Page 90 of Refrain

It’s not the scathing assessment he wants. It’s not loathing. It’s not disgust. I’ve been willing to give him so many things these past few days, but this is the one thing I’m surprised to find Ican’t. I can’t fear him. I can’t blame him.

My murderer.

My angel.

My monster.

His eyes tell the story he’s fought. The control he’s battled for so long.

“That’s how you learned to do the stitches,” I say carefully. But that’s only the half of it. It’s how he learned to stomach the horror he’s seen—by wearing masks. By finding his own release.

By dancing between heaven and hell on threadbare wings.

“Learned,” he scoffs, choking out a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sick, huh? I’m fuckingsick—”

“You’re not.” I dig my nails into his skin before he can argue. You’re not.My throat works woodenly. Another story time is in order, but I can’t seem to get the words out. “I…I did… I’ve done…”

His fingers clench, cutting me off. Minutes pass before he finally takes advantage of the resulting silence.

“It was almost a game, at first,” he says. “I wanted to know. After…after him. I wanted to know if I could do it again. If it was a fluke. If I really am…” He inhales sharply, shaking his head. “Iremembernow. The first time was some meth head who owed Arno money. Arno had already beaten the shit out of him, but I…I went into the room, and…he started laughing. Calling me names. The usual shit. It didn’t faze me. At least not until Darcy walked in by accident to get an extra case of beer and the bastard started listing out all the ways she could ‘make his day.’” He pauses again, his hand clutching mine so tightly that my fingers go numb.

I let them. The odd buzz eats its way up my arm, the same way his words eat through my soul.

“I carved a P into his forearm,” Espi says thickly. “For ‘pervert,’ the sick fuck. I stitched him up real nice after. Gave him a hit of dope. And in the end…I didn’t feel a goddamn thing.”

He’s lying. Or maybe he can’t admit the truth, not even to himself. He felt something, all right. The same thing I feel when Piotr’s near—that voice I can’t shake. That unholy itch I don’t ever want to scratch.

Power and fear combined is an awful fucking thing. My touch alone won’t make him forget his latest taste of it. I can’t help him with the physical scars, either, or even the mental pain. But I can at least help him find some way of release.

I take his hands in both of mine and guide them down to my hips. Our gazes reconnect as I step in closer, right between his legs. This is a new mask I’m putting on, a different woman from the three I’m used to playing. She’s a willing sacrifice, something I never offered even Piotr. Maybe it’s the only thing I have left—possession.

“Hate me,” I tell him.Not yourself. Use me. Punish me.

Recognition dawns upon him slowly though. He stands, usingthe motion to step in closer, drag me closer. He’s lost his halo once again, his eyes gleaming like indigo fire. Perfect. Beautiful. Consuming.

I’m still in awe when he spins me around and presses me up against the table, making me lean over it. My heart slams against my rib cage, harsh and violent. It remembers this position. The heavy hands against my lower back. The panting breaths grated out on the air as my panties are yanked down my legs, and some stranger’s cock is shoved inside me.

But never with permission. Never with this hungry, raw need.

Ineedhim.

My palms flatten against the table’s surface as he peels my pants and my underwear down my legs. He takes his time, even though tension resonates through his skin. The anticipation—it’s different from anything I’ve ever felt. Even the terror doesn’t feel the same. When he finally trails a finger between my legs, I just moan, already wet. Already ready.

I hear him swallow, unsteady, unsure, and I barely recognize the sound of my own voice when I grit out a plea. “It’s okay. I can—”

He slams into me, grunting with the effort. The pleasure… The pain. It takes him three thrusts before he finds his stride, setting a pace that has me writhing beneath him, my hair caught between his fingers, his mouth on my shoulder, teeth scraping, nails digging in.

He shows me more violence than he ever showed the man he tortured for Jose, ripping back every layer of his soul to reveal the mixture of light and dark underneath. I take it all in. Every inch. Every thrust. I let him use me as a receptacle for the twisted emotions he can’t bring himself to face. For everything he doesn’t want to feel.

Piotr used me in this way often. But it never felt like this.

I never grew hotter, wetter around him. My thoughts never splintered like shards of jagged glass, sinking in with everybroken moan to leave his throat. Piotr never caressed me, even as he fucked. He never buried his mouth into the crook of my neck, murmuring a million words in a raspy cadence.I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck. I… I’m sorry. Sorry.

Back in those days, I never willingly came—so hard that I see stars. And, even in the breathless aftermath of his release, Piotr never spun me around, hauling me upright, forcing our lips to meld, kissing me. Long. Hard. Soft. Gentle pecks. Around my lips. Over them. Plunging his tongue inside.

I kiss him back, running my hands down his arms and over his shoulders. I arch my hips against his, riding out the remainder of his erection. I pant. I moan. I makehateto him, even if I don’t know how.

I cry out when he finally spills his release into me. Some part of me seems to be keeping a mental tally, and it woefully remarks,No condom.

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