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He grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head, his fingers digging bruises into my skin. I gasped. God, it felt good.

He leaned down, lips rough on my jaw, then lower, biting my throat until I whimpered. “Say it,” he growled, his breath burning hot against my ear. “Say you want it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

I moaned, writhing under him. “Fuck me, Malakar. Please. I want it.”

He dragged his tongue down my chest at a slow pace. He licked around the healed cut on my chest where he carved his name when I first arrived here.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice full of awe and violence. “Fucking beautiful. You belong to me.” I nodded, because I did. Because he made sure I had nothing left. Even my defiance was something he wrung out of me and devoured.

His mouth moved lower, biting and licking, marking every inch of me. He bit my nipple, hard, twisting it until I whimpered. My thighs clenched around nothing. I was so damn wet it hurt.

He grinned and slapped my inner thigh. It echoed in the room, like gunfire, like thunder. “Spread,” he rasped.

I spread.

He shoved my legs wide, hands bruising my flesh. His fingers found my pussy, spreading the lips open and spitting directly onto my clit. The mess, the heat, the sickness of humiliation. I wanted it all. The more he treated me like a thing, the more alive I felt.

“Good girl,” he said. “So wet for my cock. So needy for it.”

I couldn’t answer. The words clogged in my throat. I wanted to beg, to scream, to tell him to fuck me until he erased all those other memories, all those hands and voices and the darkness under my skin.

His fingers found my clit and rubbed it. I cried out, my back arching, wrists straining against his grip. He pressed down harder, rough circles, until I was whimpering, drooling, shaking.

I shivered. I could feel the memories slithering. The old ones, my father’s hands between my legs. The way he hissed at me to hold still. The way he called me babygirl and told me it was special. The shame, the disgust, the horror. I wanted to drown it out. I wanted Malakar to burn it away.

He yanked my hips down the bed, quick and rough. His cock was thick and already leaking, veins coiled under the skin. I remembered being with Milo and fantasizing about his cock back then. Milo ignited something dangerous and feral inside of me. Malakar was Milo. Milo was Malakar. Could it still be the same?

I tried not to think about when he raped me. That was bad Malakar. It wasn’t him. That’s what I told myself. Yet, there was a voice inside of my head that whispered things. He’s dangerous. He’s a monster. There’s no light yet. He’ll kill you just like he killed all those other girls.

The voice in my head would not stop. It screamed warnings, whispered filth, dragged me through old nightmares. I hated it, but I listened. I always listened. That was what girls like me did. We listened and obeyed, even while we fantasized about fighting back.

He moved between my legs, gaze burning straight through my soul. My breath stuttered, caught on the edge of memory, but I didn’t pull away. I wanted it. Needed it. There was something unhinged in the way he pushed my legs open, in the wild hunger on his face. He looked like he wanted to eat me alive.

He pressed his mouth to my skin, biting and sucking his way up my thigh. I whimpered. My hips bucked, and the darkness inside me shivered, greedy for more.

He spit onto my cunt, then slathered the mess everywhere with his mouth. His tongue was rough, inhumanly violent, licking up and down my clit until I screamed. He shoved two fingers into me, stretching me wide, pounding them in over and over. The noise echoed in the room.

My whole body clenched. He worked his face and hand at the same time, relentless, hungry, like his life depended on making me come. I wanted to jerk away, but I wanted it too much.

He yanked his mouth away, breathing hard. His eyes were black. “You like that, bluebird?”

I moaned, so loud it hurt my throat. “Yes. Yes, please, don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck, fuck, please I need it, I need you to keep going.”

The words didn’t even sound like me. But they were. It was me now. Only him and me and the dark.

He slapped my clit, sharp and stinging. I yelped, twisted, but his arm banded across my hips, holding me still. He spat on me again, then dove back in, tongue flicking mercilessly over the throbbing ache. The rhythm was perfect. I jerked, moaned, begged.

He didn’t let up. He circled my clit with his tongue, then bit down on it, just enough to make me cry out in pain. He wanted my screams. He wanted me sobbing. He dug his fingers deeper, twisting, curling, scraping against the place nobody else had ever found.

My father’s hands flashed through my memory, but I buried the image. I wanted to scream in his face. I’m not a child anymore. You can’t hurt me here. Malakar was not my father. Malakar was not him, not really. He was the monster I chose.

The orgasm barreled through me, ripping the sound out of my lungs. My cunt clenched tight around his fingers.

He didn’t slow down. He kept his fingers moving, pushing up inside me, mashing my clit with the heel of his palm. My hips bucked. I tried to squirm away, but he just pinned me tighter, body heavier than stone. I cried out again, the sound choking in my throat.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “You don’t stop until I say so.”

He shoved my legs even wider, one big hand hooking behind my knee, exposing every shaking, dripping inch of me.