Page 136 of Violent Possession
And I realize that I don’t want to run away from the only one who gives me a fucking reason to stay.
I bite my lip. “Try your luck, boss.”
My muscles relax against him. I let him touch me.
ALEXEI
All night, I maintained control. The restaurant, the police, the trip back—each step, each tick of the clock, each rehearsed movement on the steering wheel or the lapel of my jacket—it was all a series of variables that I managed with logic. The first lesson I learned from my father was that control is more valuable than any weapon; the second lesson was that, if everything threatens to go wrong, make up new rules until chaos looks like a plan. So, I spent the night anticipating every deviation, every impulse from Griffin, every sharp word he fired like a wild dog testing the fence.
I analyzed him. From the first second I saw him, bleeding in that ring, trembling with adrenaline, I assessed his condition looking for cracks, identifying weak points, predicting the moment when the structure would collapse. Every offense, every provocation, every look of defiance. Griffin was a problem, an erratic variable, and yet, I underestimated him.
No one is born prepared for someone like Griffin.
Griffin is the catalyst for something I had spent my whole life pretending didn’t exist: a desire for violence that had no political purpose, no strategic relevance. A desire for gratuitous violence,because it hurt, because it healed, because it forced existence to fit within a tiny, perfect instant.
He looks at my fury not like most people. He doesn’t shrink, he doesn’t negotiate, he doesn’t fear. He receives it as an invitation. He leans over the threat, savors the metal of the gun before the shot, and still dares me to shoot. And something inside me, a thick rope held taut for years of discipline, self-control, family protocols, simplysnaps.
I feel, with absolute clarity, the exact moment I lose the war against myself.
The red mist that descends over my vision is a surprise. I thought I would never allow myself this again after I was a teenager, after being trained to tame every destructive impulse. But it’s here, coloring everything with a damp, vivid hue.
The sound of Griffin’s body hitting the wall is a satisfying echo of the fracture I feel inside. The feeling of having him like this—trapped between my body and the cold surface, with his skin exposed, breathing fast, his eyes still mocking—is the only thing that makes sense tonight.
My last thread of self-control breaks. There is nothing left between me and what I want. Anger, yes. But not only. There is a violent desire to silence his insolent mouth with something other than words, to reduce every argument to flesh, bone, the swallowed scream in the back of the throat.
Everything condenses into a single point of focus:Griffin. Trapped, falling apart, and at the same time resisting, winning, taking me with him in the process of self-annihilation.
“You like this, don’t you?” I don’t recognize my own voice, hoarse, vibrating under my jaw. The hand that holds him by the nape of his neck forces his face against the wall, my thumb applies pressure until he lets out a sharp whimper, his head hitting the concrete lightly. “You like to test the limits.”
“I like it,” he gasps, and the raw honesty of it disarms me. “I like knowing that you want me so much that you’re willing to break your own rules.” He tries to move, a minimal hip adjustment that brushes his body against mine and, fuck, it’s pure defiance. “Break me, Alexei. Stop playing and break me for real.”
“I will,” I promise.
I lower one hand, and he groans when I reach the waistband of his pants. I hold the base of his nape, feeling the short hairs vibrating under my touch, and I push him harder against the wall.
My fingers close around his member under his clothes; the heat that radiates there is unreal. The sound he makes is wilder than anything I’ve ever heard, and every time he tries to resist, I squeeze harder.
He really likes this. He likes the absurdity, the contradiction, the punishment that is also a prize.
I run my hand down his back, tracing the line of his spine, feeling the tense muscles under his skin. I explore the damage he has done to himself—marked ribs, fresh scratches, new bruises over old ones. I press one of them with my thumb, and he flinches with a hiss of pain escaping between clenched teeth, but there is no sign of retreat. Just more desire.
“Does that hurt?” I ask, my mouth touching the skin of his neck, smelling the mixture of sweat, blood, and alcohol.
“Like hell,” he answers, breathless. “Do it again.”
I do. My hand on his cock caresses him slowly, while the other presses his wounds, reminding Griffin of every stupidity committed.
Griffin has a kind of strength that defies all my logic. He should be dominated, humiliated, but even so, with his cheek pressed against the wall and his whole body rotten, he finds ways to retaliate.
He bites his own lip until it bleeds, and then turns his head slightly to spit a low curse in my direction.
“Yes, fuck...”
His vulgarity is fuel. He feeds on my anger, chews on the raw desire, and returns it all in hoarse groans, panting breaths, spat-out phrases that are more weapons than pleas. Every provocation is a lit match thrown into a powder keg that I’ve tried to lock up my whole life.
I should be above this, I should remember what I learned in childhood—that all emotions aretools, that fury is just a poison to be distilled and used at the right time.
But with him, there is no composure. There is no logic, no contingency plan.
