bastard. See for yourself.”

“I think I will.” I closed the distance between us.

She didn’t flinch at my closeness. Didn’t cower.

She stood taller and met me with strength, even as my hands landed on her shoulders, cupped her breasts, then curved their way along her hips to her thighs.

Desire made me tremble but practicality kept me sane. No other weapons or telecommunications hid in her pockets. Just pure, feminine flesh.

Her nostrils flared with pure hate. “Happy?”

“I was happy before you arrived and fucked everything up.”

Her breath hitched, and once again, that damn awareness prickled us. That heat. That current. That unexplainable connection.

She made me want to press her to the ground and sink inside her. Made it impossible to ignore the urge to switch her bravery to fear.

Her tone was as cold as mine as she pushed my hands off her body and snapped, “If I’m to stay here, the least you can do is let me use a proper bathroom.”

New mottling ringed her throat, bruises upon bruises. The shadows of muscles contracted as she swallowed again, doing her best to erase the pain I’d caused. “I need a bathroom.”

I cocked my head at the bucket in the corner. “There’s your bathroom.”

“I refuse to be treated like an animal.” No shame entered her eyes. No shyness existed as she barked, “I need the bathroom. Do you understand? I don’t know how long you’ve kept me here, but my body isn’t coping. I need sunlight. I need air. I need a toilet that flushes and a shower to wash away my filth and a blanket that doesn’t make me itch until I bleed.”

Her voice slipped to a black hiss. “If you want to fuck me, you need me clean. If you want to keep playing these sick little power games, you need me strong. You need my body working. If you keep me down here, I will die. And you won’t be a part of that ending. I’ll perish slowly, messily. You’ll be stuck cleaning up the stench and the decay. Is that what you want?”

“What I want is to be left the hell alone.”

“All you have to do is open the door, and I’ll be gone. You can be alone again.”

“Alone but not safe.”

“I won’t come back. You have my word.”

“Forgive me if your word is useless.”

She sighed heavily, her fight taking its toll. Closing her eyes for a second, she inhaled hard, fighting her bruises and a cough, struggling for composure. She battled with decisions—hurt me, decapitate me, try to escape, versus accepting she could never do those things. The only way to earn an inch of compassion was to do exactly what I said.