Page 72 of Ruin

The thought sets my heart racing in my chest. Galloping with adrenaline as it shoots through my veins. My hold on her chin, along her jaw, tightens to a harsh pinch, but she doesn’t wince, she doesn’t even blink. So very used to my rough handling of her. A little like how she is with me. It is fascinating to me, how she has gone from strength to strength, but is still something like frightened of a simple chair.

“My little Ava,” I hush over her bloody mouth, scenting iron, she hums, a sound she would not have dared allow free merely weeks ago. “Such a good girl for me,” I drag her bloody bottom lip through my teeth, scraping at the congealing blood, pushing it to the back of my tongue and swallowing it down.

Mouth plucking at hers, my tongue lapping at her chin, teeth scraping along her jaw, up the length of her cheekbone. Her breath is a harsh but gentle pant against my mouth as I realign it with hers, glance up from beneath my lashes, her eyes already on mine.

“Kiss me, Baby Bird.”

Her mouth smashes into mine, feral and desperate, her hands clawing at my bare shoulders, newly neatened nails dragging down my chest, the perfect little curves of them digging into my skin. She bites my upper lip, sucking my tongue violently into her mouth, making it pulse with a delicious bolt of pain. I bite down on it, my own tongue, swallowing her soft gasp as she deposits the decadent sound in my mouth.

Long luscious licks of her tongue over mine, teeth and lips biting and sucking. The tip of my tongue traces over the inside of her teeth, across the roof of her mouth. I grip the shackle under my palms on either side of her neck, shove my knee between her spread thighs, her legs limp on either side of where I kneel before her, pushing the cap of it directly onto her cunt, nothing but thin white cotton between us.

“Grind on me,” I whisper over her lips, holding either side of her neck, as she pushes herself against my knee, bare through the slits in my jeans.

Heat and warmth press against me, her grip on my shoulders intense, nails digging into muscle as she lifts herself, using me in more ways than just getting herself off. Her hips roll against me, hot little pants of breath over my mouth as I keep my chin dipped, face flush with hers.

I glance down between our bodies, drop one of my hands to pull the baggy, loose, vest fabric out of my way so I can see. Watch her. Holding the tight fistful of it against her lower spine, I watch the little circle of wetness on her white underwear grow larger, feel it against my cool skin. The room is warm because she prefers it that way, not wanting to wear clothes. I offered them to her, she has an entire wardrobe full of things she’ll likely never wear, but they’re there all the same.

A whimper travels lowly up the back of her throat, and I am always so very desperate to hear her voice, to hear her say my name. I groan, my eyes dropping closed, rolling into the back of my head at the thought of my name on her tongue. I have heard no words from her except for her name, just that once and I know it’s not because she’s shackled. Hers a little looser than the one I was trapped inside off, cutting into muscle and nerves and tendons, my screams and animalistic cries wrecked my vocal cords.

I think her issue is something else.

I taste her blood in my mouth, drying on my lips, thick in the back of my throat.

“Clean me up, Baby Bird,” I whisper over her mouth, lips slanted, her breath on my teeth, blood on my tongue.

Her tongue swipes out, her nostrils flaring, the soft light in the room making her newly brushed hair shine like silk. It took a lot of patience and a pair of scissors, but she sat the entire six hours whilst I combed through it, without complaint. And I love the feel of it now, the smell of it, of her, us. She uses my soap, my shampoo, no deodorant because I like the smell of sweat on her skin, knowing I helped put it there.

I hum as she pulls away, licking her lips, her eyes squeezing closed as she climaxes, her breathing harsh, loud pants through her nose. My thumb smooths circles on the corner of her jaw, I am unable to look away, enraptured with her, with everything she does, every breath, flutter of her lashes, beat of her heart. I want to tear it out, carve my name into it and stitch it back inside of her chest so it only beats for me.

“Ava,” I rasp roughly, something heavy in my chest, her eyes flutter open, bright one mine. “It’s time, Baby Bird,” I tell her softly, lifting the small tool from my jeans pocket.

I spin it slowly between my fingers, making sure she knows what it is. I feel it, her flinch, it jolts through me like a gunshot, the way she scrabbles backwards across the carpet and I know I’m going to have to chase her. We have attempted this only once before and it was three days before she would willingly let me near her again. And only if I showed her my open hands, prove my pockets and boots alike were empty of anything to use to take it off of her.

“I am going to replace it,” I tell her, watching her drag herself backwards across the carpet she likes so much.

I am unmoving, watching her chest heave uncontrollably, I could drug her again, like I did to get her here in the car all those weeks ago. But I want her to trust me, and I don’t want to knock her out every time I do something to help her. I could not wait to have my neck shackle removed, I remember how raw my skin was beneath, the cuts, the chafing, the missing skin.

“Come,” I order her, her hands working her surprisingly quickly back across the floor, her hands hitting the bare wood now, a flinch at that too, the change in texture. “Do not move any further, Ava,” I warn, it is a low, gruff rumble through my clenching teeth.

I cannot understand the aversion to its removal, but I do understand that change is not something she handles well. It is why I got her a replacement in the form of a choker. So she does not feel the loss of something, like her cage, and feel unbalanced. I am her balance.

“Ava, enough.” I push to my feet as the crown of her head bumps against one of many bookcases in this room. “No more,” I scold her lightly, stopping before her and staring down. “Come here now and you can sit in my lap.” I drop into a crouch, elbows on my spread knees. I look her in the eyes, wide with fear, “I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Baby Bird.”

She trembles, shaking her head, a choked mumble on her lips and I wait, anxiously, listening for words I do not hear. I lean in closer, and she moves then, lashing out at me, striking me across the face, whipping my head to the side. She drops to her left, dragging herself along the floor with her hands as I blink hard, flex my jaw, hearing it crack, my cheek burning.

I lunge, diving on top of her, dragging her arms back, and pinning them to her sides, using my knees angled in towards her to keep her in place. She thrashes beneath me, banging her chin against the wood, but even that doesn’t deter her, hearing her teeth clack violently in her mouth.

I slide the hexagonal shaped key into the shackle joint at the nape of her neck, hearing it click. Her body heaves, twisting violently beneath me where I sit on her back, pinning her to the floor. And then I twist the long tool, hearing it click, listening to the loud clunk as it falls free of her throat, hitting the wooden floor beneath, in something like slow motion.

She is still beneath me, unmoving, breath held, and I feel that I, too, do the same, if only for a second. And then my fingers are tracing over the back of her neck, thick, cutting scars and lacerations ridged and uneven beneath my touch. I see her pulse thrumming in the side of her neck, my free hand tossing the key aside, I sweep her hair over her shoulder, her cheek flush with the floor now.

She breathes slow and deep, me on her back, but I’m holding my own weight up, off of her. Her eyes are closed, and her lashes flutter like butterflies atop her carved cheeks. And then suddenly her back heaves with a sob, and I track a lone tear as it drops from the inner corner of her closed eye, slides down the side of her nose. Dripping from the tip to the dark floor beneath.

I drop my lips to her wounds, red and inflamed and angry. I pluck the skin softly between my lips, tasting nothing but blood and metal, ensuring there is no infection, no dying flesh. I kiss her there, my chest erratic with my breaths as something foreign seems to fill my eyes and I blink the salty liquid away as I let my eyes close. Keep my lips pressed to the back of her neck, my nose in her hair.

Something takes flight inside my belly, lower abs tight, I plant my hands down either side of her head, fingers splayed. Touch my forehead to her crown, her head twisted to one side, my lips to her ear, I swallow dryly, opening my eyes.

“Look at me, Baby Bird,” I rasp, and she does as I say, always.

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