Damaged: The Dillon Sisters

by Layla Frost

  My hobby brought me satisfaction. It was never sexual. But it was different with Briar. Every-fucking-thing was different with her.

  You sick fuck.

  Grabbing the blade, I flipped it open and made a fresh slice—deeper than the others, but nowhere near what she thought I was going to do.

  What I’d planned to do.

  What I wouldn’t do.

  Briar bit back a muffled cry even as a fresh surge of wetness soaked my hand and her pussy tightened.

  Tossing the closed razor to the side, it clattered on the floor.

  Startled, she turned her head toward the sound. “I thought—” I circled my thumb around her clit, and she fought to speak as her eyes went hooded. “I thought you were going to…”

  Never.

  I’ll never let you go.

  “I changed my mind.” Sliding my finger free, I replaced it with the head of my cock. I forced myself to freeze, both so I didn’t come and so she had time to stop me.

  But my flower didn’t.

  Wild hair.

  Wild eyes.

  Wildly alive.

  She wiggled her hips, urging me on. Easing me in. Offering herself.

  And I fucking took.

  Slamming in, my groan mixed with her sharp moan as she squeezed me like a damn vise. I pulled almost all the way out and did it again, shifting her up the mattress.

  I kept the brutal force as I fucked her faster, needing to be deeper. To be closer. Needing to bury myself in my obsession.

  Like our kiss, she took everything I gave and returned it. She fucked herself on my length, her movements becoming jerkier and more frantic the closer she got.

  As badly as I wanted to feel her come, I was dangerously close to exploding. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold out. She needed a push. I just fucking hoped it worked on her because it sure as hell would work on me.

  Going up on my knees, I gripped her thighs and spread them wider. It was enough to tunnel my vision. The view of my cock sinking into her seared itself into my memory.

  As permanent as one of her scars.

  Positioning my thumb on her newest cut, I squeezed.

  Eyes wide, she moaned in pleasure even as she cried out in pain.

  And then she came so hard, it cut off her moans. Her perfect pussy strangled my dick until I was barely able to stop myself from coming, too.

  The second her body loosened, I pulled free and stroked my cock. Aiming, my come shot out over the cuts I’d made on her thigh. Marking them. Marking her.

  My flower.

  My obsession.

  All fucking mine.

  Collapsing, I gave her enough weight to keep her in place while I braced for whatever was about to happen.

  Screams.

  Threats.

  Panic.

  Or even her shutting down.

  I’d happily take it all and deal with it because there was no alternative. I wasn’t going to let her go.

  I’d thought I’d been prepared for anything, but I hadn’t. Because after a couple minutes, she shocked the shit out of me. Again.

  She fell asleep.

  Her soft breaths were even, her body loose and relaxed.

  I stayed where I was until I was sure she was fully asleep. Moving slow, I stood and went to the bathroom, tucking my still semi-hard cock away at a painful angle. I grabbed a damp, soapy washcloth and some antibacterial cream, and returned to wipe her down. I hesitated before pulling my cell from my pocket to take a picture of my come on her pretty cuts and scars.

  Another stupid, uncalculated risk.

  Another worth taking.

  After cleaning her, I put the cloth with her torn panties on the floor. Then I climbed back in and covered her body with half of mine, holding her close as I waited.

  I’d only been watching her for a few weeks, but I knew what was coming.

  Nightmares.

  Waking up for hours at a time.

  Tossing and turning.

  Between whatever caused the sadness in her eyes and her lack of sleep, it was no wonder she moved through life exhausted and barely alive.

  But she didn’t wake up. There were no nightmares. No choked back screams. And no frustrated kicking as she flipped around.

  Positioned under me, Briar slept deeply.

  Peacefully.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fighting

  Briar

  For tea

  LOST IN THAT hazy space between awake and sleep, I rolled and stretched. And then I felt it.

  The stinging on my thighs.

  The ache between them.

  I was catapulted into full consciousness as the night before flashed through my head like a hellish slideshow.

  A different nightmare of my own making.

  Alexander.

  I’d let him stay. I’d let him cut me. Touch me.

  Then I’d practically begged him to fuck me.

  And he had. It’d been incredible and hot and sick and insane and… the most amazing thing I’d ever experienced.

  I jumped out of bed, and my trembling legs nearly gave out as I ran for the bathroom. My knees slammed to the hard tile in front of the toilet, but I barely registered the radiating pain as I threw up everything I had in my stomach. Since I’d barely eaten, there wasn’t much more than acrid stomach acid that burned as it was forced up, but I couldn’t stop heaving.

  I’d been so stupid. So selfish. If he would’ve actually killed me, Aria would’ve found my body. How was her seeing my accidental death better than her finding me with a stomach full of pills or with my head in the oven? It would be just as traumatizing for her.

  But it would’ve been easy for me, and that was all I’d cared about. That I wouldn’t be the one to have to do it. I’d greedily wanted the guiltfree escape Alexander had offered.

  Alexander.

  An angel of mercy.

  In the cancer ward, there’d been whispers about a doctor who would help end terminal patients’ suffering. Then there’d been rumors about a couple of the counselors and aides at the last spa I’d involuntarily visited who would leave contraband in guests’ rooms—although they did it in exchange for cash and not out of mercy.

  None of them had offered to help me. Alexander was the only one, and he hadn’t even followed through with it. He’d given me pain and pleasure until I couldn’t tell one from the other, and then he’d left.

  Because you don’t deserve mercy or compassion or peace. You only deserve pain.

  My retching stomach reminded me that, for all I knew, he had killed me. But instead of a peaceful death, I’d slowly die with some STD he’d given me. If I wanted a disease to make me rot away from the inside out, I wouldn’t have tortured myself with chemo hell. I would’ve just let the cancer kill me.

  I should call the cops or Aria. Or the cops and Aria.

  I didn’t do either. What was I going to say?

  Yes, officer, he offered to kill me because he knows how badly I want to die and then he fucked me because I humped him like a cat in heat.

  And, oh yeah, Aria, I’m even more fucked up than you know. Sure, prepare the padded room—I’m on my way.

  Even if I was willing to say all that—which I was not—there was nothing to report him for. He hadn’t forced me or manipulated me or threatened me. He’d offered me the help I needed because I was too cowardly to do the job myself. And then once my needs had changed, he’d helped with that, too. I hadn’t fucked him because I was scared for my life and thought I had to.

  I’d done it because I’d wanted to.

  Sure, there’d been a current of fear and control with the knife play, but that’d made it better.

  Because I was so fucking messed up and stupid.

  Like she’d always said.

  Shame and guilt spiraled through me, mixing with the anxiety and panic that’d been festering all week until that was all I felt. Just toxicity weaving around my brain, taking over everything until I couldn’t think. I coul
dn’t breathe. All my bullshit coping mechanisms and grounding techniques were gone.

  And all that was left was hopelessness.

  Hopelessness and despair.

  I didn’t cry. I rarely did, but in that moment when I could’ve used the cathartic release, I was shut down. Cold. No, subzero—physically and emotionally. My fingers were mottled and frozen as the undercurrent of panic made me sweat.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I hurried into my bedroom before dropping to search under the bed and side table.

  Nothing.

  I could’ve sworn I heard it fall…

  Coming up empty, I went to search the living room. My heart raced, my limbs tingled, and my harsh breathing was ineffective, as though my lungs weren’t taking in any oxygen.

  My blades were still spread on the coffee table where he’d left them, but there was no sign of the straight razor. The one I’d told him to use.

  The one I’d always planned to kill myself with.

  It was another thing gone wrong. Another thing that made me so tense, my muscles painfully squeezed my bones and my stomach clenched until it cramped.

  Another thing out of my control.

  I failed at everything. I couldn’t kill myself right. Hell, I couldn’t even get killed the right way.

  And I couldn’t deal with my failure any longer.

  Snatching one of the small, loose blades from the table, I wanted it to be over.

  But before I could drag it along my flesh to drain the contempt that pumped through my veins, arms wrapped around me. Startled and frantic, I jerked and thrashed, trying to attack them. Or maybe myself. I wasn’t sure. Either way, it was a futile attempt because they kept one arm tight around my waist, taking me off my feet. A large hand encircled my wrist, keeping it away from us.

  Holding the blade away from my burning, itching skin.

  “Drop it,” the rough voice ordered.

  The same voice that had offered me an escape but instead gave me heaven before leaving me in hell.

  “Let me go!” I screamed, though it came out raspy and distant to my own ears.

  He pressed his thumb painfully between the tendons of my wrist until my fingers reflexively loosened and the blade dropped.

  “You bastard! Get out! Get—” The rest of my words came out muffled as he released my wrist to cover my mouth.

  “Hush, flower.”

  You son of a bitch!

  It came out as, “Fuu fun ofa fiff!”

  Screaming wasn’t effective, so I switched to clawing at him as I attempted to literally bite the hand that had fed me pain and pleasure. But I wasn’t trying to get away from him. I wasn’t afraid of him. All I wanted was my blades.

  I’m fighting harder to die than I did to survive.

  The realization sent another burst of disgrace through me. Flushed and drained and sick of myself, I swallowed the stomach acid that burned my throat. But even my mortification didn’t stop me from putting my everything into getting free.

  My self-loathing made me more determined to get to the blades and the punishment I deserved.

  His arm around my waist loosened, and I thought I had my opening. Before I could twist away, he quickly transferred his grip lower. Still keeping my mouth covered, his large hand encircled my thigh. He squeezed my tender, wounded flesh, making the sting from the cuts grow into a sharp ache.

  My body stayed tense and poised to attack, but I stopped trying to rip the skin off his arms.

  For then, at least.

  In contrast with his tight hold, his thumb tenderly stroked my thigh.

  My bare thigh.

  For the first time all morning, clarity began to overtake my frantic panic. The narrow tunnel in my mind opened, allowing me to breathe and see and think.

  Allowing me to become suddenly, excruciatingly aware I was still naked.

  And that there was a hard-on pressed against my back.

  He’s getting off on this?

  On torturing me?

  What a sick, twisted bastard.

  I had no room to talk. Because even as I worked to suppress it…

  Ignore it…

  Deny it…

  My own sick, twisted, and wrong wetness coated my thighs.

  He could feel it, too.

  Running his thumb through the slickness, his cock jerked against my back. He tightened his hold on my thigh until I let out a gasp of pain.

  A sigh of pleasure?

  I wasn’t sure.

  But I knew for a fact his matching low groan was all pleasure.

  What the fuck is wrong with him?

  And what the ever-loving-fuck is wrong with me?

  His harsh touch may have offered a short break from the manic anxiety, but the more my body reacted, the more shame crashed over me. I wished it was a wave, dragging me under until I drowned.

  “Settle, flower,” Alexander whispered, his fingertips stroking along my scars. “I’m going to move my hand, but if you start screaming, I’ll cover it again. Or gag you.” He paused. “On second thought, go ahead and scream.”

  As soon as his hand shifted from my mouth, I verbally attacked him since his strong hold meant I couldn’t physically do it. “You bastard! I don’t know what the fuck kind of game you’re playing, but I don’t want any part of it. Get the hell out of here and stay the hell away from me, you freak!”

  In the face of my insults, he chuckled, his hand curling around my throat. “You don’t want any part of this?”

  “You mean more bad sex with a small-dicked asshole?” That was probably the biggest lie I’d ever told. His dick—that was still hard against my back—was long and thick and massive. I didn’t even know dicks like that existed outside of porn and male lies. And not only was it impressively sized, he knew how to use it, which had led to sex that was amazing. And crazy. And crazy amazing. But I refused to acknowledge that to myself, much less him. “No, it’s sick. You’re sick.”

  “Then why’re you grinding your perky little ass against me and trying to shift my hand closer to your perfect pussy?”

  I froze as I realized that was exactly what I’d been trying to do. My disgust grew until it was all I felt.

  Pure, unadulterated hatred aimed at the person who deserved it most.

  Me.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” I snapped, but the anger in my tone was drowned out by the pleading. The yearning.

  I just wasn’t sure what I was yearning for. Because the anxiety elephant, depression beast, and specter of Death that were my constant companions swore it was death I wanted so badly. That it was what I deserved for being so awful.

  But my body and the tiny, unfamiliar voice of Life in my head said it was his touch I craved.

  I was tied up, embroiled in a battle with myself, and it only pissed me off more.

  “Told you, I changed my mind,” he said simply, like he’d switched to chicken rather than steak for dinner.

  “Then do it now, you fucking coward.”

  Pot meet kettle.

  “No.”

  “Then I don’t need anything from you, so get the fuck out! Leave me alone so I can do what you don’t have the fucking balls to do.” A lump lodged in my throat, threatening to choke me. I wished it would. “Get out, get out, get—”

  My screams were cut off when his hand covered my mouth again. “Poor flower,” he whispered, but it wasn’t with pity. Heat filled his tone, burning so hot, it was like he was the fire breathing dragon, not the knight there to rescue me. “Your head’s going in so many circles, it’s got you in knots.”

  I wanted to nod because that was exactly how I felt. Like I was twisted and knotted and I’d never be untangled again.

  “Let me help you.” His lips dragged against the shell of my ear.

  I thought he was going to make me talk it out. It was what everyone else did. But every time I talked, the loops and tangles spread. Tightened. I was always left feeling worse than when I’d started because nothing ever came
undone.

  He didn’t uncover my mouth, but he released my leg, moving his hand before bringing it back. Something sharp pressed against the front of my thigh a second before the sting spread, as if the burning that rioted under my skin was being cooled.

  He cut me.

  I couldn’t see how badly, but I knew it wasn’t enough to kill me—though I’d been trying to goad him into it. It wasn’t even enough to do any harm. It was just enough to give me what I needed—a distraction and a release.

  With each passing second, the calm spread, like warmth winding through me to snuff out the toxicity. But it wasn’t warmth from a tender touch or a kind word.

  My peace came from pain.

  “Again?” he asked.

  I nodded frantically.

  He sliced again before moving his hand away. When it returned, it went between my legs. His strong finger circled my clit, faster and faster until I was dizzy with need. It slammed into me, taking me onto my tiptoes as his palm pressed to my clit. He dropped his hand from my mouth to clutch my thigh, increasing the sting and the bliss.

  “Give it to me, Briar,” he growled, going faster. “Give me what I need.”

  Usually, someone needing anything from me was enough to set me off. It was too much pressure and responsibility on my shoulders. His words and his need for me sent me over the edge in a different way. An amazing way. My orgasm hit me out of nowhere until there was no guilt. No thoughts. No negativity.

  Nothing but the most addictive pleasure-pain, starting at my core and radiating through my body. Like every cell was alive and electric and filled with dopamine and ecstasy and euphoria.

  I slumped in his hold, barely capable of holding myself up as he continued playing gently with me, drawing out my pleasure. As it faded, I waited for my self-loathing to kick in and tell me how disgusting and fucked up I was to let him touch me. Cut me. To want him to do both.

  When the cruel voice didn’t come, I searched it out. As if I needed to be taunted and tormented with callous insults. As if I missed the chaos that’d been banging around my head all morning.

  But my attempt to self-sabotage garnered nothing more than a half-assed… eh.

  I was too preoccupied bracing, waiting to see what he’d do. If he’d touch me more. Or cut me again. Or if he’d give me what I needed by fucking me.