Page 111 of The Dark Before Light

Finally, his grip on my neck loosens a fraction. I suck in air, my heart thundering and my eyes watering. I gasp out, “I’m sorry, Bradley. Truly. I didn’t mean to hurt you. How can I make it up to you? I’ll do anything.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes full of loathing and lust roaming my face and breasts. “Anything, huh? What if I asked you to lick my shoes? To beg me for the privilege?”

Memory supplies context for his words: his primary kink was degradation, both physical and verbal. I’d given him exactly what he wanted, reading and adjusting to his cues over the course of our appointments. He left my care sated and blissful each time—or so I thought.

Guilt descends like a shroud, but it’s sliced to pieces almost instantly. This isn’t my fault. I treated him like all my clients, with compassion and care. Whatever twisted him into the mentally unstable person he is now, it has nothing to do with me. I’m merely the vehicle for his self-loathing.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll do it. You’re in charge.” I look down so he can’t see the lie in my eyes as I say, “Can—can I tell you something? A secret?”

I glance up to see surprise swallow his anger. Glazed eyes meet mine as he nods.

Gotcha, you stupid, sick fuck.

“I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not,” I whisper.

He shifts his weight, scratching a narrow, bristly cheek. “What do you mean?”

“What I did to you—that wasn’t the real me. But I was never taught any other way.” The meekness in my voice revolts me, but I stay the course. “All I know is what I’m feeling right now, tied up and at your mercy.”

He flushes, hands descending to his belt. “I knew it,” he says, his voice trembling with excitement. “I knew deep down you were a slut like her. Like all of them.”

And there it is.

Bradley didn’t need a dominatrix—he needed therapy for his mommy issues.

“You want to suck my dick, don’t you?”

I nod, feigning eagerness even as my stomach lurches. Bile shoots up my throat; I swallow frantically.

Bradley fumbles with his pants, ripping down the zipper and exposing himself. Single-minded in his want. Utterly ignorant of the fact I’ve laid explosives in his fault line and am about to push the proverbial red button.

Before he can get his junk anywhere near my mouth, I ask hopefully, “Maybe… maybe you can sit in the chair and I can kneel between your legs? I’ve never done that before—been on my knees for someone.”

His groan is thick with phlegm. He shuffles forward and grabs one of my breasts, his other hand stroking his erection. “Since I’m a generous man, I’ll give you want you want. Get on your knees like the greedy whore you are.”

Decades of practice compartmentalizing my emotions allows me to overcome the urge to vomit all over myself. Shifting my grip on the rope, I allow the middle to unwind and slacken between my hands.

“Can I have a little help? My legs feel super weak.” I force myself to glance at his groin. “You’re really intimidating.”

He grins as he reaches for my shoulders. Adrenaline sharpens my vision and crackles through my limbs.

I let him hoist me halfway to standing before bringing my knee up as hard as I can between his legs, thanking God I wore pants tonight and they were too stupid to tie my ankles together. My full strength isn’t behind the blow, but it’s more than enough. His mouth gapes in a soundless shriek, his knees buckling. I shove him to the side, away from the counter and the gun. He falls onto his arms, keening breathlessly, hands still cupped between his legs.

Knowing I have only seconds to act, I launch onto his back and whip the rope around his neck. Then I throw my body backward, compressing his trachea and esophagus. He bucks beneath me and twists from side to side, but I simply move with him, avoiding swipes of his hands and utilizing my weight to maintain leverage.

When he realizes he can’t unseat me, panic sets in. His hands fly to his throat. He scratches at the rope in an attempt to create slack, but nothing short of a bullet to my head is going to loosen my grip. Rough fibers slice my palms, my blood mingling with Gabe’s. I feel no pain—nothing at all—the entirety of my being focused on a single, immutable goal.

I will survive. He will not.

Slowly, his flailing lessens. My muscles quiver with exhaustion, but I keep pulling. Sweat blurs my eyes. Or maybe tears. There are sounds—shouts, running footsteps—but they’re muted by the static in my head.

Is someone crying?

Bradley jerks again. I pull harder, gritting my teeth against an explosion of pain in my shoulder and back. My vision washes red.

From far away, I hear a familiar voice. But it sounds wrong, not its usual dry gravel but saturated with worry. “He’s almost gone, Kier. Get her off before she kills him!”

Bands of warm pressure surround my chest. It feels like a hug. Like a dream too perfect to be real.

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