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They’d cleaned the scene as best they could, and after a lot of convincing on John’s part Dornan had agreed not to burn the house down. It was unlikely anyone would trace Stephanie back to Dornan after sixteen years, and he might decide to come back for the boy’s things. He was still having trouble referring to Jason as his son. He was like a stranger, this kid who he had to keep sedated to manage, even with his shocking resemblance to Dornan.
They’d buried Stephanie in the woods nearby instead, Dornan insistent on being the one who shovelled dirt onto her bloodied face. He couldn’t separate the hate from the love, and the rage, the rage was the worst part of all. At one point, when half her face was still visible, Dornan had started smashing the shovel down onto her head, until John managed to get the shovel away from him.
He wanted to scream and gnash his teeth and bash her fucking head in, but it wouldn’t matter because she was already dead. He didn’t regret killing her, though. The only thing he regretted was not drawing out her death.
They travelled to a motel, Mariana in the backseat of John’s truck, cradling the boy protectively. At least he’d have her to take care of him, Dornan mused silently. She’d be a good mother. He’d told her that once, and now she’d have someone to mother. All these thoughts swirling in his brain made perfect sense. He didn’t once stop to consider what would happen when the boy woke up. It was a problem that he’d deal with later, and the boy would eventually come around. He’d be mad at first, but he’d understand why his mother was a lying bitch who deserved to die.
They got two rooms at the motel. Dornan dragged the boy in and dumped him on one of two beds in the first room, John and Mariana following on his heels.
‘You want to take first shift?’ he said, addressing John. ‘I know he’s tied up, but the little bastard is strong. Like his dad.’ Dornan smiled proudly, but neither John nor Mariana smiled back. He was starting to get annoyed by their reactions. Didn’t they understand that he’d done this out of love for his son? He was the victim here. He’d just had fifteen years of his child stolen from him, and he intended to make up for lost time just as soon as the boy was awake and calm.
Not now, though. There was no calm space inside Dornan Ross. He was crazed. Drunk on death, on killing. He needed Mariana’s softness, needed her around him. Stephanie’s blood was on his hands, soaked into the fibres of his clothes. He just wanted to forget.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said, tugging Mariana from the room. She looked back at John hesitantly, who seemed to want to say something.
‘I’m not gonna kill her,’ Dornan said, looking between the pair. Something was off, and he wondered if it was just him, in the aftermath of what had happened, or if there was something he was missing.
John closed his mouth, and Mariana followed Dornan slowly out of the motel room and into the adjoining room. He closed the door behind her. The room was identical to the other one. Two beds. A minibar. A bathroom.
Perfect.
He turned to Mariana, who was hovering at the door, looking everywhere but at him.
‘Get on the bed,’ he growled, lunging for her. Mariana backed away from him, only stopping when the backs of her knees hit one of the narrow double beds.
‘Baby, you’re scaring me,’ she said, her eyes glassy.
‘Why would you be scared of me?’ he asked, pressing himself against her so she was forced backwards onto the bed. Her eyes lit up and she pushed her palms against his chest, trying to push him off of her. He didn’t like that. It made him mad. Didn’t she want to make him feel better? Didn’t she want to help him forget?
He grabbed her wrists and forced them over her head, using his weight to press her into the bed. Her eyes grew wide as she struggled against his stronghold.
‘Dornan!’ she hissed. ‘What are you doing?’
He laughed. ‘What do you think I’m doing?’ he asked, letting go of her wrists and taking hold of the waistband on her pants, tugging hard until the material slid over her hips and down to her knees. She continued to thrash, but he held onto her hips so hard his fingernails drew blood from her flesh.
‘You’re hurting me!’ she cried, pushing at his chest.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. All he saw was red.
‘Dornan!’ More forceful this time.
‘Shut up!’ he snarled, taking hold of her hips and flipping her onto her stomach. He unzipped his jeans, letting out a breath as he pressed his cock between her ass cheeks.
‘It’s not too late,’ Mariana whispered, her voice shaky. ‘You can stop. I don’t want to do this. You’re not giving me a choice.’
He thought about that choice as he spat on his hand and rubbed between her legs. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I’m not.’
He thrust into her, and she yelled, her sounds muffled by Dornan pushing her face into the pillow.
He pressed his other hand into the small of her back, needing release, needing calm before he snapped again and hurt her. He’d stop soon enough. Just a few minutes, and then he’d stop. She was upset because of Stephanie, but she’d understand. She loved him. She’d want to take his pain away.
She started to really struggle against his hands, turning her head to the side to look at him, and that made him fucking angry. Couldn’t she see, after everything, that he needed her? After everything he’d done for her, after he’d changed his entire existence for her, couldn’t she just shut her mouth and let him give her some of his rage, some of the ache inside him?
He laid over her, his large body enveloping her small one. She softened immediately, as if she were relieved. That made his gut twist, made his veins sizzle. Was she a liar, too? Was she just waiting for the moment when she could stab him in the back and run? He collected her small wrists in one hand and pressed them above her head until she whimpered and pressed her eyes tightly shut.
He barely even heard her gasps. There was only need, thick and present and requiring satiety.
He dragged a hand through her thick, silky hair, stopping at the ends and tugging hard. Mariana didn’t resist his insolent tug, following the movement like a good little kitty so her neck was outstretched, exposed. He imagined biting into her throat like some kind of lovesick pseudo-vampire, but instead he wrapped his hand around her pretty throat and squeezed.
