Page 68 of Cursed
“You wanted to see me,” I say, watching as she grabs the edge of the counter to steady herself. “All of me. That’s what this is.”
“You fucking psycho,” she spits, fighting to stay upright as her knees buckle. “You can’t just?—”
Her words slur as the sedative works through her system. She makes one final attempt to reach for her phone before she’s about to collapse, and I catch her in my arms. Her head lolls against my shoulder, dark hair spilling over my arm. She’s lighter than I expected, fragile in unconsciousness.
“You should have known better than to challenge me,” I murmur, adjusting my grip as I move toward the door.
I glance around her apartment once more, confirming I’ve left no evidence. Precision in all things. I allow the heavy door to swing shut behind me, listening for the automatic lock to engage.
The hallway is mercifully empty as I carry her to the elevator. I positioned my car in the building’s blind spot, away from security cameras.
Cool night air hits my face as I exit the building. Sadie stirs slightly in my arms, a small moan escaping her lips. The sedative won’t wear off for hours, but I quicken my pace anyway.
“Almost there, little butterfly,” I whisper, approaching my matte black Audi.
I shift her weight to one arm, opening the passenger door with my free hand. Carefully, I lower her into the seat, positioning her head against the rest. Her skin looks pale in the dim parking lot lights, making the injection mark on her neck stand out.
I secure the seatbelt across her body, making sure it’s not too tight. My fingers linger at her collarbone, tracing the marks I left during the Hunt.
The driver’s side door closes with a soft thud as I settle behind the wheel. I start the engine, glancing at Sadie’s sleeping form beside me.
“You think you saw darkness at Purgatory?” I say to her sleeping figure, pulling out of the parking lot. “That was me on my best behavior.”
I navigate through empty streets toward my penthouse, streetlights casting shadows across her angelic face. What she experienced during the Hunt was a performance for the audience as much as for her.
But now? Now there are no witnesses. No brothers to intervene. No rules to follow.
29
LANDON
Icarry Sadie through my penthouse; her unconscious weight feels satisfying against my chest. The sedative keeps her pliant, helpless—exactly how I need her to be right now.
Her head rests against my shoulder, dark hair spilling over my arm as I push open the door to my bedroom with my foot. The space is minimalist—black sheets on a platform bed, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and nothing else to distract from what happens here.
I lay her on my bed, her body bouncing slightly against the mattress. The sight of her splayed across my sheets hits me with an intensity that hardens me instantly. My cock strains painfully against my zipper, demanding release.
“Look at you,” I whisper. “So fucking perfect.”
I start with her shoes, removing them one by one and placing them beside the bed.
A switch flips inside me. The careful restraint I maintained during the Hunt dissolves. This is my territory. My rules. No cameras. No brothers. No witnesses.
I rip her pyjama top open, buttons scattering across the floor. The sound of tearing fabric fills the room. I grab a knife fromthe drawer beside my bed—custom-made, razor-sharp—and tear her pants down her legs, leaving her in nothing but scraps of lace.
“This is what you wanted to see,” I growl. “The monster within.”
My hands shake with need as I tear away her underwear. The sight of her completely naked on my bed triggers my need to mark her, claim her, and break her.
My blade catches the light as I hover it above her skin. With surgical precision, I trace it along her collarbone, not cutting, just letting her feel the cold metal.
The tip of my blade presses into her skin, just below her collarbone. A single drop of crimson wells up, beautiful against her pale flesh. My breathing quickens.
“Mine,” I whisper, dragging the knife in a deliberate L-shape.
Blood beads along the line I’ve drawn, deep enough to scar permanently. She whimpers softly, eyelids fluttering, but the sedative keeps her unconscious. I press harder for the horizontal line of the L, watching her face contort with pain.
“You wanted to see the real me, little butterfly,” I murmur, shifting to start the B beside it. “This is who I am.”
