by Kate Stewart
I am in the gym. Piss drunk with bloody knuckles when Magda finds me. I meet her panicked gaze in the mirror, and my heart beats too hard in my chest.
“What is it?” I demand.
My body is moving from the room before she can even explain. I find the cause for her concern when I walk into the sitting room and see the sofa cushions piled onto the floor.
My gaze moves up to where Magda points. Where on the ledge of a beam across the roof, Talia sits. Her back is facing us, her long blonde hair a halo around her white pajamas. Her legs dangle freely as her white knuckles grip the beam and keep her steady.
“She is singing a song,” Magda informs me. “I cannot get her to answer me.”
My body is stiff as I move forward. Toward the front of her body where I know I will find lifeless eyes if they meet my gaze. Because I put them there.
“Talia.”
The word is a command. One hidden behind the veil of fear I feel inside.
Her eyes flutter open, dead and empty, to collide with mine.
“You can’t catch me,” she says.
“I can,” I tell her.
“But you wouldn’t.”
“I always will,” I insist, my throat working to get the words out. “Come down from there.”
She takes one hand from the beam and uses her fingers to trace my face in the air. My heart is beating too hard. Too fast. I know she’s going to do it this time. Before she was unsure. Now, there is no doubt in her mind.
I’ve seen that expression before. That peace on her face is hauntingly familiar. And for a moment, I am no longer thirty-five, but ten. And powerless.
My mind knows every dimension of this house. The height from the floor to that beam. But right now, the calculations are failing me. The pillows Magda has carefully placed below will not be of any help. Not from that distance.
“I was the wrong choice,” Talia says. “You picked wrong.”
There’s a moment where she meets my gaze again, and I try to find the words I desperately need. The words I have sought all my life. The ones that could save us both. They do not come. They have never come.
“You can’t destroy what’s already broken,” she says.
And then she lets go.
I step forward.
In front of me, Magda screams.
She is falling too fast. But she is light. When I catch her in my arms, we both hit the floor, and her head bounces against my chest. There’s a momentary pause of silence before she blinks open her eyes and stares at me in confusion. My relief is swiftly chased away by rage.
Magda is already hovering over us, attempting to coddle her. But I am done coddling the girl. I speak to her in Russian, telling her to retrieve my bag from the closet.
She does so reluctantly, and I heave the girl into my arms. She yelps when I grab her by the hair and yank her head back, forcing her gaze to mine.
“We are done with these games.”
Her throat bobs and tears threaten at the edges of her eyes. But she holds them in, like the brave girl she is hiding beneath the illusion. The one who has no choice but to go on because I will not allow any other option.
I carry her up the stairs and throw her onto the bed, her slight body bouncing against the mattress when I do. When Magda comes in, her expression worried, I instruct her to leave the bag and go. She hesitates, and it only fuels my anger.
“Go!” I roar again.
They both flinch, and Magda gives Talia one last glance before leaving. I dig around in my bag and find the rope. I use it to tie Talia’s wrists to the bed posts and her ankles to the base. When I finish, I step back to examine her. Spread open for me, her eyes wide and her chest panting.
My cock is painfully hard.
I want to bury myself in her now. To fuck her and fill her with my come. To impregnate her with my child. To prove to her that she is never leaving me. That the contract she signed with me is signed in blood. To remind her whose name and star she has carved into her flesh.
Instead, I settle for hovering over her body, my hand gripping her face when I speak. She smells of my drink, and it makes me want to fuck her until she can’t walk.
“You are my wife.” My fingers dig into her jaw. “I own you. And you will never disobey me again.”
Her eyes move over my face, and no argument spills from her lips. So I take it a step further by kissing her. Hard and punishing, my body pressing hers into the bed. My cock insistent that I sink inside of her.
“You’ve been into my cognac,” I tell her. “Do you like the taste of me on your lips as you fall to your death, my sweet?”
I grind against her, and she does not retreat. She is breathing heavy. Her chest rising and falling. Her nipples are stiff beneath the fabric of her soft white chemise. No bra. The swells of her breasts heave with the force of her breaths.
“My little Juliet.” I nuzzle into her skin and suck on her flesh. “You will taste of me for all of eternity. Because you don’t get to leave me.”
“You will grow tired of me,” she replies.
“I will not ever love you,” I tell her as my lips move down the snowy skin of her throat. “But I will have you, Talia. In every way. Make no mistake that you are mine. And I will do as I please with you.”
A puff of air leaves her lips and ruffles my hair as I nudge her top down to reveal her breast. She is watching me, her eyes no longer dead. But curious. Curious about what I will do. And impatient.
I swirl my tongue around her nipple and then suck her into my mouth. She shivers against me, biting down on her lip hard. My hand cups the heat between her legs, rubbing the material of her shorts with my thumb, soaking it in wetness.
When my gaze meets hers, there is shame there. But want too. And this is how I know she is not lost. That perhaps the thing she needs is not love but want. My thumb rubs circles around her shorts, using the material for friction as I free her other breast and suck the soft skin into my mouth. She bucks her hips. And cries out.
“It won’t work,” she tells me.
My fingers yank the material of her shorts aside and shove inside of her bare pussy. Soaked and ready for me.
“It works just fine.”
I finger fuck her and eat at her breasts.
“I can’t.” She keeps telling me. Even as her body contracts and expands around me.
“You will.”
But she isn’t letting go. And I know what she needs from me. I also know that I want to give it to her. I reach down and fumble around in my bag until I find what I need. The flick of the switchblade causes her eyes to shoot open. It has the immediate effect of calming her, as I knew it would. My angel thinks she wants death. But what she wants more than anything is to trust. In me.
I reach up and drag the blade down the sensitive flesh of her throat, scratching at the skin but never puncturing. Beneath the milky soft flesh, her pulse beats wildly for this. For me.
“Harder,” she pleads.
The blade travels lower, down over her breast and ribcage as my fingers continue to move inside of her.
“Do you want some pain so that you can have your pleasure?” I ask.
“Yes, please.”
Her hips are straining up against my palm, her body coming alive for me as I stroke the blade over the tender place on her stomach. And then lower. Down over her hip and against her thigh.
The anticipation is freeing her from the prison in her mind. But I know she will not give in until she has what she thinks she wants. What she thinks she needs.
“You don’t need to be ashamed, my angel,” I tell her. “I want you to let go for me. It is okay to enjoy this.”
She meets my eyes and shakes her head, biting into her lip. “I need more.”
“I know what you need,” I tell her.
There’s an argument already prepared to spill from her lips. She thinks I will deny her. But I won’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I like my fucked up wife. I like everything about her.
And I’m going to keep her.
I take the blade and retrace the path back up her body. To the pale flesh of her fingers and over her knuckles until I reach her thumb. I press the tip into the flesh, and her breathing halts. I’m fingering her harder, and she is so wet for me I know she can hold out no longer.
“Now,” she pleads.
With a flick of my wrist, I slice into her thumb. She hisses, and then her head falls back against the pillow as crimson spills from her flesh and she lets go. The orgasm is neither small nor weak when she finally comes around my fingers with her lips parted and cheeks flushed.
Immediately, she closes her eyes and tries to hide from me.
I toss aside the knife and lean over her, my lips a breath away from her face.
“Look at me.”
She does.
“You will like it,” I tell her. “You will like my eyes on you by the time I’m through with you, Solnyshko. Get used to it now.”
She does not reply. But when I take her thumb to my mouth and wipe her blood across my lips, there is relief in her eyes. She craves this from me. My acceptance. And I crave the need she has for me. The need that only I can give her.
I push the material of her shirt all the way up beneath her throat and move up to straddle her hips. My body is much larger than hers, and she looks so small beneath me. So soft and sweet and fuckable.
But breakable too.
When the sound of my zipper reaches her, she opens her eyes and meets mine. Her tongue wets her lips, and I watch them as I reach inside my briefs and fetch my aching cock. It’s in my fist, and her eyes expand as she watches me stroke it.
Once. Twice. And then three quick, hard pulls.
Neither of us says a word. She watches, her eyes flicking from my cock back up to my face again and again. My eyes are on her lips. And then my thumb is too. Pushing inside.
I close my eyes and groan at the feeling of her wet, hot mouth wrapped around me. I want all of her wrapped around me. And I tell her as much as I jerk myself off on top of her.
When I come, it’s on her stomach. Hot and thick, marking her the way I have wanted to since I brought her home with me. I take what’s left on my fingers and push them to her lips. She licks them without being asked, and it makes me want to fuck her all over again. The urge even stronger than before.
I use her shirt to wipe up the mess and then cover her over with the blanket. Ropes still tied, keeping her in place.
When I lean down to whisper in her ear, her eyes are sleepy and the fight is long gone.
“I may not ever be able to love you,” I tell her. “But I can want you. And let there be no doubt, Solnyshko, I am keeping you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Talia
Alexei keeps me tied to the bed for three days.
Magda comes to help me to the bathroom and allows me to bathe. And then I am returned to my binds. She will not meet my eyes. And I can’t tell if it’s because of her shame or disappointment.
I disappointed her. The way I always do.
But it’s better this way. I tell her as much when she is adjusting my binds this morning.
“You should never expect anything from anyone,” I say. “And then you can’t be let down.”
Her soft brown eyes meet mine, and she shakes her head.
“Talia.” Her hand strokes my cheek, and I try to pull away. “I could never be disappointed in you.”
She sits back on the bed, watching me with quiet worry. I watch her back, wondering why she is nice to me. Wondering why she cares at all. And then disbelieving that it’s true. Because nobody ever cares. Those emotions are only the cover for something else. Something sinister.
I want to lash out at her. To push her away. Because that would be the easiest thing to do.
These aren’t the words that leave my lips though.
“Who is she?”
She blinks, and then asks, “who?”
“The woman in the bathtub. In the photo.”
She glances over her shoulder quickly and then shakes her head. All of the kindness has disappeared from her face in an instant, and instead, something else has taken hold. Fierce protectiveness. Devotion and loyalty.
“You must never speak of that photo,” she says. “Or that woman. Forget you ever saw it.”
I don’t answer her. Because I won’t make promises I have no intention of keeping.
“He’s avoiding me,” I say instead.
Magda nods, but gives me no explanation.
“He’s been drinking.”
Again, she nods.
And that’s the end of the conversation. She moves to go back to her chair, but I stop her.
“I want to look at something on the computer.”
She hesitates, checking the door again. Not that it matters. Alexei has cameras in every room of the house, I believe. I’m sure he can see what I’m doing any time he wishes to. But the whole point of avoidance is not to, so I doubt he’s doing so now.
“Only for a few minutes,” she says. “And then I must return you to your binds.”
Magda frees my hands and sets up the computer for me. She has to help me get to the web browser since I’ve never used this type before. Once she’s given me a brief explanation, she gives me the privacy I desire by going back to her chair.
My fingers are shaking as I peck at the keys. My stomach is churning, and my throat tight.
M-A-C-K-E-N-Z-I-E W-I-L-D-E-R
I don’t expect much. I don’t expect anything at all. She doesn’t have facebook. But she does have an email. One I don’t have any intention of using. I just want to see her. I just want something.
We have so much history together. For as long as I can remember, Mack has been at my side. She was the first person to see past the walls I’d erected around myself. She befriended me in foster care and then took it upon herself to look out for me.
And when we got separated and she discovered what my new foster dad was doing, she came to my rescue. She left her warm bed and a comfortable home to live on the streets with me. So that we could be together. And she taught me everything I know about being tough.
We don’t have to be blood because we are sisters. No matter what anyone says. The only warmth I’ve ever felt in my heart has been for her. She’s the toughest, craziest bitch I know and I love her.
I miss her.
I miss her so much the thought of never seeing her again makes me sick. But how can I?
How can I face her like this?
When she was right about everything. She was right to believe that there are monsters in everyone. I can’t even imagine what my disappearance must have done to her. How much it would have hurt her. And it isn’t fair to go back now when I’m still in pieces. When I can’t even promise her that I want to live to see another day.
None of that would be fair to her.
So I tell myself as I scroll through the results that I am only seeking validation for those thoughts. That she is happy now. That’s all I need to know, and then it will be okay. No matter how much misery lives inside of me, as long as she is happy, it will be okay.
But what I find hurts more than I expect it to. And it’s also the thing I wanted most. For her to move on with her life. Forget I ever existed or dragged her down with the problems she couldn’t fix for me but desperately wanted to.
It’s her name, on a wedding registry. Mackenzie Wilder and Lachlan Crow.
The name is not unfamiliar. He is my old boss. The man who ran the club I worked at when Dmitri locked me in his sights. I was an easy target.
I always have been.
That’s the dangerous thing about hope and want. Believing that this one might be different. That this one might not hurt you too. Other people have happy endings. But I never will. I was never born to.
Mack is different. She deserves her happy ending. But I can’t understand it. Why him? Why Lachlan? And how?
I know the answers. Deep down, I know she went looking for m
e.
And she found him instead.
There are no photos of them. I want to see her face. But I know it’s asking too much. My fragile mind can’t handle that. I would want to see her and believe that somehow it would be okay.
That can’t happen.
She can’t ever see me like this. What I’ve become. She will still try to fix me. And I can’t be fixed.
It’s better this way.
Magda looks up at me, and I realize I’ve said the words aloud.
“It’s better,” I repeat. “I’m happy for her.”
I tell myself those same things over and over as I shut the computer. And it’s true.
So I don’t know why it feels like I’m dying inside.
Chapter Nineteen
Talia
When Alexei comes to see me again, any reminder of what happened between us is gone. His face is calm, vacant of emotion as he studies me.
“Have you learned your lesson?” he asks.
“Have you learned yours?” I reply.
He moves to stand up and leave me again, and I stop him.
“I can’t make any promises,” I tell him. “But I won’t do that particular thing again.”
He returns to sit beside me. The soft gray of his sweater stretches across his muscular frame, and my fingers itch to touch it. To touch all of him. To have him make me forget.
His fingers find my face, hard and unyielding as his eyes bore into mine.
“You won’t try anything again,” he tells me.
It isn’t a question, or a threat. Simply a command. As though he believes I will obey. I have no question about his authority. His power over me is absolute. But it still feels like maybe I have some power too. Like I remind him of his darkest wound. As if I am the very salt that burns it and brings all of that concealed pain to the surface.
He takes my silence for approval, and undoes my binds, rubbing my wrists and ankles when he finishes. His eyes are on my body. Moving over the pale expanse of my legs and the skin hidden beneath the shorts and cami.
These pajama sets are the only thing I’ve worn since my arrival. He’s seen me in them every day. He’s seen everything beneath them too. But right now, he looks like he wants to see it again. I want him to. I want to forget. I want to be reckless and feel the small thrill and warring hatred for myself that I feel when he touches me. When anyone touches me.