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“Straighten up and lean back,” he orders me like it’s second nature and I am compelled to follow blindly.
I lean back, resting my shoulders on the mirror behind me and look down at the poker hole in my abdomen, slowly spilling blood over my light skin. It is a calm, steady flow—nothing life threatening, I do not think. It is quite mesmerizing. Reaching over, I catch the flow and watch this essence of life running slowly down my fingers, eventually staining my palm and hand. Before I can stop myself, I lick one finger, enjoying the steely taste on my tongue. I always did love the taste of blood, there is something deeply primal about it.
I look up and the mountain man is frozen, watching me with feral eyes that bring promises of death and destruction. I shiver and he suddenly moves towards me, but I stop him, my bloody hand staining his strong chest, holding him away.
He stops and looks down at it. I cannot move.Why did I do that?He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand to his mouth, jerking me forwards. His eyes find mine again, that ocean blue pinning me in place as he brings my middle finger to his mouth, slowly sucking it, and I can see the flame in his eyes the moment my blood touches his tongue. Every single one of my muscles contracts at the same time, keeping me from moaning as my pussy clenches so hard it spreads instant goosebumps over my body.
He carries on licking my hand clean without breaking eye contact, and I do not know what to do with myself. I do not know what he is doing to me. This is primal, this is raw… this is me.
He drops my hand and pushes me back until my shoulders hit the mirror and I can breathe again, my muscles relaxing one by one.
“Now stay still,” he orders like nothing happened, like my blood is not currently staining his tongue.
He cleans the wound, and I do my best not to wince when the alcohol hits my flesh. I watch him as he threads a needle and I tense.Fuck…I look at him just as he lifts his gaze to mine. He does not say anything, he does not need to. I prepare myself.
He comes close, between my spread legs, with my pussy on full display, but he keeps his gaze away, fully focused on the task at hand. I cannot stop but distract myself with the hard, thick body pressed between my thighs—strong, built like a Viking god by blood, sweat, and tears. His body proves to be a good distraction from the needle sliding in and out of my flesh, because he finishes in no time and steps back, his gaze lingering between my spread thighs.
I close them quickly and wrap the towel around myself, suddenly very aware of my nakedness. I am not giving him any reasons to touch me again. I do not miss the flicker of a grin on his lips though.
“Follow me.” Everything he says is an order. Cold and calculated.
I do as he says, jumping off the counter and follow him down the corridor. We walk past a couple of doors and when we finally walk through one, his scent hits me like a slap in the face. Musk, cedarwood, and something else… something I cannot quite put my finger on.His bedroom.I follow him in, stopping when he does. The curtains are closed, but I catch glimpses of the manly lack of decor. Every piece of furniture, rustic, yet polished, perfectly fits the environment. The bed is a work of art though. Utterly beautiful with a complex wood carving in the headboard—an image that looks like something ripped out of pagan books, framed by four posters fixed straight to the ceiling. Impressive, absolutely impressive. The lack of decor does not seem to affect this room at all, as there is cozy fur everywhere—on the end of the bed, on the floor, on the large armchair sitting by the closed curtains. I would have trouble leaving this space if it was mine.
“Put this on.”
He startles me. I look at him as he hands me what looks like his boxers, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. I take them from him with hesitation, turn to the bed and lay them there. They look unfamiliar. Clothes… They have not touched my body in so long. How will it feel? After so long…
“What did he do to you?” his warm, deep voice asks softly, almost whispering.
HIM
“Everything,” she replies to me as she watches the clothes laid on the bed like they’re foreign objects.
Fuck.
“I don’t know what that means, little siren. Tell me… what did he do to you?” I approach her, and she tenses. She can feel me, my body heat close to her naked skin. “What did I just stitch up, how did he do that?”
“Cast iron fire poker,” she answers in such a calm matter-of-fact tone.
What the fuck? Cast iron what?!
I’m seething. My breathing heavy, my body tense. I wanna rip his motherfucking heart out through his goddamn throat!
“Fire poker?!” I rasp. She tenses and scrambles to grab the t-shirt, quickly pulling it over her plump frame, covering all the scars on her body.
I’m not angry at her. I’m just angry. I’m fucking fuming, not only because of that fucking bastard, but because I appear to care for some goddamn reason which pisses me off even more. I don’t want to fucking care, but that motherfucker is not the same monster I am.
He’s the kind that needs to die.
“Get dressed!” She pulls the boxers on and then the hoodie. Everything is so big on her and she seems to enjoy it, wrapping her arms around herself, pulling everything closer to her body. She looks positively adorable, drowning in a hoodie that reaches her knees. I’m a big man and she’s barely half a human.
I give her a pair of socks that are far too big for her and tell her to follow me downstairs. It’s past mid-morning… I need to eat.
— ‡ —
An hour later I’m sated, bacon and eggs in my belly and she ate better than I expected. She even moaned when the coffee touched her tongue, it was delicious… not the coffee.
“He fed you well?” I ask her. I need more information. There is this powerful desire inside me that wants to know everything, everything she’s been through.
