Read A crown built in blood :: Chapter 7: Tell me to stop

The bar was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock above the door. The neon lights outside buzzed faintly, painting the room in sickly blue and pink hues. Reagan wiped down the last of the tables with slow, mechanical movements, exhaustion weighing heavy in her limbs. Skylar had left hours ago, leaving only her and the dark to keep each other company. She was reaching for the last chair when the door creaked open, the bell above it barely making a sound. She froze. Turned. Saw him. Rocco. Moving through the doorway like he owned the night, boots hitting the floor in slow, deliberate thuds, shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on her with a focus that made her chest tighten painfully. He didn't speak. Just crossed the room, every step a slow inevitability, until he was standing in front of her, so close she could feel the heat coming off his body. She tilted her chin up in silent challenge, but her heart hammered against her ribs, betraying her. His hand came up slowly, fingers rough against her jaw, sliding back into her hair, and before she could think better of it, she grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him down into a kiss that was brutal and bruising, a collision of teeth and breath and desperate need. He answered her with a low growl, hands roaming down her sides, finding the hem of her hoodie and shoving it up over her head without ceremony, exposing the thin tank top underneath. He didn't hesitate. Didn't ask. His fingers slid under the fabric, finding bare skin, mapping her with rough, greedy hands. She clutched at him, yanking at his belt, fumbling with the buckle in her haste, frustration making her curse against his mouth. He chuckled low and rough, batting her hands away and taking over, freeing himself with swift, practiced movements. Her skirt rode up easily as he shoved between her thighs, the thin fabric no barrier at all, and she gasped when his hand slid up the inside of her thigh, pushing her open for him. His other hand came up to her throat, fingers wrapping around her neck in a grip that was rough but not cruel, a silent command, and God, she welcomed it, leaned into it, craved the grounding force of him against her. He squeezed just enough to make her breath hitch, his thumb stroking lightly along her jawline as he held her in place, and she felt herself unraveling already, knees weak, body thrumming with a need so sharp it bordered on pain. His mouth crashed into hers again, teeth scraping her bottom lip as he pulled her tighter against him, the head of him sliding against her slick heat, teasing, waiting, dragging a needy whimper from her throat. He paused, just for a second, his voice a rough scrape against her skin. "Tell me to stop." The words hit her harder than any touch could have. No one had ever asked her before. No one had ever given her that choice. She bared her teeth in a snarl, grabbing the back of his neck and yanking him closer. "Don't you dare," she rasped. That was all it took. He drove into her in one hard, brutal thrust, her body stretching around him, the sudden fullness making her cry out against his mouth. He set a relentless pace immediately, slamming into her with a violence that rattled the glasses behind the bar, one hand still wrapped around her throat, the other bruising into her hip as he held her exactly where he wanted her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back in jagged lines that made him groan into her mouth, the sound raw and broken. She bit at his jaw, his throat, marking him with her teeth, her body arching into him, desperate for more, always more. His grip on her throat tightened just slightly, enough to make her pulse thunder in her ears, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps, every nerve ending in her body set alight. She clawed at him harder, her head hitting the wall behind her as he fucked her like he was trying to drive the darkness out of both of them, their bodies slamming together in frantic rhythm. Her orgasm built like a storm, fast and violent, and when it broke, it shattered her, her body locking down around him so hard it ripped a scream from her throat that she barely managed to muffle against his shoulder. Rocco cursed viciously, thrusting into her one last time before coming hard, his whole body shuddering against hers, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, but she didn't care. She wanted it. Needed it. They stayed tangled together for a moment, gasping for breath, sweat cooling on their skin, the weight of what they had done settling heavy in the charged silence. He pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against hers, his fingers soft now where they brushed her jaw, grounding her, steadying her. "You're not broken," he murmured against her lips, voice low and certain. "Not to me." For one fragile heartbeat, Reagan almost believed him. But then the silence grew too loud, the air too still. The memory of another life, another voice, cracked through her like a whip. Tell me to stop. No one had ever given her a choice before. Not Travis. Not Owen. They had taken, forced, broken. Her body stiffened against Rocco's, the aftershocks of pleasure fading into something colder, sharper. She pushed against him, hard, scrambling back, yanking her skirt down, hoodie dragged over her head with frantic, jerky movements. Rocco straightened, confusion flickering across his face, but he didn't move, didn't stop her. "Don't do that again," she snarled, the words ripping out of her throat raw and bloody, before she turned and bolted, the door slamming open with a bang, the cold night swallowing her whole.

Rocco leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching the door swing shut in Reagan's wake. The silence settled around him again. But he didn't move. He stood there, picking apart every detail. The way her hands had shaken. The sharp, wild edge in her voice when she snapped at him. The way her pupils had dilated - not from lust, but from fear - in the seconds after he gave her a choice. The smell of adrenaline still hung faintly in the air. The twitch of her fingers when she reached for her clothes. The crack in her voice she tried to hide.

He saw it all. Every flicker, every fracture. It wasn't just observation. It wasn't normal. It was something deeper - something colder. A mind that never stopped dissecting, categorizing, understanding. Rocco didn't know why he noticed these things. He just always had. Patterns. Tells. Secrets people tried to hide with pretty faces and practiced lies. He didn't know how to turn it off. He wasn't sure he even wanted to. Rocco tapped his fingers once against the bar, the sound sharp in the silence. There was more to Reagan than fear and fire. Something broken. Something he could see - clear as blood on snow. And something in him - the cold, quiet part - wanted to know why. He smiled to himself, slow and dangerous. Not out of cruelty. Not even out of pity.

Out of interest.

Reagan stumbled up the stairs to the apartment, one hand clutching the hem of her skirt, the other fumbling blindly for her keys, her heart still hammering against her ribs, sweat cooling on her skin in sticky trails. She yanked the door open as quietly as she could, wincing when the hinges let out a betraying squeal. She tiptoed inside, shoes half-off, tank top twisted awkwardly under her hoodie, her hair a wild, tangled mess that still smelled faintly of whiskey and sweat and sex. She thought maybe, just maybe, she could make it to her room without waking Skylar. Big mistake. "Well, well, well," came Skylar's voice from the couch, thick with sleep and far too much amusement. Reagan froze like a kid caught sneaking in past curfew, caught between bolting and pretending to be invisible. Skylar flicked on the lamp, blinking blearily at her, and then grinned like the devil himself. "Jesus, Rae, you look like you just survived a tornado and a bad decision at the same time." Reagan yanked her skirt down farther, face burning, muttering something unintelligible under her breath as she tried to slink past. Skylar wasn't having it. "Is that... is that a love bite on your collarbone?" she cackled, sitting up and peering at her like she was inspecting a crime scene. Reagan slapped a hand over her neck and growled low in her throat. "Shut up." Skylar just laughed harder, flopping back onto the couch and tossing a blanket over her head in exaggerated dramatics. "Don't worry, sweetheart," she called after her, voice muffled through the fabric. "You're still my favorite disaster." Reagan flipped her off without looking back, nearly tripping over her own boots in the hallway, muttering curses under her breath. She wasn't graceful, wasn't elegant, had never been. And right now, she didn't even care. She slammed her bedroom door shut behind her, leaned back against it, breathing hard, heart still thundering, body still aching in places she didn't want to think about. She wasn't sure what the hell had just happened between her and Rocco. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. All she knew was that for the first time in a long time, she felt... something. She just didn't know if it was freedom or the beginning of a whole new kind of cage.

This content is intended for mature audiences for the following reasons.