Page 55 of Poisoning Ivy
"I c— can't— " I gasp at the relentless sensations, sucking in a breath that I promptly choke on.
"You were made for me." Killian growls. "For us. And you can take everything we give you."
"I--" I don't know what I'm going to say. My brain feels like it's melted, and everything is on fire, but the third orgasm he threatened me with rears its head as his thrusts become less coordinated. I can feel how wet I am between my legs-- not just my thighs, but my ass. Is it my blood or Cody's? Is it Monty's cum or my own?
"Don't you fucking dare." He growls, releasing his grip on my neck so that he can grip my hips.
I don't have the energy to lift my face, and even if I did, I think he'd send me careening to the floor with the fury of his thrusts. Instead, he anchors himself with his grip on me, and I surrender, giving up my last breath because I can't think, can't breathe, can't imagine a pain more brutal or a pleasure more satisfying or a love more filling. My heart hammers through my chest like it can jumpstart Cody's beneath me, but other than that, everything stops as I give it up. The world almost seems toslow down, reality melting right along with my brain as he forces my orgasm out of me in tandem with his.
I don't remember closing my eyes, but darkness descends, and stars shoot through the canvas behind my lids, great sparks of light that explode like fireworks, bursting from a single point of origin and painting the inside of my skull with their vicious and beautiful colors. I feel firecrackers ricochet in my empty head, the pressure caving me in until darkness takes over once more.
Chapter twenty-nine
Ivy
The basement I wake up in isn't as cold as their denial, their hatred, but I can't stop shaking the minute consciousness returns. Everything hurts; muscles I didn’t even realize I had are sore from seizing so violently with the cruel pleasure of orgasms Killian forced on me. The space between my legs throbs, my ass burning and my pussy painfully raw.
Cody's lifeless body lies at the foot of the steps, a barrier between me and the upstairs. Even if I could gather the courage to get close to him, to step over him, I know the door at the top of the staircase is locked. My mother had that lock put on the outside when I was too young to reach it, but I never knew why. I never saw what she kept down here, never cared too much. I imagined there were monsters lurking in the shadows down here, spiders with even more eyes than usual or snakes with three heads.
I've only been down here a few times… once, to fetch a bottle of wine for my parents and their guests. I'd had the light on then, and still it didn't reach to every corner of the room.Another time, my mother threw me down here when she found contraband in the form of a gag gift and called me a filthy whore.
That time, I was down here a week. It was long enough to realize that the real monsters weren't waiting in the cellar for me to come to them. They were above ground-- the monsters like my mother, who came to the cellar a week later to grab a bottle of pinot noir and looked genuinely shocked to see me. I still don't know if she forgot I was in there or if she didn't realize there was a hose with running water which kept me alive. The other monsters above ground, like Uncle Vitoli— a friend and business associate of my father's, who I killed just before I was thrown down here the last time. It was my mother's doing then too, caging me like a wild animal, as if I had done it out of anything other than desperation.
No, I'm safer down here than I am with any of the rest of the world. Safer down here than I am with them... the men who have put me in danger so many times. The men who always made me feel alive. But I had been young then, delusional. I thought that I was invincible half the time, and the other half the time I balanced on the blade of a sword between wishing for death and running from it. Back then, I could feel things. Theymademe feel things.
But it's been five years of rotting inside, five years of my soul dying a slow death inside me. Five years of feeling like I'm fucking drowning and no one cares enough to look up from their phone. I wrote to them all ever since they showed me who they really were—ever since they asked me whether I was their friend. I sneaked letters into the mailbox after my husband went to work, getting more and more sparse as time stretched on. Not once did I ever get anything in return.
I could live with that denial because I was used to it, but then summer would come, and everything would be right again as I fed on their twisted hate. I could live with that, but I couldn't livewith them all fucking me, really fucking me, and then ditching me to wake up alone, leaving me vulnerable. And I couldn't live with the knowledge that not once in the last five years did they ever look for me, not once did they ever try to find me even though I begged them to, even though I screamed for them, tried to claw my way out of the back of the car, did everything to get to them until I felt the needle in my neck and darkness took over.
I've felt a lot of pain in my life, but the pain of losing them was by far the worst. I was stupid to believe there was a fairytale waiting in the wings, that I would get a happily ever after. I was a fucking child, dreaming of knights in scorched armor coming to my rescue. They didn't have to slay my dragons, just steal me out from under their keep. But they didn't even do that. They left me with the fucking monsters to suffer in normalcy, and now they're going to kill me. It's a kinder fate than leaving me to suffer the rest of my days with Cody, and I hate that I can't deny that. His death feels like it's on my shoulders, if only because I'm the one who tried to run from him, the reason we came here in the first place.
They didn't bother giving me the light, but I can see enough from the moonlight slipping in through the window high overhead that I can find my way around half of the cellar. It's not much, but it's enough to see the stack of boxes lined up against the wall... big, plastic totes that people use to store their house decor in between holidays. We've never decorated the cabin, so I can't imagine what's in the boxes, but I need to find something I can use as a weapon and other than the totes and the wine rack, there isn't much else down here.
The first tote is stacked higher than my head, but I pull it carefully off the top and peel back the lid, expecting old china my mother got sick of or something. Instead, the box is full of clothing-- fur coats, silk dresses, button up shirts. They're thrown in haphazardly, not folded or pressed the way my motherkeeps her stuff. I rifle through the clothes, my confusion growing when I grab the corner of a pretty paisley top, only to discover it's a pair of panties. I drop them quickly and wipe my hand on my thigh, chasing away the fact that I just touched my mother's underwear.
Except, there's no way the clothing in here belongs to my parents. My mother is far too thin for some of this stuff, and I think she'd sooner be caught dead than wearing paisley, even somewhere no one can see.
I've had my fill of the first box, so I grab another off the stack just to be greeted with similar circumstances. Clothing.
There's a pair of jean shorts, but the thought of jeans riding up a bare pussy is enough to make me cringe, so I pull on a dark silk dress. It's slinky and loose, one of the thin straps slipping immediately off my shoulder, but it's better than being down here naked until they decide to come back for me.
Once I've got the dress in place and am turning my attention back to the boxes, I see the strap of a purse and pull on it to reveal a Chanel handbag, the little silver emblem shining proudly in the light. It sends a cold chill through me that has little to do with the temperature. I've never seen this bag before.
I'm on the last box, every one full of clothing, shoes, accessories--hair clips and earrings, diamond necklaces that look to be worth more than the entire cabin, when I pull out a long swathe of silk. I thought it was the last thing in there, but as I wind the scarf through my hands, I notice the little velvet pouches that line the bottom of the tote. Swallowing, I abandon the scarf and reach for the bag nearest me. The contents inside shift, clinking together ever so slightly, and I imagine it's filled with rare coins or something equally valuable. But as I tip the contents into my hand, they're not metallic or cold or heavy.
My hand shakes as I lift it higher, trying to let the light show me what I've just stumbled upon.
Teeth.
I scream, the teeth flying through the air as I press my other hand over my mouth and try to control myself, stop the shaking. I can think of zero reason why there would be teeth in a pouch in my basement, but the horror is only compounded by how many of them there must have been. Most people have twenty-eight teeth, give or take for wisdom teeth and other various reasons. But that pouch was full of them-- there had to have been at least fifty. And that's just one of them.
If I had my phone, I'd Google reasons people keep bags full of teeth, but seeing as I don't have that, I can't come up with any explanation that makes sense... other than that these teeth and clothes and shoes belong to people who were murdered. The only way those teeth got there was if someone put them there, and who other than a serial killer would do such a thing?
An unwelcome memory creeps in of Uncle Vitoli grinning, flashing his gold incisor, telling me the tooth fairy would come pay me a visit if I wasn't on my best behavior. I thought he was confused back then... that he meant to tell me the tooth fairy wouldn't come if Iwasn'ton my best behavior. I thought it was odd, since I hadn't lost a tooth, but in hindsight, I want to crawl out of my skin. The tooth fairy he was talking about wasn't a cute little pixie coming to leave a nickel under my pillow. Oh, God.
I'm going to be sick. I can feel the swell of it inside me, but there's nothing real in my stomach, nothing worth throwing up.
I decide to remedy that and shut out the newfound horror in the only way I know how, using the boxes to help pull myself to my feet. I stumble to the wine rack, thousands of dollars worth of grapes lined up in glass bottles before me. The absurdity of it strikes me, and I have to hold back a giggle as I contemplate how I'm the least valuable thing in this cellar. I could cry about it, but I'm sick of fucking crying, so I pluck a bottle off the top row, the one I know is reserved for the best shit.
