Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I shift my gaze to the lines. There must be two dozen in a row all along his arms, cuts deep enough to leave thick scars. Is this the thing about him that somehow connects us?
I reach to touch one, but he grips my wrist hard, harder than before.
“No,” he says. “Not those.”
I look at him, then again at them. “What are they?”
“You don’t want to know, Little Kitty.”
“Like I said, I’m not afraid of a little truth.”
He studies me, a shadow creeping into his eyes, a dense darkness seeming to pour from his pores.
For the first time since I’ve known Santos Augustine, I realize I’ve never really been afraid of him, not like I am right now. Because whatever this is, it’s dark, and it’s alive It lives inside him, and it won’t be careful with me.
I take a step backward.
“Not afraid of a little truth?” he asks, matching that step. “You sure about that? Take care, Little Kitty, before you get hurt.”
I swallow. “Tell me.”
He tilts his head to the side, studying me. I swear he sees me like no one ever has, not even Odin—and that might be the most terrifying thing of all.
“They’re not like yours,” he says.
I know what he’s referring to and it shuts me up. He means my cuts. The ones he saw beneath the bruises of my father’s belt.
My heart races as he walks me backward. He only stops when my back hits the wall. “Tell me something, Little Kitty.” He reaches to touch the space on the underside of one arm, where my own scars, more delicate than his, line up like soldiers in neat rows. Like the ones on the insides of my thighs and in other hidden places no one could ever see. “Why do you cut?” he asks.
I stare up at him, my mouth dry, no words coming out.
He raises his eyebrows. “You don’t want to tell me?” When I don’t respond, he continues. “We all have secrets. Dark ones. I think it’s best you learn now to let things be when I tell you to let them be. It’s safest for you. Do you hear me, Little Kitty?”
I try to swallow, then nod.
“Good. But do you understand me? In here,” he says, the flat of his hand coming to rest over my heart. Heat pulses between us—or maybe that’s my heart’s frantic beating. Can he feel it? He must.
“Santos, I—”
“Do you understand?”
“I… Yes.”
“Good. Because I don’t want to hurt you.” I get caught on those words, and he must see it because he pauses as if giving me time to process before continuing. “There are two things we need to take care of, and then I’ll make your excuses downstairs and you can sleep.”
I nod, a tear sliding down my cheek that I don’t understand. I wait, mute.
“You won’t hurt yourself anymore.”
My lip trembles and more tears fall, and I don’t fucking understand them.
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
“Why do you care?”
“Because you belong to me. I am your master now. You no longer have the right. Am I clear?”
I nod, but I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s that I’m not alone, and I don’t have to carry the weight of it all myself. Or maybe I just want this over, want him to go—because no one knows this about me. No one, not even Odin.
“That’s a good kitty.”
“Don’t call me that,” I manage in barely a whisper.
He bends his knees and hoists me up, surprising me, holding me up against the wall and forcing me to wrap my legs around him.
“You don’t like it? I think it fits.” I realize what he’s about to do when I hear the buckle of his belt, the zipper of his slacks.
It’s the second thing that needs to happen.
He nods once as if to acknowledge my thoughts. “You understand. There’s no way around this. You know that, don’t you?” I feel him at my entrance and brace myself, my hands gripping his shoulders, eyes locked on eyes. “Use your nails, Little Kitty. Use your nails and let me feel how much you hate me,” he says finally and pushes inside me.
It hurts. I cry out, burying my face in his shoulder to try to muffle the sound because it fucking hurts.
“Use your nails,” he commands hoarsely, moving faster, driving deeper. “Hurt me.”
I do. And as I bury my nails into his back and feel that breaking of skin, I feel a release. It’s a strange, heavy letting go.
“Good. Good.” He looks at me, eyes nearly black, and he shifts his grip to hold me closer, all the while burying himself inside me. The whole time, I can feel him trying to keep control of himself.
He thickens inside me, his moan anguished. He’s trying to hold back. That’s the sound of the effort it’s taking. He’s trying, and he’s failing.