Page 8 of Make Me A Sinner
I'm expecting to probably black out, so I close my eyes, trying not to provoke him even further. I know he has the right to be angry. I broke my promiseandbetrayed him. But his hand doesn't increase the pressure around my neck. Instead, I’m tossed over his shoulder as he starts carrying me out of the wine cellar and into the house.
His steps are heavy, as if they were still trying to decide what to do with me. And no matter what that would be, I know it won't be gentle. It feels so strange that he doesn't say a word, and at the same time, I fear what his words could be.
I find myself carried away toward the main bedroom. He kicks the door open the moment we reach it, then sets me on my feet. Suddenly, he pauses as if he’s scanning the room for something, his gaze stopping at the two wooden doors that lead into the dressing room. Grabbing my wrist, he all but drags me there, my feet following him on instinct.
He starts going through the clothes until he finds a woman's robe. It belongs to the house’s owner, but he's not interested in the piece of clothing. Instead, he yanks the cord off and takes me back into the bedroom, where he ties it tightly around my hands.
"Set," I cry out, terrified of what he might do to me, but the look he gives me shuts me up instantly. It's death-chilling, and I feel that if I say another word, he won't be able to control what happens next.
Once my wrists are secured, he pulls the cord strong enough to make my whole body shudder, leading me to the bed. It's not to lie there. He climbs onto the bed, pulling me up after him, only to tie the cord high on the canopy pillar. The piece of wood has a hole in it, especially designed to hang the curtains, so he secures the cord there, leaving me standing with my hands bound above my head.
I brace for something horrible, especially as I notice the veins in his neck pump with a madness I have never witnessed before.
His eyes seem empty as he examines me from head to toe like he hasn't seen me in ages, like it's someone else looking at me. Then his hand grips the base of my neck, squeezing, threatening to snap it with his next move. It hurts, but I don't say anything as he advances to my jaw, and he squeezes again, forcing my mouth open from the pressure. His chest rises and falls quickly in anger, but he’s also turned on. I can see it from the large imprint of his dick pressing against his pants.
And maybe I am as insane as he is because the more he hurts me, the more I feel the tingle between my legs coming to life, the throbbing sensation that makes me want him so badly.
I don't know if he's going to kill me or fuck me, but he better make up his mind soon because I can't handle this kind of pressure. And neither can he, as the large roar fills the room, his fist slams into the wooden pillar, right above my head. A few inches lower, and I’d be out cold—or maybe even dead.
He doesn't give me time to recover from the shock, though. Before I can process what happened, he turns off the light, shuts the door to the room, and leaves me literally hanging there, fearing my worst nightmares would soon come to light.
six
-Serena-
My wrists hurt, my arms hurt, even my damn tits hurt.
I think I've been here for hours, and I can see it's almost dawn outside. I haven't closed an eye; I just kept them pointed at the door, scared he’d return, but desperate for it too, because I can't take this anymore.
I don't know what I fear more—the agonizing pain in my muscles as my feet dig into the mattress—or what he’ll do to me when he gets back. I keep shifting my feet, pressing my toes into the mattress to ease some of the tension, but minute by minute, it wears me down. I’m on the brink of exhaustion, my strength fading with every breath I take.
I peek outside the window. The first rays of the sun try to make their way through the darkness, and fiery orange light makes a crown behind the hill. It's breathtaking, and I stare at it, trying to memorize every ray, fearing it will be the last sunrise I’ll ever see.
I'm so tired from the mere effort of standing, and my feet just can't keep pushing into the mattress to relieve some of the cutting tension in my arms. That's not even what hurts most. It'sthe muscles under my breasts and it feels like someone's pulling at them until they’ll rip.
Just as I'm about to let tears dampen the ivory sheets beneath my feet, the door creaks open, and light from the hall outlines a large, dark silhouette. I’d recognize him anywhere. Set’s back. And right now, that doesn’t even scare me anymore. I don't even care what he does to me, the pain is just too much. "It hurts," I whimper, hoping to get his mercy and he’d let me down from here. "My arms, my breasts..." I'm fighting to say another word when I hear his voice for the first time after over three months.
"What you fucking did to me hurt too," he snarls more than talks, like a wounded animal. A fucking dangerously pissed-off wounded animal. And I know he's right. I wasn't sure if he had any feelings I could break to begin with, but hearing him confess something so intimate, so raw, only adds to my belief I screwed up by leaving Vegas.
I can’t see his face, no matter how hard I try. It's just too dark in the room, and the hallway light’s too bright to make out anything. All I can see is that he's holding something in his hand, and judging by the small shape of the object, I'm starting to think it's his knife.
I quiver as I see him walking toward me—slow steps that only drag out my agony as he approaches me. The faint light from the window catches his face. He's covered in blood, his shirt too, so drenched you can barely tell it was white to begin with. I only know this because I saw what he was wearing last night, but now, he just looks as if he bathed in blood. Like he walked through the center of a massacre—or caused one.
I suddenly want him to stay away; I'm starting to think I can deal with the pain. It's not so bad after all. But it's too late for him to keep his distance.
With one step, he climbs onto the bed, right in front of me, something so scary in his posture that I fear he’ll rip me apart.His next move brings his hands to wrap around my neck again, tighter this time, lifting me off the mattress and gluing the back of my head against the wall until my feet dangle in the air.
Scared to death, I see nothing in his blood-red eyes, except the predatory need to kill. Even the tattoos on his skin seemed to have shifted into something gruesome, like claws and thorns performing a wicked dance, as if warning me of the evil coming from within. Maybe it’s because of the light or he just got the old tattoos covered, but these new ones are even more terrifying than the ones on that day when he brought me and my team in after the heist.
And I can see nothing but death lying within him.
The tip of his blade traces my cheek without cutting through the skin—yet—but leaving a stinging trail of what's coming. "Is it better now?" he asks, knowing that the pain in my arms shifts to my neck, which is a breath away from snapping.
I fear Set isn't here. Like something malefic took his place. And I can't buy my way out of this, not with a kiss like I did last time. "Please," I barely manage to get the word out, feeling like I'm going to lose consciousness soon.
A large grin spreads across his face, like nothing I could say would get him to change his mind.
He likes to play with me anyway. "Please, what, Serena? Please have mercy? Please don't kill you?" The words leaving his mouth, one by one, punctuating the irony in his voice.
