And now, I’m left with a pile of broken pieces in my hands where my heart is supposed to be, and I don’t know how to mend it without cutting myself deeper.
"I don't need you, Zade. I don’t need you to do anything for me."
He clutches the back of my neck and pulls me in. "See, that's what we're not going to do, Adeline," he barks, baring his teeth. "We're not going to act like you're so tough that you don't need me anymore. Because you want to know something, baby? There are very few men in this world capable of killing me. And I fucking need you. Do you understand me?"
I grit my teeth, refusing to answer.
"Do you think needing me somehow makes you weak?"
"Doesn't it?" I snap.
"No, baby, it makes you strong.” He bends down, putting his face directly into mine. "I may own every breath in your body, but make no mistake, Adeline, you own mine, too. I am yours to command. To bend and break. To mold and manipulate. Do you think that makes me weak? Or do you think I'm strong enough to admit that even though my body can physically live on without you, I would never get my fucking soul back?”
His hand slides into my hair and fists the strands tightly.
"Without you, I will shatter. But with you, I am indestructible."
I suck in a sharp breath and clench my jaw against the different reactions circulating inside me.
But the most prominent—the worst one—is to do everything in my power to get this man away from me.
My skin bristles beneath his electric touch. Those sparks that used to feel so divine now feel like spikes cutting through my flesh.
“Every single man that laid eyes on you while in that house will die slow fucking deaths. I’ve killed so many already… and it’s still not enough.”
He pulls me into him, and I tense as he wraps himself around me.
So many men have done the same. Sweat soaking my skin as they take my body, their skin sliding against my own. Sliding inside of me. Over me. Around me.
How can he feel like home, feel so safe, yet make me feel like I’m being buried alive?
His lips whisper across my cheekbone, and panic sparks. My breath falls shorter, and my lungs constrict as his other hand reaches up to touch me. I tremble as memories flash through my eyes. Faces, so many faces. Smiling at me as they take from me.
Whispering filthy words from their fucking rotten mouths.
Such a pretty girl.
You’re going to look so good with those lips wrapped around my cock.
Fuck, I could come from just touching you.
These tits are perfect, how much did you pay for these?
I can’t control myself. I need you now.
I can’t control myself.
I can’t control my…
“Let me go,” I whisper.
He stills, his mouth poised over my cheek.
“Stop… stop fucking touching me.”
I hear him swallow. “That’s like asking me to cut out my own fucking heart.”
“If I can live without one, so can you,” I snap.
He’s solid stone as he processes my words. And all I want to do is fucking break it. Make him crumble beneath my fists.
Slowly, he pulls away, his mismatched eyes catching hold of mine.
What does he see when he looks at me?
Does he see the anger churning beneath the surface? Like looking down into the mouth of a volcano to see what the insides look like. Red. So much fucking red.
That’s what the inside of every human looks like—but I’m no longer full of blood. Only fire.
“Do you think of them when I touch you?” he asks, his voice turning hard.
That fire rises, building in the pit of my stomach and ascending up my chest like lava.
Who gave him the right to touch me? Who gives anybody the fucking right to?
The trembling increases until my bones are rattling and my teeth chatter.
Fire.
I move without thinking, my hand wrapping around the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans and yanking it out. The second he realizes what I’ve done, he backs away, raising his hands in surrender.
I point the gun right at his fucking head, and all I want to do is blow it off. All I want to see is his brain explode beneath the bullet.
Because I’m not looking into the face of the man I love.
I don’t see him at all.
All I see is a faceless man trying to take what he wants from me without my permission.
And I want him to fucking burn for it.
Tears build in my eyes, my vision blurring. The gun is vibrating from how hard my hand trembles, but he’s close enough that I’d strike true. Whether the bullet hits his head, his throat, or his chest, I don’t care.