by Geneva Lee
“I’m far from pure.” She smiles a little as if testing the mood, but it fades when the air between us remains heavy.
She needs to understand that this can’t be laughed away. Clara needs to know that I’m not some broken animal that can be fixed. God knows I’ve tried to fix myself. She needs to see me for what I am: a lost cause.
I wrap my fingers around her throat. She needs to see that I’m dangerous. I see the lines and cross them anyway. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s because of the family I was born into. Maybe it’s my nature. Either way, I’m not her hero.
I’m her monster.
“You are my beautiful Clara,” I say, and I mean it. She’s every good thing I ever wished for but would never deserve. “That’s why I want to protect you from the world. That’s why I want to protect you from me.”
Tears well and fall like rain as she tries to blink them away.
Yes. She understands. I’ve shown her the truth, so we can stop with the lie. I will never be the man she needs. I can only cause her pain.
But when her mouth opens, her words are small yet powerful. “You told me once that you wanted to hear me beg.”
I recoil, sucking in a breath. “No. Not like that.”
I’m tainting her. My poison is infecting her. I need to leave before she becomes someone she hates as much as I hate myself.
“Please,” she whispers. “Please, X.”
What does she want? Why does she keep demanding more? Why can’t I tell her no—tell her to fuck off like I would to anyone else? Why do I always hesitate when I know I should leave?
“Do you want me to tell you that I dream about screeching metal and fire? That I wake up holding a pillow because I’m dreaming that I’m cradling my sister’s broken body?” I ask, hoping to scare her. “And that every time I wake up, I’m no closer to knowing what the hell happened that night? I can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything!”
She stares like this is a surprise, and a familiar surge of shame consumes me.
“Have you spoken to anyone—” she begins.
“I’m not going to talk to a goddamned shrink. My sister would be alive if it weren’t for me. Period. End of story.” It’s not the end of the story, though. If she knew the truth, I would lose her forever. So, why don’t I tell her? It’s what I want. I want to liberate Clara from this mysterious hold I have on her.
“This isn’t your fault.” She places herself between me and the door. “It was an accident. Everyone knows that.”
She is strong. She is beautiful. She is so hopelessly naive.
“Everyone knows what they were told,” I bite out. “Don’t be stupid, Clara.”
I see the barb strike, but if it stings, it doesn’t wound. She crosses her arms in defiance. “You are not the first person to have been in a car accident.”
“It was a little more than a car accident.” A sliver of truth to assuage the guilt I feel over the lie—the one I will continue to tell her. The lie I will continue to tell everyone, even myself.
She pauses, wheels turning in her eyes. I’ve done it. I’ve scared her. Now I have to find the strength to let her go.
I don’t expect what comes next.
Clara holds out her hand—extends a lifeline when she should cut me off. “Come back to bed.”
I can’t save her. I can only destroy her.
Chapter Twenty-One
My bones ache to go with her, but I can’t deny what we both know. “You’re not safe around me.”
Clara’s eyes soften like an invitation. “I’m only safe around you.”
How can she believe that? Have I warped her this much already? She thinks she can trust me, but there’s so much she doesn’t know about me. Every ounce of me wants to carry her to bed and claim her as my own. I would if I thought it would end there. But I can’t deny that I’m craving more from her than just her body.
“My life is dangerous,” I start, unsure how to proceed. I pace a few steps, trying to figure out how to tell her the truth without revealing my secrets—secrets that don’t only protect me but also the most vulnerable members of my family. “I’m dangerous.”
“And I’m not going to break.” She moves toward me, defiance drawing her face taut and determined.
Yes, she will. She’ll break. By me. By them. I draw her body to mine and wrap one hand around her lovely throat. I could break her so easily now. She needs to see that. “You are fragile, Clara. Delicate. If my life doesn’t break you, the things I want to do to you might.”
She refuses to look away. Only the slightest fear hides in her eyes. “I’m not scared of being with you, X. I’m only scared of being pushed away.”
Words won’t be enough. So it comes down to one thing: a test. I don’t ask. I take.
I give way to my primitive need, crushing my mouth to hers, forcing her lips to part for my tongue. She meets me at every step, offering more of herself while demanding more from me.
She thinks she can handle more? Fine. We’ll see.
I grip her wrists tightly, forcing them behind her back, and hold her body hostage. Her body molds to my desires. She doesn’t fight me. She submits like a bud blossoming at sunrise.
How can she say she doesn’t want this but give it so naturally every time?
Lifting her off her feet, I carry her to the bed, unbuckling my trousers to free my cock. Clara’s heels shove them down as I kick off my shoes. I step out of them, spreading her legs with one hand. Dropping over her, I thrust without warning, splitting her open without hesitation. I don’t stop even when her fingernails dig into my back. I just keep taking.
And she keeps giving.
Her breathy panting draws attention to her beautiful lips, her slender neck. I brace myself on my elbow, so I can grip her neck again.
“You are mine, Clara,” I growl, crushing her throat, so she’s forced to look at me—to understand what I’m saying. “I claim you. Do you understand?”
She stares up at me, her blue eyes swirling with words she can’t speak. But she nods with a slight smile, as much as my grip will allow, as a single tear falls down the side of her smooth cheek. It only makes me fuck her harder.
But I’m not an animal. I am a man—a man who will take until she says no.
“I’m hurting you now,” I murmur, “like you wanted, Clara. Do you want me to stop?”
I want her to say yes. I want her to end this before I can taste her stolen pleasure. Because once I do, it will never be enough.
“No.” It slips out like a surprise.
I don’t pause to process this. I just ram into her as hard and forcefully as I can.
She doesn’t mean it. She can’t.
“You like it, but you think you don’t,” I grit out between thrusts. “I expect you to come, Clara.”
“I can’t,” she moans, her body tight beneath me. She’s holding on to it: the last vestiges of her control.
“Accept the pain,” I order. “Let go.” Or I’ll make you.
I release her neck, move to her breast, and suck her nipple into my mouth. She loosens a little, aroused, so I nip the sensitive flesh. She yelps, but I don’t relent. I continue to knead her breast, biting and sucking—tormenting her until she’s forced to release herself from the cage she clings to.
She arches into me, crying and shaking, her face drawn with rapt bliss. And she is mine completely. I fill her. I taste her. I claim her. Until I become her entire world.
She implodes, pleasure and pain mixing into a beautiful, strangled cry.
Then she collapses beneath me, her hands covering her face, overwhelmed. I recognize this feeling. I know it well.
Shame.
We’re not taught to accept our demons. What happens when we stop fighting them? What happens when we welcome them?
Are we ever the same?
I slow, still buried inside her, and slide my arms under her to pull her close to me. I can’t always give my darkness control. Not anymore. More than that:
I don’t want to. I roll to the side, cradling her against me, and rock in and out.
Gently, I brush her hands to the side and bring my mouth to hers. I kiss her softly. I call to her. It’s hard to find the way out of the darkness at first. I know that. These shadows can consume you, make you feel lost. Since I’ve met her, she’s been the light guiding me from that depth. I can be her way home now.
“Clara?”
She peeks at me from wet lashes, and when our eyes meet, the final tension melts from her. Her palms flatten on my chest, and I see her count her breaths, see her count mine, see her find peace again.
I roll into her, still hard, my own pleasure locked inside me.
“Your pleasure is mine,” I say softly. “I will push your body until it nearly breaks, but I will never hurt you.”
“And can I break you?” She reaches to brush a hand along my cheek, her touch asking another question entirely.
If only it were that simple. “I’m already broken.”
“Then maybe I can fix you,” she whispers.
Her hands slip down, finding the hem of my undershirt, and I force myself to let her. I look into her eyes and remind myself I trust her. Her hand moves to my abs, my cock pulses inside her, unaccustomed to the touch.
A cry breaks the silence, and I realize it’s my own broken moan. She pauses her movement, pressing her hand completely flat against my stomach. After a second, she slowly begins to move it up.
“Don’t,” I say sharply.
Her eyes close, and she stops.
For a moment.
But when she opens them again, she says the words I never knew I needed to hear, “I claim this body. You are mine, Alexander. All of you.”
And she does. Her hand strays to my scars—the mistakes marring my body, the proof of my selfishness. Her fingertips brush over them, not knowing how to decipher what she feels. Instead, she continues to press forward. Her hips circle, reminding me of all the ways we’re connected.
I lower my face to her breast, allowing my body to trap her hand under my shirt. My hands move to clutch her ass, and she grinds into me, taking and claiming until I empty inside her. I let go, releasing the last parts of me I’ve held back, filling her with me and salting her breasts with tears.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wake to find her gone. It takes a moment to process where I am, and then the events of last evening rush back to me. The disastrous party and my sodding father. Pepper fucking Lockwood getting her hooks in Clara. The blind panic when I realized Clara had left the party without a word. The memories after that are painted in vivid strokes of red and black. Clara against a brick wall, the taste of her on my tongue. My cock shoved inside her, showing her exactly where she belonged. Fire and screaming—and then her, drawing me back to the light. Her hands drifting over my scars. Lies and promises and boundaries crossed.
My hand skims across the thin fabric of my undershirt, wondering what she thought when she discovered the monster I hide beneath these clothes. She glimpsed him last night. I can never show her all of him.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I mutter to myself, rolling to the side and catching a lingering hint of her perfume on the sheets. My heart thumps hard against my rib cage, and suddenly, I need to find her. Drag her back to bed. Possess her. Show her the part of me she can…love.
Bollocks. That part doesn’t exist.
And even if it did, it’s not enough to make up for my father and his rotten courtiers. She deserves more than this life—and far more than me.
I slide out of bed, searching the floor to find my trousers. I yank them on, not bothering with anything else, and go to find her.
As soon as I open her bedroom door, I hear voices.
“Should I make a plate for Alexander?”
The question is accompanied by the smell of eggs and bacon, producing a rumble of hunger from my stomach. Apparently, last night’s caught up with me.
There’s no response, but Belle must be speaking to Clara.
Flatware clanks against the counter, followed by a harsh, male baritone. “Alexander is here?”
What the fuck? I’m two steps down the hall, fists clenched when I remember that Belle is engaged. I search my memory, trying to recall to whom.
“Who on earth did you think was making that noise last night?” Belle asks.
A smirk dances over my lips. She knows exactly who it was.
“A neighbor,” her fiancé grumbles, and I can’t help feeling certain whoever he is, he’s a little man. One likely not capable of producing the noise Belle spoke of.
“What does Alexander like?” Belle asks, and I know she must be talking to Clara.
Why doesn’t she respond? Is she tired? Sad? Did I frighten her? Is she hoping I’ll leave without staying for toast and a chat? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But I’m hungry and determined to prove I can be a boyfriend, even if I keep cocking it up.
“Tea. No milk,” I announce, coming into the small kitchen. Clara startles, her hand flying to tug together her cream-colored dressing gown. I want to remind her that she’s got nothing I haven’t seen, but I think she might spontaneously combust if I remind her, judging from her deep, ruddy blush. She looks like every dirty dream I’ve ever had, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in waves, her mascara smeared just enough to make her eyes look smoky and mysterious. I have to force my attention back to the topic of food. “As for breakfast, everything. I’m starving. I worked up an appetite last night.”
My eyes meet Clara’s, and I grin so she doesn’t miss the double meaning. First, food. Then, sex. Things will be clearer after that. She flushes more deeply, dropping her eyes for a moment, but I saw her thoughts wandering to the same place.
She looks over at Belle, frowning to discover her friend staring absently at me.
“I’ll get it,” she says, grabbing a plate to fill it for me.
There’s something deliciously domestic about seeing her there, barefoot in the kitchen, bringing me food. It stirs something primal in me that wants to lift her onto the counter and fill her with my seed. I turn away before I can let that idea take root and spot Belle’s fiancé. Suddenly, I recall why I didn’t remember who it was because Sir Philip Abernathy is about as memorable as a piece of toast. There’s not a lot of options in the small flat for seating, so I take a barstool next to him.
He doesn’t bother to acknowledge me. I don’t bother to acknowledge him.
Clara places the plate before me, and I murmur my thanks before devouring it.
The women hang back, eying us, before Belle turns on Clara. “What do you want, Clara?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Clara waves off the offer, and I feel surprisingly wounded. She must be hungry after last night. If she’s not, I might be forced to throw her over my shoulder and drag her back to bed until she is.
“Absolutely not,” Belle says with a firmness that distracts me from doing so. “What do you want?”
“Some eggs and toast, I guess.”
She guesses. I shovel my own food more quickly, determined to make her have an appetite. But there’s something odd at play. I find myself stealing glances, catching them doing the same. There’s a lot being left unsaid, it seems, and I’m the one on the outside.
What’s new.
The two share a look, and Belle quickly makes small talk. “What are your plans today?”
“Not sure,” Clara hedges.
Belle brightens. “Let’s go shopping.”
Clara looks to me like she’s seeking permission. Am I that controlling of her already? God knows, she could use the time to breathe. I’m smothering her, and my family is judging her. She should go with her friend and get away from all of us. If she has any sense, she’ll stay away. “I have a family thing, and I’m certain my father will require a few hours of explanation as to why I left last night.”
She mouths an apology, but I shake my head. I really am a monster if she’s apologizing to me for my family’s behavior.
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“Then let’s go!” Belle claps her hands, looking giddy at the prospect of time together—and I feel a sting of jealousy. I wish anything in my life were that easy, particularly where Clara is concerned. “There’s a new boutique in Notting Hill.”
“Notting Hill on a Saturday will be a madhouse,” Philip finally speaks up, and naturally, it’s to sour their plans. He’s really an incredible wanker.
“I need to shower, and then we can go,” Clara says before turning to me. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“I would love to, but duty calls.” It’s an honest answer if a somber one. I’d much rather spend my day attempting to lure Clara into dark corners.
Philip snorts next to me.
My fingers close over my fork more tightly. “Is that funny?”
“I find the idea of you and duty rather amusing,” he admits.
“Philip!” Belle bursts out.
“I served in Afghanistan and Iraq for seven years,” I growl. The time for courtly pleasantries is over. Sir Philip needs to remember his rung on the ladder, both socially and as a man. “I know more about duty than the average Englishman can fathom.”
“And what of honor?” he presses. “Did you manage to find some over there? Or is it too late for that?”
I won’t lower myself to answer stupid questions from a fragile man. He doesn’t know me. He’s chosen to believe the gossip and rumors, and I fear a moment longer with him will result in me wringing the bloody life from his neck. He deserves worse. I march to the bedroom and throw on the rest of my clothes, sending a message to Norris to pick me up. What on earth is Belle doing with a man like that? I can’t help wondering if my initial impressions of her are wrong. She doesn’t seem like a social-climbing bitch. I’d found her rather kind, a poor match for him.
He doesn’t know anything about duty—about watching good men go to fight and come home in boxes. Friends. He’s never given up his life for the family’s reputation or taken the fall for a terrible secret. I can only assume, giving his inexplicable self-confidence, that he also didn’t grow up being measured and found wanting at every opportunity.