Page 35 of Twisted Tate

“Yes.” I catch her hand and kiss her palm. “I fucking love it.”

“I’ve never claimed someone before, or left a mark.” She meets my eyes. “I’ve always been the one getting claimed and used. Everything was always taken from me. I’ve never wanted someone to be mine before.”

“You have every right to claim whatever the fuck you want.” I finally ease out of her and set her down, keeping my hands on her waist until her legs stop shaking. “Especially me.”

I grab the shampoo and turn her around.

“What are you doing?”

“Washing your hair.” I squeeze shampoo into my palm. “Hold still.”

She goes quiet, and I feel the tension drain out of her as my fingers work through her wet hair. When I’m done, I wash her entire body, starting with her shoulders and arms. Then I move to her tits—soft and heavy in my hands. Then it’s her stomach, her hips, and her thighs.

And I’m wondering where this version of myself came from. I’m not the man who washes a woman. But for this woman, I’d do a lot of shit to make sure she’s happy.

When we’re clean, I turn off the water and wrap her in the biggest towel I can find. I dry off and pull on my jeans, then find her some of my clothes—sweatpants and a t-shirt that swallows her whole.

“Come here.” I sit on the bed and pull her into my lap, her shoulder against my chest. She settles against me like it’s the only place she’d ever want to be.

We sit in silence, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my arm, my chin resting on top of her head.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Her voice is quiet. “About the men who hurt me.”

My arms tighten around her. “You don’t have to do this now.”

“I want to.” She takes a breath. “You asked me for their names, and I’m ready to give them to you. At least the ones I can remember. Because I want them dead, Tate. Every single one.”

“Then fucking tell me, baby girl. And I’ll kill each and every one of them in whatever way you want me to.”

She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is flat—like she’s reading from a list instead of naming the men who destroyed her.

“Richard Castellano. He was the first one after my father started selling me. I was sixteen. He had this thing about calling me princess while he . . .” She stops, swallows. “That’s why I didn’t like you calling me that.”

I only see red, and if I didn’t have her in my arms, I would tear the entire house apart.

“I’m sorry, baby girl. Er . . . can I not call you that?”

She clasps my hand, but doesn’t look at me. “Is that what you call all the girls you fuck?”

I clasp her chin and make her look at me. Her jealous tone makes me want to fuck her all over again. “No. I swear to you. Never once.”

She grins at me, and she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. “Then never stop calling me that.”

“I’m pretty fucking sure I’ll give you anything you want, baby girl.”

I don’t think there is a part of me that could ever tell her no. She has me, and if she wants something, she’s going to fucking get it.

She continues with the list of names, and I am going to enjoy killing each and every one of the fuckers. Then she comes to the last name.

“And then there was Michael.” Her whole body tenses. “Michael Collier.”

I know the fucker. He’s a lower-rung Raven.

“You don’t have to tell me about him if you don’t want to. He’s going to die either way.”

“You already figured out that he’s the one who beat me.” Her voice drops. “He got off on hurting me. He paid my father extra for that. Then he told me I’m worthless. That no one will ever love me. That I should be grateful that anyone will still pay for me.” She’s shaking now. “He’s the one I saw. When we were . . . when I went away. I saw his face. He haunts me the most.”

I turn her to face me, so her legs are straddling my lap. Her eyes are wet, her face pale. She looks like she’s waiting for me to react with disgust.