“I had a new terrace installed yesterday.”
Ira paused, her brow furrowing.
“Or was it the day before?”
Her hand ran through Tristan’s sweat matted locks. “Who cares? It’s just one terrace, but I also had roses woven through it. A bit of color against the ivory.”
Another attempt at pillow talk.
He closed his eyes and chewed on his bottom lip. He turned his head against her thigh, scratching his cheek idly to soothe irritating fluttering in his chest.
Though he had long since stopped counting the days (or weeks) he has been on this Hell-Island, he was sure this was the tenth time she started post-fucking chats. Mundane, stupid, idle talk only reserved for lovers. Not for psychotic, super-powered bitches and their Stockholms suffering captives.
Stockholms.
That had to be it.
He was sure he was amidst an unpleasant episode of the syndrome when he ripped her dress open in the rain. He must’ve been having a critical case of it when they crashed onto the bed, his hips furiously pounding against her bottom, scarred fingers grabbing her shimmering bronze skin. It was the reason that the room was humid and carried the powerful stench of sweat and sex. It was the reason he kept pulling her down to the bed, stripping her of pants, underwear, whatever, and fucking her all over again.
That was the only thing that made sense in this hellhole.
Thankfully, Stockholm Syndrome was not enough to bring him to kiss her. Or for him to accept the enticing touch of her lips on his.
So, she had to contend with one-sided chats and gentle caresses on his back, while he pointedly did not return the favor.
“I also had some wildflowers added, too. Vines with bright blue flowers. Like the ocean. Like your eyes.”
Fuck, what was she on about?
He could hear the small, tender smile in her voice, and his nails tore into the side of his jaw.
“On our next walk, we’ll go there.” She stared out the window, release a puff of air that shifts a stray coil from her eyes. “You need to see the rest of your home.”
He slammed his fists on the bed before gripping the sheets on either side of her thighs.
This isn’t his home!
This was just a room. It was just a goddamn prison cell! So what if it was the second best room he has ever seen? So what if the bookshelf had all of his favorite and he enjoyed the food, the garden view out the window? This was just a dim glamor over the truth. This was HELL; he was in a cage and the way she kept calling it home made his stomach lurch.
This will never be his home!
He grunted as she curled a lock of his hair around her finger, ignoring his obvious discontent. She was daydreaming and whispering sweet nothings like they were lovers again. Like this was anything but just some demented battle between them.
In the place of fighting, they fucked instead.
He was using her as a god damn sex doll, slipping inside of her with the fury of a buck in his rut. She was acting like she didn’t break him into a million fucking pieces. That she didn’t force him together again like a psychotic toddler shoving the wrong fucking shape into an empty spot on a puzzle just pissed him off.
“Of course, not just here. Even I would want to get out of here. Did you know I have business in Argentina?”
She chortled, lifting her head up to gaze out the window wistfully. “It’s beautiful. Mountains and lakes. Once the merchandise is approved, you and I could go eat in one of my favorite restaurants.”
He bet she owned that, too. Probably forced the owner to get high on heroin and sell over his rights for another hit. Maybe married the owner, fucked him, then turned his body into a chum bucket for sharks or piranhas or whatever the fuck is in the god damn Amazon. That sounded more like her. Taking whatever she wanted, no matter how small, no matter how big, the price.
Taking it, smashing it, grounding it.
Then remaking it.
To give to him.
His eyes fluttered, his irritation fading into a soothing lull. That’s right; she wanted to prove her love to him. Anything she had she would give in on a blood coated golden platter, decorated with rubies and diagrams and a ring of intestines punctuated with still beating hearts.
The bitch did not know what love truly was, but as he learned through his brutal imprisonment, she wanted to drown him in it. To suffocate him with his greatest dreams and most disgusting nightmares.
He didn’t believe in whatever she thought love was.
Yet now, naked in his cell, his warden was lavishing him with it.
“If not, South America…maybe Europe. France.” She hummed as he shifted and rested his head back on her lap, the motion pleasing her. “France has so many desserts. You will take lessons and become an even better pastry chef.”
She giggled, filled with wonder. “Make more sweets for me. That…that would be nice.”
This greedy little bitch.
Taking one of the few things in bucket list and dangling it like a carrot slathered in honey. This must be what she was doing.
The stick almost ended with his corpse in a spa.
Thus she was using the carrot; this wistful chat was nothing but dangling carrots in front of a half-dead, fucked up horse.
Her cunt, spasming and splattering all over his mutated body, was a carrot.
She tilted her head, her thumb rubbing against the fresh scratch across his the side of his jaw, “Stop doing this.” Her murmuring voice vibrated through the air. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Only I’m allowed to hurt you…”
He finally pulled himself up from her lap, his fists grabbing the sheets as he glared into her wide eyes. Orbs of blood looked into his own. “Shut. up.”
Those wide pools narrowed; her hand gripped his chin. He could feel her fingers tremble; straining from the instinct to sever his lower jaw from the rest of his face. Her nostrils flared and the crackling embers in her eyes sparked, “Say that again. Test me-.”
“SHUT UP!”
Her eyes widened as Tristan stoked the fire of her temper and pushed through the limits of her magnanimity.
“I’m just sick and tired of watching your mouth move without my dick in it.” He leaned closer. “You’ve been talking nothing but stupid fairytales. Stupid romance shit that you ruined for me!” His forehead butted against hers, electric eyes glaring into fire. “Just stop it. Stop thinking that this will be anything but fucked up. You RUINED me!”
That fire shrank.
This bitch was surprised?
Seriously?!
“Do…do you hate me that much?” Her voice came out in a whisper, shoulders trembling as she released his chin.
His lips pursing before he scoffed. “You’re my Jailer who beats me half to death or you’re just a hole for me to cum into. That’s all you are to me.”
Her lids closed over her eyes, and her head lowered. Her hand gripped the sheets, and she clenched her teeth, mattered curls tittering up and down. Like a fish gasping as it flopped, dying on land. Her lips parted open, only to close, speechless.
Tristan wondered when this would finally happen.
When she finally stopped pretending.
He wondered what would happen. Her moods surprised him. He was so sure that she would’ve long abandoned all pretense and become Wrath. However, she had held back her violence, spread her legs, and accepted his agonizing lust.
He wasn’t sure which he wanted more.
A splayed hole in the bed, gasping and spasming?
A beast ripping his flesh and busting his nose?
Or…or something…someone else?
It was suffocating. Her mouth opening and closing, words she wanted to roar but would not. Punches she wanted to throw, but would not. Scars she ached to leave on his flesh but would not.
She will not do it.
I keep my promises.
I have to keep my promises!
A strangled cry escaped her mouth, and she clenched her teeth, her hand moving up to her eyes. Her vision was hazing, and her eardrums were vibrating so hard it hurt.
It hurt.
This hurt.
This hurts so much.
The electric rage in Tristan’s eyes faded, and he flinched, looking over Ira’s swaying, shivering form. She was in her hell again. The hell she sinks into when reality disagrees with however she thinks the world should work. “…Stop it. You doing your PTSD shit will not change a fucking thing.”
This wasn’t right.
This had to be Stockholms.
It had to be.
Seeing her tremble, watching the tears drip down her cheeks, seeing her sink into that inferno, caused his heart to join her.
He should be elated, right?
He hurt her!
He successfully wounded the bitch!
Yet…this wasn’t right.
He bit his bottom lip, looking down at the sweat-soaked sheets, his fingers scratching his shoulder. Nails cutting in deeper, and deeper, “Ira. Stop.”
“Tri-Tristan…” Her voice was small and quivering; a scared little girl just like in the spa…just like when she tried to drown him.
He stopped scratching, feeling her hand rest on the back of his.
“Don’t-don’t hate me. I n-need you. So don’t hate me-”
He closed his eyes, his bleeding shoulder slouching as well, sinking down from the weight of her touch. “Ira…you’re making it easy for me…”
She sniffed with a snort, though the joy was soaked out of it. “I-I kn-know.”
Of course she did.
She just never cared before.
Right?
Her faced moved closer to his and her bottom lip, luscious and wet, trembled. “Swe-Sweetie…I’m…I’m so…so-”
***
You really need to read "Do You Believe In Magic" by K.M Langley! It's filled with drama, romance, and stars two complimentary personalities that you can't help but root for! Go on and check it out!
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