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I could feel her pulling away, slowly. Painfully.
I’m about to lose my mind. Desperation intensifies my irrational and self-destructive thoughts.
Mind games.
Carnage.
No good can come to me in my own company.
I’ve always done whatever I can to avoid facing my soul, but she makes me do it. She places us in front of each other, spotlight shining above, in the ring fighting an imminent battle. She may not know she’s doing it, stripping me to pieces for me to bare my soul.
I’m covered in sins, and she’s my holy water.
She’s the only person left who can save me.
My head tells me to get my shit together. Stakes are high. But my heart is the ultimate decider.
And what do they have in common? They both want to shield her from the pain.
Then, stupidly, I realize I am the pain.
Inside—deep in the troughs of my dark soul—the coldness brings on only hate. I despise everything and everyone, but Milana Milenov—a name so angelic and pure—who finds a way to let the warmth inside.
I feel the sun.
The warmth and its presence every time her body is next to mine.
And, slowly but surely, it’s all beginning to fall apart.
Troy was a goddamn imbecile for showing up at my house and demanding that I owe him. Perhaps I did, but I don’t trust him—not for one second. He fucked shit up wherever he goes, and there’s no chance in hell he’s getting
anywhere near Milana. I made sure of that by giving him the stash he wanted, a bonus amount on top and warned him never to set foot on my property again.
I need out of that game.
The high is no longer worth the pain.
I should probably stop using, and it’s not like I do it every fucking day. The second she became mine, I slowed it down. I use only when she isn’t around. It’s why I make it my fucking mission to make sure she’s always around.
She has become my addiction.
The morphine to my pain.
And the fight to keep Em in my life becomes a distant memory. Milana is nothing like Em. Perhaps my initial game is twisted and impure, but Em deserves revenge.
But this isn’t revenge, or is it?
It’s obvious the next morning that things are different. When I fuck her, she tenses, her mind elsewhere and distant. Her body is this sacred temple—one I simply can’t get enough of. She isn’t like other women I’ve been with. She isn’t trying out to be the next biggest porn star. What she does is from pure pleasure. She tests her boundaries with me. I see it, I watch it with an easing curiosity.
And that has become an addiction which remains incurable.
She is beautiful, a beauty who can’t be captured in words. And that’s fine, I don’t want anyone else seeing what I see. She’s mine, and I have to keep it that way. Not let that scum of a hillbilly ex promise her this rainbow-colored life with a ring and three kids.
No, fuck that. I will give it all if only she will let me. If only she doesn’t switch the subject each time I bring up anything to do with commitment. It confuses the fuck out of me. Women want this—babies and marriage. Fuck, I get offers on a daily basis for this shit.
But not her.
She is different.
