Page 64 of The Devil's Wrath

The voice of my tormentor, the one who had held me captive and tortured me for months, echoed in my mind, as vivid and real as if he were standing right beside me. His voice was as familiar as my own heartbeat, a twisted echo of my darkest fears. I felt the ghost of his hands on my skin, the bite of the blade as it carved into my flesh. My screams echoed in my ears—the sound of my bones snapping like twigs in the suffocating darkness of the cell where he’d kept me. And through it all, his laughter had been cold, cruel, and relentless.

I shuddered, my grip tightening on the bottle until my knuckles turned white. I had escaped that hell, but the scars remained, both physical and mental. They were a part of me now.

“And that pretty little bird upstairs? I’ll make her watch as I destroy you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but a broken, bleeding mess.”

I stirred abruptly, waking from my drunken stupor in a panic as I searched the kitchen for him.

But I was alone with my demons. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the voice, but it was useless. It was always there, always waiting in the shadows of my mind, ready to drag me back into the nightmare I could never escape.

I took another long pull from the bottle, relishing the burn. I stood up, swaying slightly on my feet. The bottle slipped from my fingers, shattering in a spray of glass and amber liquid on the floor. I stared at the mess, the jagged shards glinting in the moonlight. I bent down, my fingers brushing against the broken glass. A shard sliced into my skin, and I watched with detached fascination as crimson blood welled up and trickled out, mingling with the spilled whiskey. The fractured glass seemed to mock me, a physical manifestation of the shattered pieces of my soul. I couldn’t even hold on to a damn bottle without destroying it.

“Theo?” Her voice, soft and sleepy, drifted from the kitchen door. “Are you alright? I heard a crash . . .”

She stepped into the kitchen, taking in the scene before her—the broken glass, spilled whiskey, and me, kneeling amidst the wreckage with blood dripping from my hand.

“Oh my god, you’re hurt!” She rushed to my side, her bare feet treading carefully to avoid the sharp shards, and then she gently took my injured hand in hers. “You’re bleeding.”

I tried to pull away, but she held on tight. “It’s nothing,” I mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “Just an accident.”

I wanted to tell her to stay back, to leave me be.She shouldn’t see me like this. She shouldn’t have to witness the depths of my brokenness.But the words lodged in my throat, trapped behind the lump of emotion that threatened to choke me.

She knelt beside me, heedless of the glass biting into her knees. Her hands, so soft and gentle, cradled my bleeding one. “Oh, baby,” she breathed, her voice aching with sorrow and tenderness.

I couldn’t meet her gaze. I couldn’t bear to see the love and concern in those silvery depths. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve her.

She examined the cut on my finger, her brow furrowed in concentration. “It’s not deep,” she said softly. “Let me clean it up for you.”

She led me to the sink, turned on the tap, and held my hand under the cool stream. The blood swirled down the drain, diluted by the running water. She patted my hand dry with a towel and then wrapped a clean bandage around my finger.

Her touch was tender as she secured the bandage. She lifted my hand to her lips, kissing my knuckles softly. The simple gesture undid me, and I felt the walls I’d so carefully constructed start to crumble.

“Talk to me,” she implored as her angel eyes searched mine.

I shook my head. I couldn’t find the words. How could I make her understand the taint that seeped into every fiber of my being?

Without a word, she gripped my hand and gently led me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I let her guide me into the bathroom and watched her rotate the shower handle tohot. She pivoted to face me, her hands reaching for the button on my jeans. I remained motionless, allowing her to undress me. Her fingers skimmed over my skin as she slid my jeans down until I stood bare before her, physically and emotionally exposed.

She paused, her eyes tracing the scars that marred my torso—the remnants of the torture Igor had inflicted on me. Her fingertips ghosted over the raised, jagged lines, mapping out the geography of my pain. I tensed under her touch, shame and self-loathing rising like bile in my throat. But there was no revulsion in her gaze, only a love so fierce, it stole my breath. She leaned in, pressing her lips to the scar over my heart in a tender kiss.

“Don’t,” she whispered, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she traced over the jagged lines criss-crossing my skin. “Don’t hide from me.”

She shed her white T-shirt, took my hand once more, and guided me into the shower. The hot water cascaded over my skin. Her hand smoothed over my chest, my shoulders, my back—tracing the scars that disfigured my flesh. When her fingers skimmed over a particularly vicious scar that ran across my hip—a memento from a rusted blade that Igor had carved into me mercilessly. I shuddered.

She pressed her body against mine, her soft curves molding into the hard planes of my form. Her lips brushed against my neck, trailing light kisses along my jaw. “Let me in. Use me. Use me to drive out thedemons that threaten to drown you. Tether your soul to mine,” she whispered against my skin, offering herself up as a vessel to banish the demons that clawed at my mind and soul.

I turned into her embrace as she pressed soft kisses down my chest, letting her lips linger on each scar she found as she moved down my body. I watched as she kneeled before me like I was a god and she was here to worship. Her hands caressed my thighs as she looked up at me through the veil of her wet lashes, adoration and devotion shining in her eyes. I felt unworthy of her love and of the absolution she offered so freely. She trailed her tongue lower and traced the V of my hips before she took my whole length into her mouth. A groan escaped my lips at the exquisite sensation of hers wrapped around me. My fingers tangled in her damp hair as she worked me, driving out the dark thoughts and painful memories with each stroke of her tongue.

I lost myself in her—her hands gripping my hips, anchoring me to the present. She hummed around me, and the vibration sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body. My head fell back against the tiled wall as she took me deeper, the tip of my cock hitting the back of her throat.

“Fuck, baby.” I gasped, my grip tightening in her hair. She moaned in response, the sound sending a delicious tremor through my shaft.

She let me guide her movements as she worshipped me with her mouth. The sight of her on her knees, her lips wrapped around me, was the most erotic thing I had ever seen. As the pressure built at the base of my spine, my muscles tensed and my breaths came in harsh pants. She sensed my impending release and intensified her efforts, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked me deeper, using her hand to stroke what she couldn’t fit into her mouth.

“I’m going to come,” I panted, trying to pull away, but she gripped my hips, keeping me in place as she took me even deeper.

With a guttural groan, I spilled myself down her throat, my release pulsing through me in intense waves. She swallowed every drop, her throat constricting around me as she drank me down. As the last tremors subsided, she released me and pressed a tender kiss to my hip bone before rising to her feet. I pulled her into my arms, crushing heragainst my chest as the water cascaded over us. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin.

“He doesn’t own you anymore,” she whispered, her lips brushing against my ear. “You belong to me now.”

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