Lords of Wrath: Chapter 10

She undresses with no fanfare, slipping out of her skirt and panties like it’s nothing to bare herself before me. She’s still a fucking vision, though, standing there all pale and delicate-looking, those full tits of hers looking perfectly grabbable. I rake my teeth across my lip at her approach, my eyes dragging down her body to that sweet pussy.

I gesture to the Epsom salt, explaining, “Ms. Crane sent that up.” It was meant for Story, but hey. A long soak is good for the muscles.

I make space for her between my legs, watching as she steps into the water. I’d rather take a dive off a tall structure before admitting it, but I think I might have missed her these last few days. She was interesting. Fun to toy with. Nice to wake up to. Warm. Sort of nice, really.

And then she chose Killian.

I’ve been white-knuckling my grudge about it for so long that it wasn’t until a couple hours ago that I realized she’s nursing one of her own.

I just don’t know why.

She avoids my gaze as she settles herself into the water, her ass against my rapidly growing cock. Killian’s been abusing that pussy, that much I know. Sore, Tristian had said. Ms. Crane hadn’t seemed worried, but she had threatened my testicles in a variety of creative ways if I tried to stick my dick in there a second before it was healed proper.

I didn’t need that cranky old bat to enlighten me to the fact I’m not getting any tonight. The way Story’s got her knees all tucked to her chest, tense and closed off, is evidence enough.

Sighing, I go to hit my blunt, only to realize the ember’s gone out. I hold it out to the candle, re-lighting it. “You ever smoke weed before?”

She turns only enough for me to make out the curve of her cheekbone. “Yes.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? When?”

One of her shoulders curls toward her ear in a loose shrug. “Back in boarding school.”

“Private school girls, huh?” I shake my head, explaining, “It’s the only thing that seems to help when I have a headache. Well, that and turning off the lights.” Drawing another hit into my lungs, I ask, “Did you like it?”

She hums in response, tightening her grip around her knees. “It was fine.”

Well.

Enough of this shit.

I reach out to stroke her shoulder, gently pulling her back. She’s resistant only for a second—stiff, like an impulse—before sinking back to rest against my chest. I’m probably just stoned stupid, but I can’t help but notice how perfectly she fits into the curve of my body. I exhale a stream of smoke as I look down at her chest, watching the water flutter over her pink nipples.

“Here,” I offer, holding the blunt in front of her lips. She stares at it for a moment, frozen, so I add, “You can say no. More for me.”

She doesn’t.

Her lips wrap around the end, sucking in a short drag, and I pull it away, watching her inhale. It’s released with a slow, steady stream of smoke.

“Tastes like ass,” she whispers. Despite that, I can feel her body loosening, head lolling back on my shoulder.

I take the opportunity to sweep her hair back from her neck, getting a look at that ridiculous fucking tracker. Tristian was dead set on the thing. Any other time, I might have been able to talk Killian into seeing sense.

And then he found out about Cartwright.

Killian’s got a lot of hang-ups when it comes to this girl, but one will always be front and center, sending him careening right over the edge of reason: Story receiving, seeking, or accepting any amount of attention from pervy older men.

I run my finger over the spot. “Does it hurt?”

She fixes her eyes to something across the room. “Yes.”

Right. Stupid question. If anyone in this house understands how it feels to have metal pushed through their skin, it’s me. “How about…” I walk my fingers down her arm, sliding them down her belly, beneath the water. I give the patch of skin above her clit a light tap. “…here?”

She turns her head away. “I don’t know. A little.”

Tristian and I have both been wondering what’s going on in Killer’s room at night. Story has been going willingly—at least seemingly so. There haven’t been any marks. We’ve been careful about making sure. But I should have known he’d find a way to throw her some hurt.

Jesus.

“Killian is such a fucking fuck.” I let my head fall back against the tub, eyes sliding closed. After a moment of processing the anger, I tell her, “I would have made it good for you.” I feel her weight against me, skating my fingertips lazily over her shoulder. “I had all these plans…”

Her voice is dry when she repeats, “Plans.”

“Yep.” I skim my fingers over her arm. “I had a playlist. Couldn’t let my Lady lose her virginity to shitty music, could I? I was going to wear a condom—ribbed, with lots of lube. It was going to be in the morning, because…” I pause, having to think hard to remember why that was a detail. “Well, because we’re just really good in the mornings, right? I was going to eat you out for a while. It’d have to be a weekend, so we could take our time. Now that I think about it, I guess it wasn’t really anything elaborate. Still, probably would have been better than what you got.”

Her head turns back toward me, but I don’t open my eyes to see her expression. Her voice sounds flat. “Maybe.”

I hit the blunt again, feeling some of the tension bleed out of my neck. Fucking stress headaches. The worst. “For what it’s worth, I was against the tracker. Bunch of police state bullshit, if you ask me. But…” I crack an eye then, finding that she’s watching me back, some unreadable emotion swimming in her eyes. “They might have a point.”

The unreadable emotion instantly turns to ice. “I’m micro-chipped like a dog, Rath. Like an animal. There’s no ‘point’ that could make that any less of a violation.”

I reach up and touch the line of her jaw. “People chip their pets because they’re important to them. Because they’re precious. Because they care for them.” Sighing, I offer her the blunt again, and it’s kind of funny to watch her pull a drag from it with that pinched, angry expression. “I’m not saying it’s the best display or whatever. Just…” Shaking my head, I lose myself in the scent of her hair, letting my muscles go lax. “Shit. We’re busy people, Story. Not like…schedules and chores kind of busy. The kind of busy that just doesn’t stop. We have our hands in a lot of pots, and almost no one likes it. Trust me, there are worse people out there than Perez.”

“What does that mean?”

Lifting the blunt to my mouth, I take another drag, thinking. “It means the woods are lovely, dark and deep. But we have promises to keep.” Exhaling, I open my eyes to meet her stunned gaze. “And miles to go before we sleep.”

“Robert Frost?” She gives me a slow blink. “You were listening earlier?”

I reach out to snuff the blunt into a nearby tray. “Who wouldn’t listen to a beautiful girl reading them poetry? Just had this bitch of a headache. Like I said…”

She looks away. “Oh.”

I get my hands in the water then, feeling up her sides, gliding over all of that soft, ripe skin. I run the tip of my nose over the shell of her ear, wondering, “Feeling any better?”

She certainly feels more relaxed.

Or she does until my fingers brush over the side of her tits. Then she’s going all tense again.

Fucking Killian.

I reach down and lift the plug, draining the water out. “Come on,” I say, nudging her. “Let’s get you dry and tucked into bed.”

When we step out, she takes the towel I give her, wrapping it tightly around her middle.

“You bring something to sleep in?”

“No.” She finally looks up at me. “I can wear something of yours. If that’s okay.”

“Sure.” I’d prefer her naked, but I doubt the suggestion would be welcome. I head out of the bathroom and go to my dresser, finding an old t-shirt. It’s gray with a black Lord skull on the front. The cotton is soft and worn. I’d gotten this thing my junior year of high school. That’s how in-the-cards this whole thing has been.

When I turn, she’s standing just outside the bathroom, pulling her panties up her legs. Her eyes are glued to the bed, like she’s seeing something that hurts to look at.

“Drop this,” I say, tugging at the towel. She fidgets for a moment before untucking it, letting it fall to the ground. I scrunch the shirt up to the neck, holding it out. I get a bemused look at the gesture, but she lets me push it over her head, threading her arms through.

It looks good on her.

It makes my dick hard.

She reaches over her chest to clutch her elbow, looking small and weirdly vulnerable for someone I just watched slap a quarterback clean across the face. “I can, um…sleep on the couch.”

I’m halfway into pulling on my boxers when she says it. Freezing, my head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “The couch?”

Excuse me?

She nods, ducking her head. “Yeah.”

I may be a bit lost when it comes to a lot of things in life, but there are some things I just know.

I know I smoke too much, and the creative side of my brain works best when I’m full of vodka and too tired to see straight. I know that Van Morrison is a legitimate god, Debussy is overrated, and electronica can be really good in the right hands. I know that Killian and Tristian give me a dozen reasons to hate them every day, and that I’d take a bullet for either of them in a split second, without even having to consider it. Most of all, I know that wanting something and not being able to have it is nothing more than the mark of failure.

Sweet Cherry is freezing me the fuck out.

What I know, I know.

Time to grease these goddamn wheels. “Okay. Can I do something for you first?”

She pushes her hair out of her eyes, looking shifty. “Like what?”

Goosebumps rise on her flesh as I trail my fingers down her arm, watching her body clench in response. “Let me give you a massage. These fingers are good at more than playing the piano.”

That earns a surly remark. “I’ve been made aware.”

“I’m not talking about anything sexual,” I insist, although…let’s face it. We’ll see. “Come on, we’ve got a nice buzz going. I know you’re still upset, but at least let me help you relax.” Leaning in, I whisper into her ear, “Use me, Lady.”

Possibly I’m still smarting from her earlier remark about treating her like a Lady.

She eyes me suspiciously. It’s well-founded. I’m not known for the spirit of giving. Tristian loves to dote on Story with food and gifts, like she’s his little poodle. That’s his game. Baths and massages aren’t my style. I’m not good at the whole attentive nurturing thing. I strongly doubt my ability to sell it. But I’ve got to find out what the issue is, or I’ll lose ground.

I’ll lose her.

“Come on,” I say, sitting with my back against the headboard. I pat the mattress between my legs. “Sit here and I’ll ease some of that tension.”

She considers it for a minute, like she’s wondering if it’s a trap. That’s fair. It’s not not a trap. Finally, she relents, moving so that her ass is against my crotch and her back is in front of me, just like in the bath. My cock twitches, but I will it to stand down.

I start at her neck, pushing aside her hair and taking care not to touch the small spot where the tracker was implanted. Working the tight muscles with slow, deliberate motions, I make myself think of this like a symphony, different movements, each drawn out to make something whole.

Maybe she just needs to feel in control, even if she isn’t. That’s probably why Tristian took her with him to set that fire. He wanted Story to feel like she has power, even though, ultimately, she belongs to us—body, mind, and soul.

My hands travel over her shoulders, then down to her arms. I knead her little biceps, then rub down her forearms and lower, taking my time on her wrists, her palms, every finger. Then I start over and do it all again. Slowly her muscles unwind, and her breaths coming deep and even.

When she shifts, sinking back into me, her ass grinds against my dick, which is hard as nails. It’s been a minute since I had a mouth on me, but I’ve heard her down there with Killian, soft cries and a banging headboard.

Yeah, I’m panting for it.

She tenses right back up at the feel of my hardness.

“I’m not going to do anything with it. Promise.” At her skeptical look, I add, “Ms. Crane would garrote me with a piano wire, girl.”

She exhales and nods. “True.”

I make the same pass again, starting at her shoulders, moving down her back, over to her arms and hands. “Lean back,” I suggest, and she complies, resting her body against my chest. Her sweet-smelling hair is under my nose. I work my fingers up the long column of her neck, threading into the hair above her ears, massaging her scalp, her temples.

She releases a drawn out groan, going limp.

“When did you start playing piano?” she asks, her voice drowsy.

I’m surprised by the question, but answer easily, “When I was six. My family didn’t have much money. It was just me and my mom at that point. My older brother, Alessio, was already graduating high school.”

“You have an older brother?”

“A lot older,” I stress, feeling her limp against me. “My mom had him young. We were never close or anything.” Alessio got out of South Side and never looked back. Not at us.

She nods into my palms. “So the piano…”

“My mom, she had this thing about wanting to provide for us, the way rich people provided for their kids. She was convinced if we learned to play an instrument, it could be our ticket out. She made a deal with our neighbor, Mrs. Budd, who had a piano, that Ma would do her laundry if she’d teach us piano. Alessio was awful at it, but I took to it pretty quickly.” I knead the back of her shoulders, working out a little knot of tension. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.”

“You were good at soccer back in high school,” she points out.

“True, but that was a team thing. Playing instruments…that’s something all of my own.” She flinches as I needle her back, but it’s obvious she likes how it feels. “Can you keep a secret?”

She stills. “Yes.”

“I’ve been saving up money for my own piano for a while now. I want a really swank one.” It’s selfish and greedy of me, considering my position with Daniel, but it’s all I’ve ever really wanted. Tristian would buy me one in a heartbeat, but it doesn’t feel right to let him. Not for this.

She looks across the room. “What about that one?”

Scoffing, I explain, “That thing? It belongs to the house. It’s supposed to be down in the library, but I had them bring it up when we moved in.” A couple of the pledges still hold it against me to this day, and it’s hilarious.

After a pause, she wonders, “How much have you saved?”

“The one I want costs forty grand. I have about twelve saved.” I close my eyes and think of the baby grand I want, and what Story might look like bent over the top, cock buried deep inside her cunt, crying out my name. Quietly, I ask, “Why’d you stop calling me by my name?”

She’s boneless here, head lolling around as I work it between my hands. “Wha…?” she asks, forehead creasing in either pleasure or confusion. “I call you by your name.”

“You used to,” I answer, gathering her hair in both fists and giving it a slow, gentle tug. The motion makes her shudder, mouth parting. “I liked it. No one else really calls me that. It’s always ‘Rath’.”

I can see when she realizes what I’m talking about. Her slack jaw lifts, throat bobbing with a swallow. “Habit, I guess.”

Bullshit of the highest order.

A few days ago, we were sharing a bed and fucking around and looking at each other without all our muscles going taut. She’d begged me to let her help me with my schoolwork, and even fell for easing my tension with some of the best blow jobs of my life. She’d wanted it, asked for it, which is exactly what made it so fucking hot. Now she doesn’t even want to sleep in the same bed with me?

Only one thing has really changed over the last few days.

“Is it Killer?” One palm descends, rubbing into her clavicle as the other continues the soft hair tugging. My lips move against her temple when I ask, “Was he giving you shit about it? Telling you to keep your distance? Because I know he’s the jealous type, but—”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not him.”

There’s an ambiguity to her reply that I don’t particularly care for. We’re still in the middle of our game, stakes are on the line, and shit. I actually do need her help with reading. She’s the first person who’s ever really taken the time to help me and not just pass me along or mock me. But beyond that, I don’t like being on this side of things.

This shit has got to change.

Her tits rise and fall as she inhales and exhales, and I see her nipples pebbled under the soft cotton of my shirt. Running my hands down her sides, I drag my nose over her pink cheek. “You used to like sleeping here. It was good, wasn’t it? We were good.”

She stutters out a dazed, “I-I…”

“Something happened,” I muse, hands gliding over a spot that makes her squirm against me. Over the fabric of her shirt, I graze her soft belly before my fingers climb up her ribs. Her hips shift minutely, and I have no doubt that she’s aroused. Probably already wet. Fuck, I want to dip my fingers between her legs and find out. I don’t. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem to apply to the others. A guy could feel a little hurt.”

“He could,” she breathes, eyelids rising and falling with a heavy blink. “But he won’t.”

I watch her face closely. “Why’s that?”

She doesn’t answer until my hands have risen again, framing the underside of her tits, caressing the skin stretched over her ribs. “He’d probably have to care first,” is her low answer.

I pause, hands going still. “You think I don’t care?” When she doesn’t answer, I think fuck it, and sweep my hands up to cup her tits, giving them a long squeeze. In a hushed voice, I ask, “You think I haven’t missed you?”

She stiffens, but her back still arches into my hands. “Me? Or the things I do for you?”

Well, that’s hardly fair. The two are unavoidably linked. “So you’re pissed at me because…you’re feeling neglected?” Well, she has given me some premium head, and I did send her off to handle herself after.

“I’m not pissed at you.” She’s clearly lying.

Jesus, she’s fucking infuriating. Push too hard, and I spook her. Don’t push hard enough and things are too one-sided. What the hell does it take with this girl?

Biting back my frustration, I run my hands over the curve of her hips, to the inside of her thighs, dragging them apart. “Just relax,” I say when she tenses.

“What are you doing?” she asks, planting her hands on the bed.

“Treating you like my Lady.” The taste is sour on my tongue. Who the fuck is she to tell me how to treat my own Lady, anyway? “If tit-for-tat’s what you’re looking for, then we can settle this right now. I pay my debts.”

“I-I don’t want—”

“Yes, you do.” I can hear it in the stutter of her breath when the tip of my thumb grazes the edge of her panties. “You just had a nice, warm bath. Got a good buzz. A massage. Who wouldn’t want to get off after that?”

“You said you wouldn’t.” The words come out small and accusing.

I correct her, “I said I wouldn’t do anything with my dick, and I won’t.” I run my thumb up the center of her panties, scraping a blunt nail over her clit. “But I can still make you feel good.”

She sinks her teeth into her lip. “Rath…”

I feel my face go dark at the name. Suddenly, it clicks together. It’s possible that, for a minute there, I’d been something better than a Lord to her. More than a Lord. But now it’s looking like that’s all I am. I don’t know when it happened or why, but I can feel the certainty of it. Somehow, I’m back to square one with this girl.

At least I know how to navigate that.

Tipping my mouth to her ear, I softly ask, “Would it be easier if I made it an order?”

Her jaw goes taut, gaze dropping. I know what she’s about to say a moment before her lips part. It’s in the flash of shame that fills her eyes. “Yes.”

Fucking called it.

“Spread your legs, Lady.”

Her thighs open for me. That’s the thing about Story. She likes what we do to her. She gets off on it. It feels good enough that she always comes back, skirting the edges of our awareness, waiting around for someone to pounce. She just can’t handle feeling accountable for it. A few months ago, this knowledge would have amused the hell out of me.

Maybe it’s this new realization that I’d actually achieved something greater, but tonight, it just strikes me as unfortunate. It doesn’t matter that I arrived there by using Lord tactics. We had fun, the two of us.

The inside of her panties are warm and already damp when I dip a hand inside, running my fingers through her slickness. In an instant, she’s putty in my hands, head thrown back on my shoulder. Her breathing is shallow and her muscles are relaxed, down to the bend in her knee that parts her creamy thighs. ”Oh…”

Oh, is right.

I close my eyes against the wrenching impulse to flip her over and drive my dick deep inside, claiming it for my own, if only for tonight. That won’t do, though. I make it about her instead, getting her clit nice and slick with her own wetness before setting a rhythm. I know I’m hitting it right when her thighs fall open wider, her little hands clamping onto my legs.

I hum against her cheek. “You like that, baby?”

Her mouth is all slack again, a crease forming between her eyes.

She doesn’t answer.

I let my other hand creep under her shirt. “I would have let you be on top,” I tell her, remembering all my plans. I palm her tit, flicking my thumb over her stiff nipple. “I was going to show you how to ride me, nice and slow. Let you set the pace.” Her breath hitches, hips bucking. Oh, yes. She likes that idea. “I was going to play with your clit, just like this, until that tight little body of yours started trembling.” Smirking into her flushed cheek, I note, “A lot like how you’re shaking now.”

When I pull my hand from her panties, she gasps, “Rath…”

I shush her, rubbing my palm into the soft inside of her thigh. “We’ll get there.”

She was right on the edge of coming. The fine tremors in her thigh muscles are evidence enough, but the way her hips squirm confirms it. I give it a moment, make her back off that steep precipice, before grazing my knuckles over the cotton of her panties.

“You want more?”

She bites her lip, nodding.

“Then maybe we should take these off, hm?” I hook my fingers into the elastic of her panties, fighting back a smirk when she lets me drag them over her hips, down her legs. I tuck them beneath my pillow as a little treat for later.

Some of that anxious tension starts coming back, which is how I know it’s time. I pull her thighs apart and get back to work, watching as my fingers work up and down her wet slit. She’s watching too, those brown eyes of hers heavy and hooded as I rub tight, deliberate circuits around her swollen clit.

“I would have made you come on my dick,” I tell her, enjoying the way my fingers look against her rosy cunt. “Then, when you were all loose and sloppy-wet for me, I would have rolled us over and fucked you right.” She shudders when I pinch her nipple. “I wouldn’t have torn you up. But I would have made sure you felt me the next day.”

Jesus fuck, how long had I been thinking about taking her virginity?

Apparently, I’d put a lot of thought into it.

When she starts shaking again, I take my hand away, pressing a low, “Shh, baby,” into her neck when she groans, writing up into thin air.

Possibly, I’m still holding onto a little piece of that grudge.

She makes a plaintive, breathless sound. “What are you doing?”

I knead my fingers into her thigh some more. “Just edging you a little. It’ll feel good, but you need a little patience.” She looks the exact opposite of patient, her dark eyes shining with a dazed sort of confusion. I tug on the hem of the shirt. “Maybe we should take this off, yeah?”

She doesn’t argue, letting me shuck it up over her head.

Now I’ve got her exactly where I need her; horny, naked, and writhing on my boner.

Good show.

“Ready for some more?”

She’s nodding before I even finish the sentence.

I drag in a soft hiss when I touch her again. She’s blazing hot down there, so wet that she’s probably got my blankets all kinds of forfeit. When I lay my fingers over her clit, I can practically feel her pulse through it. She bucks into the weight of my hand, chasing any bit of friction, and I don’t make her wait.

I make this touch light, the muscles in my arms going taut and sharp as I glance the flats of my fingers over that bundle of nerves with tight, furious flicks of my wrist. “I was going to keep my eyes open,” I say to her.

When she grinds up against it, I pull it back, keeping the touch nothing more than glancing. It makes the tendon in her neck go rigid and pronounced as she digs her head back into my shoulder.

“I would have watched you the whole time,” I continue, my voice going rough like gravel. “Made sure you felt good.”

“Please,” she gasps, chasing the friction of my hand.

Finally.

I take my hand away, hugging her close when she whines in response. “Almost,” I assure her. My dick could probably drill a hole right now, but there’s something I need to hear before I can let her fall to pieces. I turn to watch her flushed face, reaching up to brush her chin. “Come on, baby,” I say, nudging her toward me. “Give me your mouth.”

She complies mindlessly, lips parted as her head lolls to the side, allowing me to lick into the seam. Her tongue is shy and lazy, barely pressing back against my own as I kiss her. I take what’s mine anyway, crushing our mouths together as my hand returns to her center.

I feel her hand come up to wind in my hair and then swallow her gasp as I rub hard and insistent against her clit. Fuck, I missed this, too. Story has the most docile kisses, sweet and lax no matter the rhythm or heat of the moment, like she’s content to be tongue-fucked.

That’s exactly what I give her, licking in and out of her mouth like I own it—and I suppose, in some way, I do. My own words come breathless when I say, “Right before I came, I was going to pull out and take the condom off.”

I can feel her body starting to clench up, so close to breaking that she’s quivering.

“Don’t,” she says against my lips, begging so sweetly. “Please don’t stop.”

“I would have wanted it off so I could fill you up.” Maybe I’m shaking a little, too, but most of it is restraint. Not enough of it, though. My voice is growing too hard—too harsh—teeth scraping against her lip with a snarl. “I would have buried my load so far inside of you that you could taste it.”

I time my retreat perfectly.

The sound she makes when I pull my hand away is high-pitched and wounded. “Rath, please.” It’s a long sob of a breath, full of frustration and agony.

I brush her hair back, forcing down the wild, aggressive thing that’s boiling beneath the surface. “You know what I want.”

She does.

I know she does because she won’t look at me.

Not even when she says it.

“Please…” Swallowing, she gives it to me. “Dimitri.”

It’s worse than never hearing it at all. There’s no kindness to it. No softness. Used to be, she’d say my name and I could feel the lightness of it. I hated it at first—resented the way it made me want to look at her mouth, watching the shape of it made flesh—until it just became a part of the bubble between us, quiet and so still that I could have covered myself in it and disappeared.

Now it just sounds hollow, reduced to cold bilabials and sterile consonants.

I tip my head back against the headboard and finish her off in exactly the same way. Mechanically, like it’s nothing more than a task. Even when she’s arching against me and coming apart, mouth opened on a cry that the others are destined to hear, I just press my fingers to her soft places and feel nothing of it.

I leave her on the bed, breathless and red-faced, forehead shining with sweat, and disappear into the bathroom to jerk off.

On my way out, I grab the wrist cuff she’d removed before getting in the bath, and then throw her a rag, not watching as she silently cleans herself up. Her eyes follow me around the room as I grab a couple blankets from the closet, laying one on the bed for her, and the other on the couch.

For me.

She stops me when I go to grab a pillow. “Wait.”

I look down at her, and I’m pissed off because I’ve apparently lost all my ground with this girl, and I don’t even know why or how. But there’s something else underneath all the ire.

I think this must be what rejection feels like.

It makes me want to strike out, to tell her she’s a whore for letting me do that when she clearly doesn’t want me. I want to tell her to go back to her brother, who’ll tear her open and manhandle her, but is apparently more appealing than me. I want to tell her she’s not that special, anyway, and that I’ve had better, easier, prettier girls than her.

All the lies die in my throat at the look of bald panic in her eyes.

“Are you…mad?”

Maybe she doesn’t want me like she had before, but she can’t afford to have another one of us looking to use and taunt and hurt.

So I shove the feeling down, reaching down to take her hand. Her arm is limp when I raise her wrist, gently snapping the cuff into place. “We’re good,” I say, knowing all the while that we’re not. “Go to sleep.”