Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I’m not innocent enough to not know that there are people who get off on pain and humiliation, but he and I didn’t discuss any boundaries, made no contracts, didn’t agree on safewords and… well, we didn’t even discuss safe sex. He’s just taking whatever he wants, and I can’t get enough of it.
I shouldn’t like it, yet even now, the afterburn of our rough tumble on the plastic sheets, and the memory of him coming inside me makes my balls heat up. I should be angry that he never asked if I wanted to use protection and resent him for the way he spoke to me during the sex, but my own body keeps betraying me.
Can you be a pervert and not know it until someone brings it out in you? I guess my fantasies have always skewed toward dominant men stronger than me, maybe because a part of me believes they could protect me from another attack. But at the end of the day, in my dreams, I’m in charge. Here? I’m in way over my head.
Me, the guy afraid to let someone into his apartment, now living a life of crime.
For a while, I entertain the idea of staying with Saint as his apprentice. Could I possibly be smart enough to evade the police? To cover our tracks? Will I one day no longer flinch when I press a knife to someone’s flesh?
I consider myself quite smart, despite never finishing high school. I read a lot, I’m interested in understanding the world around me, so I do have to confront the fact that Saint circled me like a predator and caught me by telling me exactly what I wanted to hear.
I’m pretty sure love-bombing is the term for that. He escalated closeness so fast, and I fell for it, because I’m so desperately lonely I eat up any scraps of attention. The way he spoke to me, all the interest he showed in me, the date, the scarf he gave me, the picnic in the corridor, the cooking, the hugs and kisses… it was all planned. And I fell for it.
I don’t know how to deny him anything, or if I even want to, but I need to acknowledge that he hunted me down as if I was one of his victims. He maneuvered me into giving him sex whenever and however he wants, and for all I know, he might just discard me first thing after Christmas, like old wrapping paper, because why keep a liability like me when he can find a fresh replacement?
But as much as this fucks with my head, I know I won’t run. For years I’ve been trapped by the expectation that I’ll eventually get better in therapy and move on, trusting in the system that failed me. The price I’m going to pay for the real solution to the trauma I’ve suffered might be high, but I’m willing to take my chances.
I don’t know how long I’ve been in the tub, but the water’s now making me shiver, so I climb out, thankful for the existence of towel heaters. I’m not ready to face Saint and his unnatural seduction, but I’m going to do that anyway, because he is my only chance to take back the control I’ve been longing for. If that means sacrificing my body and sanity, then so be it.
Saint left me a green and white pajama set with red details around the collar and sleeves. If that’s what he wants to see me in, I might as well oblige. It features one of those classic horizontal patterns with Christmas trees and reindeer, and is made of warm flannel. It feels cozy against my skin, even though I’m uneasy about wearing it while Galanis’s body cools. Because what is this even? Are we on a murder spree or in a holiday romcom?
Then again, whatever gets the job done, I guess. The job being—killing Otto Grass and Miles Brown.
I feel self-conscious when I walk out. My knee stopped aching in the hot water, but I’m still limping a bit today, and I don’t feel particularly attractive in this Christmas outfit. It’s on the tight side, and I’ve no doubt that’s on purpose, because he’s obsessed with my legs and ass.
I wouldn’t call myself ugly, but my looks don’t warrant the kind of attention Saint’s giving me, and while it’s easy to get drunk on all this attention, I know I shouldn’t be complacent. He’s a murderer, a master manipulator, and probably only gets off on having wrapped me around his little finger to use as a sexual outlet.
I keep all that in mind as I step out of the bathroom, and while I wasn’t sure what to expect, it’s certainly not the dense scent of vanilla and spices.
A pop Christmas classic flows through the cabin from the playlist he made on YouTube, and as I approach the main room, I hear Saint singing alongside Mariah Carey. My heart beats faster, and it passes through my head that I might just walk in on him cutting Galanis’s body into smaller, more convenient pieces. But when I enter, he’s by the stove, whipping something on low heat, and the large kitchen island is crowded with several trays of gingerbread men.