Page 41 of The Price Of Possession

I blink a few times. Did I hear him correctly? “Under no circumstances would I ever stay here with you. I hate you. You're a sick fucker. You—you burned my body now . . . twice! I'm afraid to even look . . . down there. What have you done to me?”

I fight back the tears, silently suffering. I can't understand why he would mutilate me. None of this could be for the Void. He's got me screwed up beyond help. No one hurts me better than Kieran. His sickness is a disease. It infects everyone in his radius.

He shakes his head while threading his fingers through his loose curls. “You think I wanted—” he stops. His voice turns cold and desiccated. He turns slowly, at least giving me the decency to explain what he did to my face. “I sterilized you, Nightshade.” My stomach drops. Stars pierce my vision. The whoosh of my heartbeat pulses wildly in my ears. I can't speak. I can't move. I sink back into the mattress. He wouldn't. The tears fall freely now, silently. I can't look at him. My eyes fall to his nightstand with endless supplies of pills. It's all too much.

He approaches slowly. “Clara, I had to. Let me explain some of this shit. I needed to—” He tries explaining away his megalomaniac tendencies as if I could forgive him.

“NO! You don't get to apologize. You don't mean it. You are a sadist. You enjoy my suffering and my tears. You're sick just like your crazy ass father. I don't want any part of your fucked up cult! You raped your own sister!” I spout off, unable to stop the overflow of words leaving my mouth. It erupts from me without thought. I spring forward toward the only happiness I'll ever be able to obtain again. This time I manage to stay upright.

Everything I've ever needed to say comes out. His face pales. He jolts forward, stopping me, but I don't relent, letting the pain fall freely from my lips. “You hurt yourself. You hurt others. You hate everything. You're not capable of feelings—”

It's his turn to cut me off. A thundering boom makes me flinch. He chucks everything off of his nightstand, sending it all crashing onto his floor. Pills fly everywhere. The bottles slam against the wall. He's a hairs breadth away from going insane.

“You don't need that shit!” he screams at me, redirecting my attention back to him.

“And you do?!” I snap back.

“Clara?!” Vesper's muffled voice shouts from the closed door. Kieran's eyes flash with danger, he's reached a peak. Those drowning green eyes never leave me. “Fuck off, Vesper. I mean it, don't test me. Clara and I need to . . . talk. There's a lot of shit to unpack.”

I hear Zain wrangle her in an exchange of words before an unsettling silence falls over the hallway once again.

“I am,” he growls through clenched teeth. His entire chest heaves wildly. My brows furrow. “You are what?”

“I am a sadist. I am like him. That's what you wanna hear, isn't it?" The words cut through me like a knife. His lip quivers into a twist between disgust and sudden recognition. A perceptual shift fills the air. He sweeps forward into my bubble, his mountainous arms caging me in. The veins bulge in his forearms. He has me in an invisible chokehold.

“I get off on hurting you, breaking you down to nothing. I am fucked up.” He releases a whaling cackle. ”Goddamn, how I wish we never fucked!” Anger resonates through his words. It hurts, but the drugs can mend it quickly for both of us. My eyes flicker to the mess of the room, wondering if I can salvage any of the pills. I want to give up.

My face tightens. I'm paralyzed. A lump forms in my throat. Hearing him admit it further digs the knife into my chest. Somewhere deep down I hate that I feel something for him. I hate that I’m just as fucked up. I've always lacked sensibility. Part of me wonders if he chooses to be the way he is. Sometimes our past shapes our future but . . . not by choice. Hearing his father’s confession seemed to be just as much of a shock to him as it was to everyone else. Before I can question him, he rips the shirt from his body.

“Wanna know why, Nightshade?” He steals my attention again as he tosses the shirt aside. He does a 360, showcasing every single inscribed carving of trauma in his flesh. The ridges of his muscles twitch. A look of pure rage and vulnerability. I choke on my words. “I . . .”

The words die in my throat. His breathing turns manic. “Lessons on how to be a leader. To mold me into someone stronger, worthy of leading the Void. But in reality I'm a fuck up. An asshole. A rapist. Is that what you wanna hear? Huh?” A cynical laugh falls from his throat, like he's lost his marbles. His lips curl into a sneer. My eyes go wide. Is he hurting me to gain his father’s approval? Is he a casualty in this too, or is this another trick?

Both thoughts make me equally sick. He steps forward. His knees ram into the bed frame making me flinch. He pauses before snatching my wrist. He pulls me along the edge of the bed. He squeezes, forces my hand open before running my fingertips along his deep scar tissue. “We're both intertwined in this fucked up life, Clara.

I couldn't resist breaking you down for my own selfish desires. I still can't. We both hide our sins; the only difference is I know what the fuck I am. Do you?”

I keep telling myself I can't go there. Not with him. I've hidden my weakness, burying it to the outside world just to punish myself in private. He doesn't get to dissect my past. I try to wash away the fucked up things I've done. My eyes snap closed, realizing we both have a heavy burden we've kept locked away in the darkness.

“Stop hiding your sins. We're the fucking same!” he shouts in my face. His hold turns bruising. Unable to hold back my overflowing mix of emotions, I cry harder. He shows me no mercy, instead pushing me further, breaking me down little by little. That's all he knows. All he craves.

“Admit it. You're a broken tragedy, Nightshade.” He grips my other wrist, too. His hold is painful. Intimidating. Cruel. Kieran.

The way I've been living, I know I can't continue to go on this way. Maybe if I come clean . . . “I'll . . . tell you…if you tell me why you call me Nightshade,” I whisper meekly. His push over the edge is becoming too deep. Too personal.

His cruel smirk sheds his vulnerability. Those deep emerald eyes pull me under his spell. “You're deadly. You're gonna be the one to kill me, sweetheart. I have an unhealthy addiction to all things that are bad for me. You're my vice I can't resist. I'm willing to die as long as you're the last face I see.” His voice is matter of fact, as if he's accepted I'm his demise. Sweaty curls cling to his forehead. I've never seen him look so tortured. His self-sabotage is hard to watch, but I at least understand.

His grip relaxes as he releases my wrists, but the look in his eye is no less demanding.

If Kieran wants something, he's going to get it one way or another. Usually by force, I've found; he has no limits to his insanity. His thumb brushes over the newly formed bruises. His eyes plead with me.

“Talk to me, Nightshade.” And despite my anger, I find myself willing.

The rain pelts against the windowpane, distracting me from the imminent discussion he's steering me toward. I never thought one could be envious of something as simple as raindrops. It falls freely, beading against the glass without any real path. Something I wish I could do—forge my own path and let it take me away. I struggle to wrap myself around his tortured past. He's broken too. He doesn't want sympathy, he wants understanding. Someone with clarity, to know what he's gone through, even though he doesn't give me more than a vague few sentences. If there’s one thing I've learned about Kieran it’s he doesn't want his emotions to be visible on the surface. But unlike me, instead of hiding his feelings, he wields them. The one thing we both have in common though, is our ability to drown in sex, drugs, and alcohol. I want to feel; to punish myself. He wants to be numb.

I take a slow measured breath trying to get a grip on reality. “Are you going to use my past against me?” I ask. It's a valid question. He's addicted to hurting others. His father has clearly brainwashed him. I mean hell, the guy sterilized me and while I should be absolutely livid, I'm certain the reality hasn't hit me yet. All he's done is use my fractured state, siphoning every ounce of happiness from my body until I feel nothing but once the adrenaline fizzles down, I'll hit me hard.

“Don't know,” he answers, shrugging. His face is a mask of indifference. It takes everything in me to ignore the choking lump in my throat. He climbs into the bed with me, propping up on his knees. His powerful thighs keep me locked in place, as if I could escape. We're intertwined now, regardless of how I feel about it. I'm caught in his web, helpless. He senses my hesitation. Instead of force, he guides my hand over his scars. I can tell this isn't easy for him. His body looks like a beautiful hellscape of a nightmare that takes my breath away. The scars draw me in. Even though my trauma is skin deep—at least it used to be— we share the same damaged state.