Page 95 of Once A Villain

I come to, coughing and sputtering, my lungs screaming for air. I’m sprawled on the shower floor, and he’s holding me like I’m the most precious thing in the world.

“Breathe, Rory. Just breathe.”

I gulp in air, and it burns my throat, but I obey.

“That’s it, just breathe,” he says softly. “You were such a good girl.” His hand gently strokes my hair. “You took your punishment so well.”

I’m exhausted and confused, and my body is weak. I don’t want his praise. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much I enjoyed his depravity.

As my heartrate gradually slows and the panic begins to subside, I can’t shake the unsettling realization that I enjoyed it. Loved it, even. And that terrifies me more than the fear, the suffocation, and the drowning combined.

“What the hell, Axe?” I rasp, my voice barely more than a whisper.

His lips brush my forehead, a touch that’s both affectionate and unsettling.

“You did good, little siren,” he says softly.

No apologies, no acknowledgment of the fact that he nearly drowned me while giving me one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had. He pulls me closer, cradling me against him.

My body leans into him, too worn out to fight back.

“You tried to drown me. I trusted you, and you tried to kill me.”

“No, if I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead.”

“Go to hell,” I whisper, my voice shaky.

His smile against my forehead is both soothing and maddening. I want to pull away, scream at him, tell him to fuck off, but my body won’t cooperate. I’m too spent, too drained to resist.

All I can focus on is his warmth, his arms around me, and the steady beat of his heart.

I’m trying to remind myself that this is the man I hate—the one who’s branded me, violated me, and turned my life into a nightmare. But right now, he feels too good, too comforting.

I hate how much I crave it. I love how safe it makes me feel. I’m a mess of conflicting emotions.

“Shh…Rest,” he murmurs.

We sit there in silence, his fingers slowly tracing my skin, the soft touch completely out of line with his sadistic behavior.

Exhaustion takes over; the lack of oxygen and the intense orgasm making me drowsy. My eyes drift shut, and his arms tighten around me. I know I should fight him, tell him to go, but I don’t. The rhythm of his heartbeat is soothing, and despite the war raging inside me, I let go.

In this moment, I let myself pretend that the anger and hatred I feel for him don’t exist.

Istare at the sleeping woman in my arms. Her face is calm, peaceful in a way that clashes with everything I am. Chaos and violence are my constants, but here she is—vulnerable, soft.

Her damp blonde hair clings to her skin, long lashes resting on flushed cheeks. She feels small, fragile, and I hate how that makes me hesitate.

She loved every second of it. I knew she would. The shift in her eyes—from fear to twisted pleasure—was fucking perfection. Watching her surrender to the edge, to the way she shattered when I cut off her oxygen, was a high I can’t shake. She craves it without understanding why, and that ignorance makes it all the sweeter.

I’m a sadist. Pain is my art. Knowing how far to push, how much to give or take—that’s the thrill. She’s caught in the contradiction: loving the pain, hating herself for it, yet always coming back for more. My little masochist.

But this—holding her like this—isn’t me. The mask was easy—a game. But this is real. And I don’t want it.

What the fuck am I doing?

I should wake her, dump her in bed, and leave. But I’m still here, drawn to her warmth like a goddamn idiot. Her body presses against mine, soft and unfamiliar. Affection isn’t in my vocabulary. I ruin women; I don’t cradle them. I give them ecstasy and devastation, often in the same breath, and they come back for it.

“Axel,” she murmurs in her sleep. I tighten my grip.

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