Death Wish (Deception Duet 2)

Actually, yes.

I attempt to shut him up by lifting my head, seeking out his mouth. Distraction is what I’m good at. Distraction works to my advantage. My lips fuse to his and I kiss him in a violently needy way. Anything to shut him up and his line of thinking.

His teeth nip at my bottom lip and then he sucks on my tongue. All while slowly rocking his hips. If he weren’t a psychopath who tricked me, I’d almost say this was…hot.

But he is and it’s not.

He drags my wrists higher up the bed, above my head, and uses one hand to grasp them both. My chest heaves with nervous pants. Now that he’s freed up a hand, he slides it between us and skims it up beneath my shirt. His warm touch over my ribs shouldn’t feel exhilarating. I hate myself—and him—that it does.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he murmurs, his palm covering my breast. “At least not yet.”

I gnaw on my bottom lip, my heart lodged in my throat. His words aren’t comforting because he’s staring at me in that penetrative way that says he’ll do whatever it takes to pull information out of me.

“Tell me what your daddy did to you and I’ll let you go.”

“You’ll let us leave?”

He chuckles, the vibrations of it quaking through me and shaking the bed. “I meant for the night.”

“No.”

“Ahh, so it’s worth more than temporary freedom.” He quirks a brow, reminding me of Sparrow. “What do you want, then, in exchange?”

He’s really bartering on my traumatic past?

“No one hurts Della. Ever.” Honestly, that’s all I care about at this point. Not me, not these terrible triplets, not my awful father. Just her.

“You’ll let us hurt you instead?” He’s teasing me, almost flirting, and I hate the way my body flushes at his playful words.

“It’s what I do, asshole.” I glower at him. “Always me over her. Always.”

His amusement fades and his brows furl together. He pinches my nipple beneath my shirt. “You have my solemn vow. No one hurts Della. Ever. Now tell me. Why are you running from your daddy?”

I swallow hard, hating that I’m going to have to voice something I really don’t want to talk about. But, if it means getting access to my sister, then it’s necessary.

“He’s abusive,” I murmur, shooting him a hard glare. “He’s cruel to Della. Targets her for being deaf. When at all possible, I try to be the barrier between them.”

His body is tight with tension and his grip on my wrists feels like it’s melting into iron, shackling to me in a way that can’t ever be broken. “So you provoke him to hit you instead?”

“Provoke him?” My words whip him in the face, furious and appalled. “Why would I provoke him?” I shake my head, hating that tears are forming. “It’s called protecting her.”

“So, he hits you instead?”

I try to shift under his weight but his body is too heavy. I’m stuck. Unable to move, unable to run from this prying line of questioning. “Sometimes. Mostly, I try to distract him.”

“How?”

My skin feels itchy and the blood in my veins is oily sludge. The bath from earlier seems eons away. I crave to take a hot shower, scrubbing at my skin until I’m clean again.

“Landry, how?”

The imploring, almost desperate tone of his voice imbeds itself in my bones. He shouldn’t care. Monsters don’t care. Especially not kidnapping monsters who force you to bathe with them and lie half-naked on the bed with them.

“How do you distract him?” His words are more demanding this time, laced with fiery threads of rage. “Tell me.”

I try to kiss him again, but he’s onto my games, pulling back just as our mouths graze. A pleading whimper escapes me.

“I see.” His lips harden to a grim line.

He sees?

He can’t see. No one can see.

“It’s not like that,” I rasp, needing for him to understand it’s not whatever he’s thinking.

What is he thinking?

That I’m sick.

He thinks I’m sick.

“I can see you judging me.” My tone is shrill. “Stop judging what you know nothing about.”

His head cocks to the side, studying me with more intensity than before. “Judging you?”

“It’s written all over your face. Like you have any room to judge me and my life. You’re a kidnapper and a liar.”

I shudder, not even a little repulsed, when his thumb slides over my nipple again. He plays with the hardened nub.

Shockingly, I don’t hate his touch.

“Did he…you know…” He trails off, his expression growing stormy.

“What?” I taunt. “Touch me?”

If only it were that simple.

Touch implies softness, exploration, a need to physically feel.

It was more than touch.

It was an invasion. A complete takeover. An infection I’ll never recover from.

“You’re angry,” he says, surprised. “Interesting.”

“My anger interests you?”

“It’s more appealing to me than your sadness.”

“So happy I can entertain you,” I snap. “Let me go.”