Page 49 of Filthy Little Fix
Leonel. It's the first time he's called me that.
I sit up on the desk. This is a kind of intimacy I never imagined he would give me.
He goes back to the side table, to the glass of whiskey. He swirls the liquid and doesn't drink it.
"Come here," he says softly. It's an order.
I get up from the desk. I grab my clothes—the discarded pants—but don't put them on yet. I want him to see what he did to me.
I steady myself with how much my legs are shaking before approaching him.
He takes my wrist, carefully. Too carefully, which doesn't suit him and sends a strange itch down my spine. He turns my palm up and examines the cut. There's a reddish circle, outlined by several deep, dotted cuts. There's still fresh blood between them.
He sighs. He raises the glass of whiskey, the golden liquid swaying, and for a second, I think he's going to give me a drink.
Instead, he pours it on my hand.
I close my eyes. I try to pull my attention from the cut in an impulse, and I bite my lower lip to keep from making a sound as the pain explodes in my hand. It stings, and the burning spreads throughout my arm. It's hell. And I love it. I force myself to stay still, to keep my body from contracting and making any kind of sound other than a gasp. Only the tremor remains.
Dante sees my struggle. How I try not to moan with pleasure. At a certain point, he recognizes it.
"You liked that, didn't you?" he says softly. There's a hint of disapproval.
Sweat runs down my forehead. The whiskey cleans the blood flow and disinfects the cut—the pain is excruciating, but his perception of me is more important.
He doesn't let go of my wrist as he leans over, getting a pristine cloth from inside a desk drawer after abandoning the now-empty crystal glass. He presses it against my palm, holds it there for a few seconds, and wipes away the traces of blood.
"Why did you do that?" he says, firmly.
I didn't need to bite so hard to hold myself back. Anyone else wouldn't do that, wouldn't turn their own skin into a cluster of cuts.
But the veiled accusation turns me on.You hurt yourself for me.It makes me want to kiss him.
"I told you that you turn me on," I say.
He lets me go with a hint of disgust. "Stop that shit. OnlyIget to hurt you."
I smile. I'd like that, too.
"Is this a long-term promise?" I say. I don't ask for permission to grab some tissues from the corner of the cellar to clean myself up as best I can.
Dante frowns. "What?"
"My medical leave is ending. And I don't know what the plan is. Do I go back to the office on Monday? Are you going to keep me here forever?" I run the tissues over my abdomen and thighs, but it doesn't save me from the sticky feeling. I need a shower. "Because if I go back, your monopoly on my suffering ends," I continue on autopilot. "I'll have to split my time between you and the pure agony of listening to my boss explain aforloop."
I know I'm playing with fire.
A controlled fury takes over Dante's features at the mention of an entire world where I exist, and that he doesn't control.
He didn't like that.
I'd like a straight answer about what's going to happen, but I imagine the choice between keeping me locked up here and returning me to that asshole Chad isn't entirely up to him—he's not the only Volkov—and this pisses him off.
"You're still on your sick leave," he clearly forces himself to repeat. He's stating a fact he hates.
I get dressed in silence. He watches me.
"Get out," he orders.
