Page 83 of Monster's Edge

“Hungry, little girl?”

I nod. I know that I shouldn’t be. Not after realizing what he’s done. Ian is not a nice man. Not a good man. He’s got scratches all up and down his arms that I can clearly see now that we’re out of the water and in the light. I’m pretty sure there are some scratches on his neck, too. Whoever he killed tonight fought hard, but not hard enough. I wonder why Ian used his hands to kill them.

There’s something people always say in cop shows – they always say that if you kill someone with your hands, it’s because the situation was personal. Is that how Ian felt during his fight? Did he feel like the encounter was wildly personal and he justhadto get his hands on the person? I read something once about serial killers who love choking people because you get to feel their life leaving their body.

Maybe that’s Ian.

Still, I’m not scared of him right now. I walk over to Ian and reach for his hand. Lifting it up, I notice that his knuckles are chaffed and there are a few cuts. It’s not serious, but it’s definitely going to be sore for a few days until his skin scabs over.

“Should we bandage you up?” I ask him quietly. I’m not judging him. I just want to know if this is something that he wants.

Who knows?

Maybe Ian likes having his cuts exposed. Some people like to feel the pain and discomfort that comes with that. It’s like the same thing with people being into BDSM. Sometimes it’s nice to feel something that hurts, right?

Sometimes it’s just nice to feel anything at all.

Ian looks at me. He cocks his head. For a minute, I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off and go to bed. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he grabs my wrists and pulls me close. My towel falls to the floor and my breasts are pressed up against his chest. My nipples harden, tightening. Oh, I fucking love this. I love it when he’s rough, and I love it when we’re body-to-body.

“I don’t want to fucking bandage me up,” he hisses. He lowers his mouth so it’s hovering right above mine.

Okay, message received.

I flinch, trying to pull back, but he kisses me before I can. Fast, powerful, strong: his kiss practically destroys my heart. Fuck. I’m never going to get over this. There’s a part of me that wants to believe I’m lucky for marrying Ian tomorrow, but the truth is that I’m not.

The truth is that Ian is marrying me for revenge.

He’s marrying me because my father killed his sister and he needs someone to blame. I’m not sure what happened tonight. Did he kill my dad? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just killed one of his henchmen. Dad always did like to keep a lot of assistants and worker bees around, after all.

When Ian pulls back, I instantly miss his lips. I hate that I’m like this around him. Hate it. If this were up to me, the two of us would crawl into bed and never leave. That’s what I could really, really go for: a good ol’ weekend of fucking Ian.

“You’re my slut,” he tells me. “You’re not my mother.”

Oh. He’s still talking about the hands thing. Okay, so he doesn’t want bandages. Fine. I don’t particularly give a shit. I was just trying to be nice. If he wants to be in pain, that’s fine. It’s hot, even. I can live with a bad boy who doesn’t mind getting a little dirt in his wounds.

“Okay,” I shrug, hoping I sound nonchalant. Really, I feel just the slightest bit embarrassed. Maybe even rejected. I know that offering was an overstep of some sort, but I didn’t mean for that to happen. All I really want is to make it through the rest of the night, and then tomorrow, and then the next day. I’m going to spend the rest of my life taking things one day at a time because I no longer have any control over the situation, and I no longer have any choices that I get to make for myself.

Unfortunately, the shrug is not going to cut it for Ian. Tired or not, murdering people or not, he’s still himself. Ian has drilled into my head that he wants to fuck a woman who is respectful and polite. It’s literally the only thing he cares about when it comes to me. Casually shrugging isn’t exactly high on the list of Emily Post’s manners, now is it?

He squeezes my wrists a little bit more tightly. They’re starting to hurt, but I don’t move. I just sort oftakeit. He’s staring at me as he grips me harder and harder, and I have to close my eyes so I can focus on breathing through the pain.

Is Ian going to break my wrists?

Like, I really don’t think he would be doing something like this before our wedding day, but how much about Ian Salucci do I really know?

I know he works with Dad. I know that the two of them do fucked-up crimes together. My dad has always been into things that are a bit...discreet. He doesn’t particularly like getting his hands dirty, so he hires people who can do shit for him. The less my dad has to do, the better. The happier he is. It’s really screwed up, to be honest.

I keep breathing deeply as Ian grips me. He’s going to keep going until I ask him to stop. Well, or until he breaks a bone.

Do I really want to be in a cast on my wedding day?

My eyes fly open, and I look at him desperately. “Please,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I was rude.” I hope that an honest and open apology is enough to calm him down. For some reason, it seems to work because he stills and then releases me.

“Get on your knees, Rose. Show me what a good little slut you can be.”

He releases my wrists and I drop to my knees before him. I’m not going to hold back on Ian. Not when what he wants is something I can offer so freely. I start to reach for his pajama pants, but he flicks my forehead.

I cringe and look up at him. Ian is staring at me with a pissed-off expression on his face.

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