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Every nook of my body vibrates with the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her whimpers that might as well be singing lullabies to my beast.
And violets.
Fucking violets permeate the air, clashing with the smell of the sea.
I’ve been imagining her naked and sometimes bound to my bed ever since I woke up in the hospital.
One fantasy turned to a hundred, then a thousand, overlapping and spiraling out of control until I became unhinged.
Which is probably why I acted in pure caveman fashion when I fucked her so mercilessly just now.
But she’s the one who wouldn’t shut up and kept talking about leaving and entertained the thought of another man.
Another. Fucking. Man.
I slam my fist against the wall, the cold water doing nothing to dissipate my blazing libido or simmering rage.
After a few more futile attempts to calm the fuck down, I step out of the shower, put on some shorts, and storm upstairs.
I turn the knob to the bedroom, only to find it locked.
My fist clenches around the damn object, but I force myself to sound neutral. “Open the door.”
Nothing.
I bang on the wooden surface. “I know you can hear me, Annika. Open up.”
No answer.
“If you think a door can stop me…”
“Leave me alone!” she shouts, her voice on the edge before it turns brittle. “Please.”
I don’t like how she sounds.
It’s pulling on that corner in my heart that has her name splashed all over it.
I’ve never heard Annika so broken, but ever since she pointed that gun at me, she’s been slowly but surely losing her spark, her cheerfulness, and what made her who she is.
She doesn’t even post on social media anymore, and when she does, they’re no longer those happy, sunshiny, life-filled photos. They’re more about ballet practice, shelters, and others.
She’s more interested in posting about the homeless and the people who volunteer with her—including an older-looking fucker who’s often super-glued to her side.
And she actually smiles at him.
And she called him her sanctuary in one of her posts.
I contemplated killing him before I flew her out of the US, but that would have hindered this plan, so I went with a priority concept.
The wanker is still at the top of my shit list, though.
“You have until the count of three to open the door before I break it down.” My voice sounds harsh, cold, and nonnegotiable.
The type of voice I had before I let her in, before I allowed her to have a piece of me that she conveniently decimated.
“I just need time alone,” her muffled voice comes from the other side.
“One, two—”
