“Give him to me.”
“Sure,” he chirped. “Take him. If you can.”
“Mikhail,” I demanded, tapping my leg. “Mikhail, come here!”
But my dog didn’t move, not a single jingle from his leash or sound of his nails.
My chin trembled, but I refused to cry.
But before I got a chance to spin around and walk away, Damon grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the bathroom. I resisted, trying to pull away and noticing he was only in a towel as he pressed me against the sink and shoved a long piece of metal in my hands.
“What is this?” I asked as he wrapped his fist around mine, forcing me to hold it.
The scent of shaving cream filled the space, and the steam of his shower crawled into my pores.
“Do you want to know how I control him?” Damon asked.
I didn’t give a shit…
“Food,” he explained. “Most animals, including humans, can be controlled by a system of consequences and rewards.”
Something hit the ground, I heard Mikhail move, and his jaws yapped as he ate whatever Damon tossed him.
“We want to eat, so we do what we need to in order to be fed,” he said. “And all animals have that in common. They can’t synthesize their own nourishment, so they easily become subject to whoever provides it. It’s how animals are domesticated. How humans can be enslaved in soul-draining jobs and relationships.” He leaned in, his breath wafting over my face. “We all need to eat, Winter.”
I jerked my head, trying to pull away from him again.
“And humans are complex,” he went on. “More than just our stomachs need to be fed.”
He raised my hand, and whatever was in it, to his face, and even though I gritted my teeth, trying to pull away, he forced it against his skin and glided it up his neck to his jaw. He forced my hand, and I stopped fighting as it grated against his stubble. Then he lowered my hand to the sink behind me, rinsing it clean.
A razor. A straight razor. I brought up my other hand, carefully feeling the object in my hand. Cool and metal, the blade was smooth and sharp, while the handle featured filigree etchings, making for an easier grip. Was it an antique? No one used these anymore.
He lifted me up and planted my ass on the counter, his hand on both sides of me.
“Keep going,” he said in a low voice.
Keep going? Did he want to die today? Or did he think I wouldn’t use this on him?
“Why?” I asked him. “So you can prove how well I can do what I’m told? Like a dog?” I put my free hand on his chest, trying to keep him from getting too close. “I don’t need you to feed me.”
“Maybe I need you to feed me.”
What did that mean?
“Do it,” he urged.
I held the blade, liking how easily the handle fit in my fist, and loving how he was right in front of me, putting a weapon in my hand, and this could all end now.
Did he trust me? Or did he think he could stop me in time?
He was definitely testing me. Seeing how much I did or didn’t hate him.
And he was willing to put himself in danger to find out.
All of a sudden, I felt like I did the night I drove his car all those years ago.
Like I was dangerous.
“I’ll cut you,” I warned him.
“Yeah.”
“And if I slit your throat?”
He breathed a laugh. “My kind of fun has a price, remember?”
I stopped breathing for a moment, remembering those words. Remembering that he was him. My ghost. The one I kissed and made love to.
At first those words had filled me with dread, because it meant he’d had no limit. Then they excited me, because I wanted adventures with the boy I thought I loved.
I brought my free hand up and gripped his face, tipping it back and keeping it still. Then I drifted my fingers down his neck, feeling where the skin was smooth and already shaven and where the shaving cream still sat.
“Come in, closer,” I told him.
He did, forcing me to spread my legs as his fingers brushed the outside of my thighs, bare in my sleep shorts. I ignored the goosebumps that spread over my skin.
Bringing the blade up slowly, I felt his chest start to rise and cave with shallow breaths, and I damn near smiled, because, if even just a little, he was nervous.
Finding the position with my thumb, I put the blade to his skin and pressed, increasing the pressure just a little more than I should have and feeling him suck in a breath.
It was his turn to be scared.
I let it sit there for a moment, feeling the air grow thick between us as he waited for what I was going to do with the blade pressed to his neck. Were his eyes cast down on me, watching me? Was he waiting for it? Was he ready for it?
I held it there for another moment and then…glided the blade up his neck, shaving it.
He held his breath for a moment and then exhaled softly as the blade left his neck.
Running my fingers over the strip I just shaved, I felt smooth skin. Skin I’d had my lips on when I’d thought he was someone else.
Rinsing off the blade, I took his face again, shoving it back to where I had it, because he’d dropped it again—probably to watch me.
He stood there silently as I slowly dragged the blade up his throat, the grainy sound filling the room and everything in the distance fading away. My hand shook with the knowledge that at any moment I could cut him.
Deep.
He would deserve it. After what he did to me…
After being everything I craved and needed, he made me fall in love with him, but come to find out, I’d fallen for a lie. A boy who treated me badly and found out how easy it was to hide right under my nose and get me to fuck him. Did he laugh about it after with his friends? Did he have fun?
My eyes pooled with tears as I shaved another strip, the tension in my hand making it ache as I gripped the razor so tightly.
How could he lie like that? The way he was… The words, the kissing, the shower, the way he held me and acted so sad sometimes, the desperation in his body when he took mine over and we were lost in the heat and the need to feel each other.... How could he lie so well? Young girls weren’t hard-hearted. He had to know how easily I would fall. Did he think it would be funny when he got my hopes up and played with me like that? Did he laugh at how pathetic the little blind girl was to think he loved her?
He sucked in a short breath, and I stopped, my tears threatening to spill over as I realized I’d cut him.
He didn’t say anything, though, and he didn’t move. I sat there, my hand in mid-air under his chin as I waited. I actually hadn’t meant to do that. Was it bad?
I heard him swallow and then he said, “Keep going.” But it came out as a whisper.
I blinked away the tears and loosened my grip, trying to relax.
“What’s all the noise downstairs?” I asked him.
“Extra security.”
“To keep me locked in?”
“To keep you safe,” he corrected in a coy tone.
I was sure the disdain was visible on my face. But then I remembered how he denied being in the theater bathroom and Crane denied that anyone was in the house this morning when I ran to St. Killian’s. They had no reason to lie. Was I in more danger than I thought? Was someone else after me? Enemies my father made or something?
I quieted, almost afraid of his answer when I asked, “Is my family really in the Maldives?”
“Yes,” he said.
Pain pricked at the back of my throat.
And while it was unusual my mother was on his honeymoon and not him, I knew why. He had no interest in the Maldives. Everything that interested him was here.
“Why would my mother leave me with you?”
“Because she’s a cunt.”
My hand shook a little, part of me angry and part of me wanting to cry. She left me. She actually left me. Did she fight? Sob? Have to be forced out the door at least? Did he offer her anythi
ng? Was she supposed to be back soon?
Why did she let him convince her to leave?
Because she’s a cunt.
My chin trembled for a moment, almost appreciating the genuine anger in his voice. He’d done this. He’d sent them away.
But even though he did what he thought he had to do to get what he wanted, he still didn’t have any respect for my mother for giving in to him. What kind of parent…
“Where do you go when you’re not here?” I pried, changing the subject. “Are you really going into the city? Or New York? Where?”
Or were you close? Always close.
He was gone a lot, and it hadn’t escaped my notice that he barely stayed here at night. Where the hell was he sleeping?
Maybe he had another woman. Another woman other than my sister, I meant.
He hissed again, and I knew I’d cut him again.
Shit.
But he still didn’t move or speak, just breathed, exhaling slow, almost like a sigh of relief.
“Keep going,” he whispered, sounding breathless and raspy this time.
Heat rolled off him, and I could feel his chest under my hand, the slow, steady breaths almost sounding calm and spent, like he enjoyed it.
He liked being cut?
Or he liked the fear?
Again, I was reminded of the night driving his car. I’d loved how he didn’t get mad at my mistakes and waited for me to do things at my pace. Just like now. He wasn’t mad I cut him.
But maybe there was something in it for him, too. He enjoyed toying with death. Fear made us feel alive.
I finished with his neck and rinsed off the blade. “Bend forward a little,” I told him. “I can’t reach your face.”
He came in as close as he could, pressing between my legs, and tipped his head down at me, our bodies chest to chest. His warmth spread across my face with him only inches away, and I felt self-conscious. “Don’t stare at me.”
I could feel his shitty little smile.
Finding my position, I slid the blade up the side of his face, going with the grain, because my father did it that way, and Damon didn’t say to do it differently. I shaved one cheek and moved the other, grazing my fingers over his skin to feel for any missed spots.
His warm breath hit my forehead, the heat of his body everywhere, and I knew he was looking down at me, but I suddenly didn’t want to tell him to stop, because for a split second, I remembered how good his arms and hands felt. Even if it was a lie, I let myself enjoy the intimacy I’d been starved for. For just a moment.
I ran the blade down his skin, shaving everywhere I felt stubble. His cheeks, his chin, above his top lip, and below his bottom one, and I dragged my fingers over every inch of jawline to feel for anything I’d missed, and after seconds of my hand on him, I was drawn back to the ballroom seven years ago when he let me look at him with my hands.
Nothing had changed.
I set the blade down and brought both hands up to cup his face. “Just need to check,” I told him, but it came out so soft I wasn’t sure he heard me.
I touched him, grazing my fingertips across his cheekbones, down to his jaw, up his neck, and over the hollows of his cheeks. He moved into it, meeting my touch by cocking his head and turning it, giving me complete access as I checked my work, and then his words came back to me from all that time ago.
Want to check the rest of my body?
Absently, my fingers fell down his neck, and I dug my fingers in just a little, because I wanted to touch more, and I hated myself for it.
His breathing turned labored, and he pressed his hands into the grooves of my thighs where they met my hips, kneading them.
He leaned down, his nose brushing mine as he pressed his chest into me and growled in a whisper, “Winter…”
I gripped his shoulders, feeling the ridge of his hard cock nudge me between my legs as heat pooled in my groin. My heart pounded. I wanted to run away.
And I wanted him to rip off my clothes, too.
I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.
He fell into me, pushing me back against the mirror, and I rolled myself into him, my clit throbbing with the tease of his muscle through his towel.
And I knew…even with as good as he felt and how lonely I’d been, because I couldn’t trust anyone or myself after the humiliation of that video, once it was done, I’d hate myself. I’d hate myself for letting him have a piece of me again.
I turned away from him, pushing at his body to get free. “Get off me.”
But he stayed there a moment, breathing hard.
“Why?” he finally asked. “You seem to like me.”
“Get off me!” I snapped. “You’re not getting that from me.”
I shoved at him, putting all of my strength against his chest, but he just rumbled with a laugh.
“I’ve already had that,” he said, his voice sharp and threatening. “Now I want your sanity. Just a little turn of the screw…”
I scrambled out from underneath him, stood up, and slammed him in the chest.
He stumbled back, laughing again. “All in good—”
“Yo, Winter!” a shout damn near shook the house from downstairs. “We’re here!”
Huh?
“Who is that?” Damon demanded. “That sounds like Will.”
But he didn’t give me a chance to answer. He shot past me, and I let out a breath, relief washing over me as I remembered my talk with Will last night.
Coldfield.
I’d been talking to Will and his friend, Alex, at the party, telling them how fun the new haunted house park was and how I wanted to go back before it closed for the season.
Since I’d kind of left abruptly last time and hadn’t gotten around to everything.
They hadn’t gone yet, and so we said we’d go tonight.
I’d completely forgotten.
After the past twenty-four hours, I wasn’t in the mood for haunted houses tonight, but anywhere was better than here.
I walked out of the bathroom and master bedroom, across the landing and to the railing, showing myself to wherever they were in the foyer below.
“Why are you two here?” Damon asked them, and I startled, realizing I’d stopped next to him.
Great. I was in my pajamas, he was in a towel, and we both just came out of his bedroom. Perfect.
“None of your business,” Will told him. And then to me, “Winter, show Alex to your room. She’s going to help you get ready.”
I then heard footfalls on the stairs, getting closer.
Ready? I was capable of getting dressed on my own.
“Why do you have your mask?” I heard Damon ask Will, I would assume.
The way he said ‘your mask’ sounded like Damon had one, too. All the horsemen did, I’d heard.
“Fucker, no one’s talking to you,” Will barked back.
I snorted, and I could feel Damon fume next to me.
Will was fun. I think I liked him.
Damon didn’t have a chance to question me, though, because a cool, slender hand took my arm, and I led Alex down the hall to my bedroom, a little more excited for the night out than I was a moment ago.
I wanted a fun outfit, a drink, and some chills and thrills.
As long as none of them came from Damon Torrance.
It wasn’t just any night on the Coldfield calendar of events. It was 18 & Over Night, which meant no minors allowed, hard liquor and cocktails served, and clothing didn’t have to leave much to the imagination. Costumes encouraged.
We walked through the entrance, brandishing our All Access wristbands, and I pulled my skirt taut as much as I could, feeling a little shy. Fun outfit, indeed. Alex was interesting, and to think she got nearly everything I was wearing from my own closet.
After we’d disappeared into my bedroom, she got busy, making short work of my hair and makeup and doing my face up like some clown. Or a sexy clown, as she’d said. She painted some designs on my
forehead with tear drops under my eyes and finished it off with red paint on the tip of my nose and some black lipstick outlined with white around my lips.
While I’d been asleep, I’d received a voice text from my mother, letting me know she and Ari were okay and that I was going to be fine.
No calls. No further information.
They were okay, and I was going to be fine.
Cryptic and cruel, and I didn’t understand it.
I’d tried calling both of them, but they didn’t answer, and I wasn’t sure I expected them to. What would they say, after all?
What had Damon told my mother?
Maybe he was a smooth talker and made her assurances? Maybe the financial arrangement was too good to pass up. Maybe she was just tired of fighting.
Just a little turn of the screw…
His taunt echoed in my mind again, and whatever he was planning wasn’t something by force like I’d thought. He was trying to wind his way into my head.
Alex teased and fluffed my hair, the heaven I was in with all the grooming and being touched starting to relax me, but then she went to my closet, dug out some things, and with my permission, began ripping and cutting to make me a costume.
I wore my fluffy, black miniskirt with tulle layered underneath, a strappy, leather bra she’d had with her, and the tutu torn off one of my ballet costumes from when I was little wrapped around my neck in a big collar. She dressed up my wrists with whatever I had in my armoire and sprayed some body glitter on my stomach, legs, and arms.
She tried to put heels on me but quickly realized that would be a mistake—as I’d told her it would be—and I slipped into my black Chucks instead.
But before we left the room, she remembered one last thing.
Fangs.
Sharp, smooth, and acrylic, she took out her extra set, mixed up the plaster, filled the grooves inside the two fangs, and asked me if I wanted them on my canines or incisors.
Blade or True Blood?
Blade.
Canines, it was. She fastened them on top on my real teeth, and I held them for a couple of minutes, letting the plaster dry and getting used to the feeling. The points brushed against the inside of my bottom lip, but otherwise they felt pretty functional.
I was ready.
I wasn’t sure how I looked, but Will let out a whistle when I came down, and Damon let me leave with no problem. In fact, he was unusually pleasant about the whole thing. About me going out with his friends half-naked.
Kill Switch (Devil's Night #3) Page 33