Morpheus’ voice.
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t tear my eyes away from her face.
“That’s enough,” Morpheus commanded. “You made your point. Let her breathe.”
I released her.
She dropped like a puppet with cut strings and hit the floor hard. Her hands flew to her throat as she dragged in a breath that sounded like tearing metal, wet and ragged and desperate. Then another. Then another. She was crying. I could see the tears streaming down her face, mixing with the spit and snot as she gasped and choked and tried to remember how to breathe.
I looked down at her, this broken thing curled on the floor, and felt nothing but cold satisfaction and arousal. Still hard, still throbbing, still wanting more.
The clubhouse had stayed silent.
Morpheus moved closer, his boots stopping inches from her head. “Get her to a room,” he said, his voice flat, never taking his eyes off me. “Lock the door. I’ll deal with her in the morning.”
Cerberus reached down, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her to her feet. She couldn’t stand. Her legs gave out immediately, and he caught her, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. Just hung there, limp and broken, as he carried her toward the hallway.
I watched her go, watched her hand still pressed against her throat, watched the way her body shook with silent sobs, and I felt nothing but anticipation.
Because this was just the beginning.
Chapter Eleven
Nano
I walked toward my room, my boots heavy on the floor, each thud an accusation that echoed in the silence that followed me. Behind me, the clubhouse slowly came back to life, a jarring crescendo of normalcy. Music started up again, a tinny, mocking rhythm against the frantic beat of my own heart. Conversations resumed, punctuated by a laugh that felt like a shard of glass. Business as usual. For everyone else.
I made it to my room and closed the door behind me, the click of the latch a futile attempt to barricade myself from the echoes within. I leaned against it, my body trembling not just from exertion, but from a sickening tremor that started deep in my gut. My hand was still tingling, a phantom imprint of her struggling life. I could still feel her pulse against my palm, like a fragile little bird trapped in my grip. I could still see the terror in her eyes, a stark, pure fear as she realized I wasn’t going to let go.
I wasn’t going to let go.The words churned in my mind, a mantra of self-loathing.
I looked down at my wrist, at the bloody crescents her nails had left in my skin. A savage bloom against my flesh. She fought. A flicker of pride, quickly extinguished by a wave of nausea. Good. I liked it when they fought. Made it more satisfying when they finally broke. But tonight, the satisfaction felt hollow, tainted.
My cock was still hard. Had been hard since I started dragging her across the parking lot. The ache of it was almost painful now, demanding attention. A primal, brutal need that had always been my driving force, my solace. But tonight, it felt like a betrayal. A testament to the monster I was becoming, or perhaps, had always been. The ache demanded attention as I walked to my bed and sat down, my hand already moving to my belt, a familiar ritual that now felt tainted.
This isn’t satisfaction...a whisper clawed at my thoughts.
Fuck it.I surrendered to the storm raging inside as I unbuckled my belt. Unzipped. The rough fabric scraped against my skin, a phantom echo of her rough fabric against my hands as I pulled my cock out. It was already leaking, a greasy testament to the twisted arousal that clawed at my insides. The head was dark and swollen, a throbbing knot of shame and hunger. As I wrapped my hand around it, a low groan tore from my throat, a sound I barely recognized as my own.
The image of her face flashed through my mind, sharp and brutal. The way it had darkened, the color draining away as I choked her. The way her eyes had gone wide with terror, a mirror reflecting my own monstrousness. The way her pulse had hammered against my palm, frantic and desperate and failing.
This was what I craved.
This power. This control. But even as the thought solidified, a cold dread seeped in.
Is this what I really want? This sickness? This stain?
I stroked myself slowly, a ritual of self-punishment and perverse pleasure. I savored it. Her defiance had done this. Her stupid, futile resistance. The way she fought, even when she had to have known it was useless. The way she slapped me, like she had any fucking right. But the memory of her pain, the raw, animal fear in her eyes, was a gnawing worm in my gut. A flicker of something else, something ancient and deeply buried, stirred.
Disgust. Not with her, but with myself. This wasn’t strength. This was weakness. This was a surrender to the darkness, a choice I was already beginning to regret.
My hand moved faster, desperate to drown out the whispers of doubt. I thought about the sound she made when I slammed her against the wall. That choked gasp, a sound that would haunt my sleep. The way her body had gone limp in my grip, a terrifyingly fragile thing. The way she looked at me Terrified, broken, completely at my mercy. And in that horrifying realization of my power, a profound emptiness opened within me.
I had broken her, yes. But in doing so, I broke myself.
I became the monster I always feared I was.
The pleasure was a thin veneer over a chasm of self-loathing. This act, this release, felt like a betrayal not just of her, but of some fundamental part of myself I was desperately trying to hold on to. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that this momentary oblivion would not erase the guilt, only deepen it.
