“Where? How deep?”
Inside me. I want him inside me. Deep, so deep I can’t think. And in my head, clearing it of any indecision or hesitation.
“In here?” he asks, his fingers scissoring again, then shoving further to push me up the wall. “Ask me.” I grab at his hand on my clit, wrenching it up my body towards my head, barely able to say the words, just wanting to show him. It’s all the noise I want gone. He can do that. He makes it all quiet in there when he tries. It doesn’t matter the effect on my skin, or his desire to decimate the flesh he analyses. It matters that he quietens my thoughts as he does it. That alone makes me feel safe in his arms, regardless of the fact that I might not be.
“Here,” I murmur, guiding his hand across my forehead and letting myself rest into it. It’s cool, and the scent of myself on his fingers makes me somehow feel coupled to his hand in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible. “I want you in here.” His weight relaxes a little, the sound of his breaths shortening as if he’s uncomfortable with the words. “I want all the truths you have to give me, Blaine. All the stains, all the pain. It makes the noise go away. You make it go away.”
I feel myself grinding my skin into his hand, suddenly completely focused on it rather than the other one that’s still actually inside of me. It seems like a moment of clarity in the midst of unadulterated hedonism, my mind offering a solution to the conundrum that is sadism. Or masochism. Or whatever it is that we have become, are becoming. This hand here, this one holding me off the wall, providing a barrier between me and the harsh extremity of the tile’s surface, is like a wrap of care around my skin. It protects me, keeping me close to him as long as I nuzzle into it and find a balance in all this.
“Have you done this before? Protected someone? Loved them?” I whisper, filled with a fear I didn’t know I had, because if he says he won’t or he hasn’t, or he can’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. This here is my silence; it’s the thing I need to find myself again and remember why I started writing in the first place.
His weight just keeps retreating from me, his fingers pulling back at the same time, leaving me empty until the only thing left holding him to me is my head continuing to press into his hand.
It’s an announcement of intent on his part, or fear of the untested—I’m not sure, but it’s a movement that distances us immeasurably, making me yearn to close the gap again.
“You said you loved me,” I say, still rubbing into his skin, my whole body leaning into it and waiting for him to man up, or bow out more successfully than he currently is doing. I’m here, naked, striped and bruised because of him, and yet on the brink of feeling so fulfilled its unquantifiable. I can see it coming for me. The silence rumbles inside my mind as I smile into his hand, wanting him to lower it to my mouth, smother me maybe. Why do I want that? I don’t know. I do, though. I want him wrapped around me again, consuming my thoughts with his, showing me another way. “Are you as scared as I am, Blaine?” I chuckle at the thought as I ease back a little, instantly feeling bereft without the contact so forging back to the comfort of it. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel that.” He must. He showed it to me first. Not the fucking, the fucking is only a part of it. This here is under the water, the space I found, the air he gave me without there being any to breathe. “There’s more here than your needs, Blaine. More than what happened last night. Show it to me.”
The silence continues for a while, giving me nothing but the continued contact with his hand and the sound of the shower rattling water around the bathtub. It stretches forever until his hand slides around my waist again, slowly. The contact makes me smile, imagining a gentler man, one in love, one who might, if we’re lucky, find a way through whatever this all is to show me the man he really is.
“You’re asking a lot of me,” he says, his hand tugging my forehead back to him to lean on his chest and then slowly lowering until it too is wrapped around my waist.
“I’m hoping for something other than the norm for you.”
He gently manoeuvres me until I’m looking back at him then moves until he’s sitting on the edge of the bath, removing all contact as he does.
“You already have that.” He stares at me for a few moments, a sigh coming from him as he thinks about something. “We should start at the beginning. I didn’t realise you were already there.” He frowns to himself, chuckling at something and then reaching for my face. “For me, not for you. You deserve that from me. You’re right. Immersion without reward will confuse you.”
“What? Last night was…” I’m not sure what it was, but I’m not backing away from it. It was the beginning, wasn’t it? The start.
“Sit on the floor.”
“Why?”
“That’s why,” he says, a slight smile on his face as he glances over my body. “You don’t trust me.”
“I do.” Sort of. I wouldn’t have done all that last night if I didn’t.
“No, you don’t. You never have. And why should you? I’ve given you nothing.”
“But…” What is he talking about? “You said... and last night we…”
“No. Be quiet and listen for once, and without questioning.” He raises his fingers to his brow, pinching it and shaking his head. “Just sit down.”
“N… Okay.” He smiles again and then sighs as he looks directly at me.
“Look at your skin, Alana.” I do. It’s bruised, no different than it was ten minutes ago, or last night before the second round started to increase the first lot of reddened markings. “Do you see what I do?” I’m not sure what I see. Cuts and bruises mainly. None of it’s as painful as it looks, though. Not now that I’m not thinking about it again, anyway. I’m more concerned with what’s happening here than giving one damn about the aches of ten minutes ago. “I’ll tell you what I see and then you can ask for that romance you want again. You want the brutal truth—you can have it without reservation.”
“Okay.”
“I see something to be beaten. I see something to be pushed and tormented. I see someone to be fucked and used until I’ve had my fill. This isn’t a lesson in manipulation, nor a fragrant display of amusement. This is me. This is how my mind sees you, regardless of how my heart might be affected by you. I have already tested your weight, gauged your ability to run from me, and how long it will take me to catch you. The density of your muscles, your strength. I can tell how long you will be able to hang, how long you will go without food. I know which point on your body hurts the most, which section affects you most. And for all the dates you ask for, which you can have if they’ll make you feel better, you can’t think that the romance is real, not in the normal sense of the word. Sentimental attachment doesn’t interest me. I don’t feel it like others do. It means nothing to me other than a means to an end. It’s not something I do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a grown man, Blaine. You must feel something.”
“I’m a sadist, Alana. That’s all. One who may have curbed his appetite for a time, but still one who reacts on the basis of what I need. I’m also an accredited psychologist. There is nothing I can’t make you do should I choose to fuck with your mind as well.”
“But…”
“But nothing. Do you even know what you’re doing? Do you know that you have agreed to this, or could it have been me who made you feel the way you do?”
“What?” I don’t understand what he’s talking about.
“Why are you here?”
“You asked me to see something, told me you loved me, and then—”
“And then you found me with 3 women, my hand inside one of them having made Delaney dispose of two of them. And all that after I choked you against the wall for fun.”
“I don’t understand…”
“No, you don’t. Where are they, Alana? Alive? Dead? Did they ask, or were they forced?” What the hell is he talking about? I start standing up, ready to argue his points. Of course they’re alive. He’s not a murderer.
“SIT D
OWN.” Fuck, his tone sends me straight back down to the floor again, my arse hitting it immediately and causing pain to ricochet through my spine. “This isn’t a fucking love story. I told you. I am unworthy of that.”
“But you told me you loved me, that I could have anything, that I just had to ask and…”
“And you can, but it means nothing to me. Be aware of that. If you come with me, you come at your own risk.”
“Why would you say all this? You’re lying. You must be. You felt it in the water, and again in Priest’s church. You know you did. You’re the one who pushed this, not me. I was just writing a story. I was ready to leave you and—”
“I pushed being more than research for selfish purposes.”
“Are you saying this is all just a lie? That you don’t love me?” I feel the tears well inside me, chastising me for what we did last night. Whatever I took for him, I took for love. I stare up at him, hopeless sensations suddenly wracking through my nerves and warning me of impending storms. It makes me look away, feeling stupid, childlike in my search for happiness.
“It depends on your definition of a lie. What I feel is the truth, but it’s not your truth, Alana. It never will be. I want the skin your body offers, nothing more. I love that.”
I stare at the floor, dumbfounded and feeling as alone as I’ve ever felt as the tears start, regardless of his proximity. I haven’t got anything to go back at that with, and I don’t know why I should even bother if that’s his true intention in all of this. I glance over my own skin again, following the long scratch that travels up my arm and wondering what idiot would let that be done to her if she didn’t believe there was a reason for it. His words just can’t be true. They can’t. There’s so much more in that brain of his than just a sadist. I know there is. There has to be for me to feel the way I do about him. There’s a tenderness in his touch, a warmth. He holds me as if I’m the only person on the planet worth holding. That’s love for me, not simply the skin covering me.
“You’re confusing this. Confusing yourself,” I mumble, unsure of my own ramblings. “This must be more than sex, Blaine. You said you loved me. Me, not just my body.” Although why I’m still trying to find a reason for any of this as I continue looking at my wounds, I don’t know. He seems as unaffected by his own thoughts as a madman would mass murder as I look back up into his face. He doesn’t answer me, but he nods a little, his eyes completely focused on me as he slowly stands up. “Then, why all this? Love means commitment, trust, the possibility of more?” Still, there’s no sound from him, just his continued gaze at my body, perhaps hiding whatever he actually wants to say. “A life together?” Oh god I hope so. He made all this happen, didn’t he? Made me see who he is and how I feel about him. I wanted professional. I tried so hard to maintain it. “You forced me to admit this, Blaine, to try it. You asked me to watch you. This was all you. I didn’t want it, tried to stay away from it, and…” I can feel tears staining my cheeks as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. What I’m talking about, even. He’s just confusing it all. I did all this for him. I don’t understand what’s gone wrong or what’s changed. And either way, I don’t stop the tears as they keep coming, a sob consuming my throat at the thought of more of them. “I don’t get why you would… Why would you say all this?” Still he stands like a statue, not one ounce of interest or empathy on his face at the distress he’s causing. I’m unravelling faster than I ever have, and he doesn’t even seem to care as I look away from him in search of comfort. “I don’t understand. Why would anyone...”
“Because I can. You’re mine to play with.” What? I look back at him, sniffing in my tears and frowning at the thought. He sneers at me, tilting his head as I try to wipe my face. “I told you, Alana. I’m an asshole,” he says, his sneer turning to a smirk as he shakes his head in amusement at my suffering. “One who seems to find your junkie cunt interesting enough to come in. It’s your choice to accept that or not. I won’t lie to you. I won’t lie again.”
What started as tears becomes a gut wrenching flow as I replay his exact words in my mind and stare at him in shock. My junkie cunt. I have nothing to respond to that with as I swipe my face again, hoping to show him I’m in some semblance of control. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing. Ten minutes ago we were lying in a bed, relaxing after a night of, oh god I don’t even know what it was, and now I’m nothing but a junkie cunt to come in? It makes me look away from him, my eyes scanning the floor tiles for an answer they can’t give as my hands try to cover my body. I don’t understand what’s happening. We were just there, together. I accepted what he showed me, stayed with him. Took the brunt of his hands, and…
“Whether you want to like it or not, Alana, this is the love I have to offer you. It’s all that I am. Full disclosure.”
My eyebrows rise as I sniff in some of my tears again, perhaps still searching for a retaliation to his facts, but what’s the point? I asked for the truth. All of it. This is apparently it. It’s all he is.
The eventual realisation makes me move away from him slowly, my hope disintegrating as I lift my aching frame from the floor. The cuts barely affect me as I stagger, dazed by his confession and wondering what the hell I’ve been thinking. He doesn’t feel the same. It’s all a lie, or the truth, neither of which is any good for my happiness. I shouldn’t be here. I should learn by this mistake and move on. As Bree said, learn what I need to from it and write then let it go as an adventure into the unknown. Let him go.
“I can make it quiet for you, though, Alana, if we start at the beginning.”
The afterthought halts me as I look at the bottom of the bed, staring blankly at the dried blood there and considering who the fuck he thinks he is. Why the hell I’m even viewing what he’s just added onto the conversation as relevant in any way, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because it’s true. He can; I know that, but what does it come with now? Just fucking and pain again? No sense of anything more? I sniff in the last of my tears and snarl at them, then wipe them away for fear of more falling.
“Do you want to make it quiet for me?” I mumble out, my eyes flicking to my discarded clothes as I try to decide whether to just get in them and leave, or carry on discussing this horrendous plan instead. I don’t even think these tears are really to do with him. They’re to do with me and the thought that I have to go back to real life, cope with it. I’ll need the pills again to manage it all. And the noise will start again, won’t it? It’ll all be the same endless goal with no finish in sight.
“If you want me to.” If I want him to? I snort sarcastically. It doesn’t seem to me what I want comes into it anymore.
“Why would you bother?” I mutter, defeated and exhausted with the entire topic. What’s the fucking point anymore? There isn’t one, not one worthy of love anyway. His hand grabs my wrist harshly, spinning and pulling me over to a full length mirror on the wall to stand me in front of it, little care to my feet tripping the entire way.
“Look at yourself,” he says, his voice back to the snap I’m used to. I struggle with the thought, hardly able to lift my eyes given what I know I’ll see. He just grabs my chin, lifting it until I have no choice but to gaze at my body. “You’re beautiful. More than you believe. Your mind is stunning, and full of ideas you’ve supressed.” It doesn’t feel stunning; nothing does anymore. It feels drained and shattered, used and abused. Nothing but a lie, a pretence, just like the man stood behind me. I wish I believed that last part, wish I could stop seeing the version of him I know is buried somewhere, but I don’t. And I know it because as his lips connect with my shoulder, smouldering eyes not once looking away from mine, I feel myself falling back into silence again. I’m just listening, letting his voice wash around my insides, strengthening them again, galvanising, regardless of the words before. “I can help you, show you the way, but you have to trust me.” I don’t trust him anymore, not with those words he delivered. Why would I? “You have to trust me and forget your concept of love.” He brushe
s my hair back, twirling the end in his fingers. “You could be so much more than you are now.” I frown at my own image, scarcely noticing the reddened imprints or the state of my appearance, mascara blackening my eyes. “This is just a shell of who you’ve chosen to become. Let me find out who’s in there.” I’m confused by what he means as I stare at my hair, the purple stripes as lank as the blond they weave through. And his voice is so fucking soft again. It bleeds from his lips like satin as his mouth begins to wander across my back towards my other shoulder. “Who are you, little dove?” I don’t know. He picks up one of my hands, showing me my own fingers reflecting back at me, the stain of ink still prominent on them. “Where’s this version of you gone?” I don’t know that either. It makes me flex them in his hold, watching our fingers together, yearning for more than he offers. “You just have to let me have you, Alana. Just bow down and give in.” I thought I was doing. I thought I’d made that clear last night when I let him use me. “No preconceived notions of something other than what this is.” My breathing quickens as he lets go of me and then grabs my hip instead, pushing it downward slightly. “Just surrender to the help you need.” My knees begin buckling under his pressure, the weight of them seeming too heavy to keep me aloft any longer. “Submission.” Yes, I suppose that’s what this all means, isn’t it? “It’s easier than you think,” he whispers, his other hand rising to hold the back of my neck. “Just give in to it.” I do, my knees finally giving up the small amount of resistance they were trying for. They give way as easily as a feather snapping in two, his hand no longer pushing me down rather just resting on my shoulder. “Widen your knees and look at yourself again.” I do that too, slowly, trying not to question anything other than how the vision of myself makes me feel. I’m spread open as I nudge my thighs further apart, my crotch on display and the sight of my blemished skin reflecting back at me. “See, beautiful.” I’m not sure about that. It makes me lift my hand, trying to make my hair look better than it does as I watch my trembling, blackened fingers move. “Leave it alone. Take a good look at the state you’re in.” My frown comes racing back as his words penetrate the very core of me. The state I’m in. A junkie cunt. Lost is what state I’m in. I don’t even know what I’m doing down here beneath his feet. I’m alone; that’s what I am. My mind is blank of anything other than the sight of myself. My pale skin glows the colours he’s delivered back at me, a small smattering of dried blood dotted along my left arm. I gaze at it, wondering what it all means. And then the tears start again, welling and racing through me as if I have no control over them. They stream through my system, making my eyes long for them before they even get there enough to fall. And then when they do, they seem to erupt with no help from me as I watch them come. They fall for so long, as if they’re from another time and nothing to do with here and now. I don’t understand them, but I can’t stop them, don’t want to. They spill across my skin as a river would, travelling down my cheeks and falling onto my breasts.
The End (Stained Duet Book 2) Page 3