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I nuzzle my nose into her neck, ignoring the clench in my stomach. “Yes, we fucking can,” I remind her. Her doubts about me have started. I knew this was coming. The bliss of having her to myself could never last. She’s quiet and contemplative now, scanning my face, looking for any sign of sanity, which I’m not sure either of us fully possesses right now.

I’ve got news for you, sweetheart… I’ve always been fucking crazy.

My body is pressed over hers, and I finally take off my sweater so I can feel her skin against mine. My finger finds her lips. “You really fucking pissed me off today.” All this talk about going back to the others. I can never go back there… That’s where it is—Maison’s grave—as if he doesn’t haunt my thoughts enough.

I kiss her, drawing it out, soft and sweet, before I pull up and look at her, my fingers reaching for her backside. “Do you want me to fuck you now, sweetheart? Like, really fuck you the way I think you want me to?”

She blinks twice, and her lips part. Her mind is on overdrive before she gives me the little nod of consent I was waiting for. It’s time to unleash the demons within me because I think that’s exactly what she needs to get the spark back she’s been missing.

She arches her hips beneath me, raising one leg so it wraps around me. “Are you going to hurt me?” she whispers.

I perch myself on my elbow and arch an eyebrow at her as a wicked grin crosses my face. “Who said anything about hurting you? I don’t plan on hurting you at all.” I reach over and grab an old crappy T-shirt, using all my strength to rip it in two as she shuffles to the edge of the bed, pulling her knees to her chest and watching me, her matted hair falling down to her breasts.

She’s never looked so fucking beautiful.

I grab my fishing wire and run my hand along her cheek as she parts her rosy lips for me. “Close your eyes, baby, and open your mouth.” She hesitates only for a second before her mouth falls open and her tongue slips out. I place a gag in her mouth, then rub my hand down her neck. “I want you to learn what suffocating really feels like…”

Chapter Seven

London

Today was hard.

Maison consumed my thoughts, and I cried for three hours straight, thinking about him, allowing myself to miss him. I waited for as long as I could, out by the snowy creek, until my toes were tingling and had lost all sensation, because this was the only time I could truly grieve him without Micah stealing my thoughts and dominating my reality. Even if it was pointless because it’s not like I’m any better, and I knew Micah would be angry with me for leaving, which is absurd considering he was gone for hours, too. I needed to heal, and while I knew Micah wouldn’t like it, I needed to try.

At this point, I’m not sure who’s sicker, me or Micah. I should say no to him, stop him from hurting me and shoving a gag in my mouth. Because I’m not sure this is something people our age are supposed to do, let alone admit that it excites me. Micah’s been breaking down these past couple of weeks, and seeing emotions inside him, anger or otherwise, is still better than watching him sitting by himself, carving wood and barely sleeping.

I enjoy the way he looks at me and how my heart pulses when he’s enraged, foaming at the mouth, staring down at me like I’m food. He isn’t Prince Charming—far from it—but he’s my version of it. My body serves as his connection to reality, preventing him from descending into the abyss of his tormented thoughts.

I relax my body, allowing myself to go slack while he manhandles me. Fighting Micah is futile as he holds my belly down with one hand. I lie in horror as he effortlessly grabs my wrists, wrapping a wire around them and tying a knot, like he’s used to kidnapping women on the regular.

I take a second to process what he’s doing, the fact that he’s actually restraining me. Heat pools between my legs and a flush hits my cheeks at how turned on I am by this. Of course, I am, because it’s Micah, and I’ve been attracted to him from the moment I laid eyes on him. The depth of my trust in him is evident in my desire to please him by letting him do whatever he wants to me.

He slowly and methodically positions me in a way that suits him. My legs spread open, my knees up, my arms bound behind me, and my body put on display and vulnerable, reminding me of the first time he ever fucked me while I was in his brother’s arms. He bites his lip, taking in my pebbled nipples. He grabs me and gives my ass a little smack. “Stay here, London. Don’t fucking move an inch. I want to admire you for a bit, baby.” His breath is raspy as he says it.

I stay deathly still, lying on the soft, furry wolf blanket he made me, but keep my eyes locked on him. Whatever he has planned, he isn’t in a hurry. He moves to the fireplace, throwing on a log and some fuel so the flames ignite and blow up. Heat rises to my face, and it’s a welcomed sensation in contrast to the chilliness lingering in the air. His muscles ripple beneath his smooth, olive skin under the darkening sky and flickering firelight. He emulates everything that is this cabin, shrouded in obscurity.

My god, he’s sexy.

He isn’t in a good headspace. His eyes are shadowed, like liquid onyx, and he appears disconnected from the world around him, except for his singular focus on me. I haven’t seen this side of him in a while, and I’ve only ever experienced it once. Something must have happened today beyond my need for a moment away from him.

He’s hurting… so deeply. I am part of the reason why he’s hurting, although there is nothing I can do to change that other than show him I am here for him in all the ways he needs me to be.

My hand starts to throb, so I shift a little, just enough to ease the pressure. He’s tidying the cabin now and pauses at my shifting, tilting his head as he beholds me. “I told you not to fucking move, London.”

I freeze, my heart pattering, and I swallow a lump in my throat. The way he says it, I don’t recognize him right now. Or maybe I do… It was his darkness that originally drew me to him; I was attracted to his story when I agreed to come on this trip to begin with. I plead through my eyes as he pierces me with a dark stare, then continues cleaning, ignoring me.

Obsessively cleaning.

I shift again, my hand now on fire. He walks over to me, crawling onto the bed and finally giving me the attention I’ve been begging for since he started admiring me.

He draws his chin to the side. “Does your hand hurt, baby?” he asks darkly.

Now he cares? I dare not tell him to stop, even though I should, because Micah doesn’t make idle threats. I don’t tell him my hand is throbbing, shooting pain into my shoulder. I’m not sure how far he’s going to take this.

Would he stop?

He ponders for a moment. “Do you want me to untie you, London?”