I run my tongue over my bottom lip, but I can’t taste the beer or feel the cold the ice left behind. All I can taste is him.
His gaze drops to my lips, and the smile disappears. He’s done teasing.
“Don’t go home tonight,” he mutters, cupping the side of my neck and brushing his thumb over my mouth.
He always asks me for more time.
I should deny him. It’s already past my curfew, and he’s made me push the limits every day this month. But he’s irresistible, and for once, I want to feel, to live and let myself be bad.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Let’s go to your room.”
…
I drag my tongue across my dry and swollen lips, wincing at the sting — and at that memory.
I have spent years running from the demons in my head, from the memories I can't escape, and now he's locked me in a place where the only thing I have is my own mind.
My stomach twists, pain rippling through my gut like a warning shot.
I ignore it.
Ghost is playing a vile fucking game. I knew he would hurt me. I knew he would punish me for the lie I told. But this is a whole new level of sadistic.
I can handle pain. I hardened myself to it a long time ago. Pain is a physical thing. It has limits. But this? This is fuckinginsidious. It makes me feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm not going to last much longer.
The door unlocks with a quiet click.
I exhale slowly and focus on the rhythmic pounding in my skull, on anything but him.
He's inside.
"How does it feel, adorable?" His voice is quiet, smooth. Like he's actually curious, not playing his game. “Knowing that no matter how hard you fight, in the end your body will still beg for me.”
My breath catches. He sees it. I wish he didn't.
His boots scrape against the floor as he crouches down in front of me, too fucking close. I can feel his heat, the scent of leather and firewood embracing me.
I cling to the last shreds of my pride and refuse to look at him, trying to pretend his presence doesn’t affect me at all.
His fingers skim my knee. I tense, but don't pull away. For some fucked up reason his touch feels soothing. Calming.
"You feel it now, don't you?"
I swallow, my throat raw. I don't answer.
"That ache in your throat, the fire in your stomach, the way your body is already starting to shut down, little by little."
His hand slides higher, slow, calculated and so fucking diabolical. It’s a reminder that I’m here, that I’m his, and that no matter how much I try to fight him, I need him.
My fingers grip the blanket tighter. "Fuck you."
He laughs, a quiet, amused sound that feels like it’s mocking my defiance.
"You will," he murmurs.What?
He stands, stepping back, looking down at me with that cold, unreadable expression.
I force myself to meet his gaze. The resolve in his eyes stuns me for a moment. He isn't bluffing. He isn't going to let me die,but heisgoing to let me suffer. He's enjoying this fucked up plan of his too much.
