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He keeps quiet, only that broad chest moving behind me. Unfazed, waiting for me to continue.
“Maybe I was never the innocent girl the world saw. There was always more to me than just a poet’s soul.”
“Hmmm,” he rumbles softly. “A poet’s soul as captivating as those big hazel eyes. I knew your soul before I even spoke to you. Oh, how it hurt to watch you betray your muse like that.”
My head spins as if I were tipsy. An effect of his steady grip on my throat.
“You see, Justine, it’s not that I expected your being to be reduced to the poet. I just didn’t expect you to cheat on your dreams. To give yourself to anyone other than your muse.”
Sade. His name fills my head. It’s him, oh, dear Lord, it’s him.
“Did you think about me, little poet?” he murmurs, confirming my suspicion. “While Posh Boy pounded your pussy and you held on to that headboard, did you imagine it was me doing it?”
“Jesus Chris, Sade, why are you doing this?” I croak.
He releases my throat, and I instinctively pull in a deep breath. The oxygen hits too hard, making me reel on my feet and eventually find balance against his hard body. He removes a leather glove, and I recognize the back of his hand. The heads of snakes with jaws opened towards every one of his knuckles.
Fucking Flying Dutchman, itishim. And he knows exactly what I’ve been fantasizing about all this time. He flexes his fingers, reddish bruises stretching over that fist that can punch its way through walls.
“You shouldn’t have chosen him over me, Justine. Now, we are both going to hell.” He turns his palm to face me. I gasp.
Blood is smeared over the large plane of his hand, crusted over deep, mean cuts. A sharp feeling shoots straight between my legs.
“What the hell?” The words whoosh out of my chest.
“I told you–I wrote the words in blood.” His voice goes even lower. “My blood.”
I’m speechless, staring at what he did to himself. Those cuts will leave scars, his hand is almost maimed.
“Do you want to see what else I wrote for you in my own blood, pretty poet? The kind of feelings that you ignite in me?”
God knows the answer is yes. I want to know everything about every feeling he might have for me, but I don’t dare ask, still fearing that this might be a trap.
Holding the piece of paper with one hand, he produces a Zippo with the other and lights up a flame. He holds it at the corner of the paper until the flame catches, leaving a trail of crumpling black in its wake.
“There’s no purification like verse and fire,” he muses. “When the pain gets unbearable, they do more for us than a hundred hours of therapy. They bring healing. Give respite. They banish the demons that haunt us, even if only for a little while.”
“You are the only demon that haunts me,” I whisper, the flame playing in my eyes, hypnotizing me.
He’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of burning paper filling the hollow darkness around us. The fire reaches his fingers, and my stomach tightens, waiting for him to let it drop. He doesn’t, just watching the flames licking their way dangerously close to his fingers.
“You may have given your virginity to another man, but make no mistake, Justine Pracht. You’re mine. You encourage another guy’s advances again, and there will be casualties.”
Still holding the burning paper in one hand, he lets the other one slip down my body, snaking over the red silk robe toward the apex of my thighs. I look down, watching that large hand with those tattooed snakes slithering down my robe that shines ruby red in the flames. The moonlight flickers and my head whips up. A shadow just crossed in front of the window, and now another. Shit, the flames must have drawn their attention.
“The guards,” I whisper breathlessly, my heart beating harder. I’m not sure whether I’m reacting to the prospect of being caught or of the masked man stopping what he’s doing to deal with the nuisance.
“You better hope they don’t come in here, pretty poet, or you may have to write their obituaries next. I’m sure you’d make eloquent work of it.” His hand slides lower, but at least he lets the paper drop and taps out the fire with his foot.
I resist his touch, even if my thighs are squirming.
“Please, don’t,” I whisper, my eyelids fluttering as I keep my eyes on the window.
Sade doesn’t reply. He just waits, his hand now hovering just above my womb. I can feel the wetness seeping into my panties, this fucked up situation turning on the wanton inside me like there’s no tomorrow. But I can’t.
There’s a truth here I can’t ignore–If I do this, I’ll lose myself to him. It’s the point of no return. If I let Sade Royales fuck me with his dick, he will take my soul like a real-life demon. The energy surrounding him, dark like spreading ink, is ravenous for my soul, ready to fill the entire canvas of it, and that treacherous canvas is dying to soak it in.
And then? It’s not like Sade Royales and I actually have a future.
