Cecily’s not moving.
She’s not breathing properly either, considering the blue hue that flares beneath her skin.
Her eyes are fixed on the scene in front of us, but they see straight through it.
The slaps of flesh against flesh overlap with the brutal fucking and the raw gagging. One of her two limits.
Yes, I could’ve just told her about this, but she had to witness the scene for herself.
She had to see that her so-called prince is nothing but a hedonistic motherfucker who fucks more women than Satan himself. He’s insatiable, over the top, and most importantly, he couldn’t give a fuck about her.
She’s the pathetic and desperate one who’s holding him in high esteem when she should’ve cut him loose a long time ago.
I’ve planned to show her this part of him ever since I found out about her fixation on him, but I resorted to following her instead. If not for anything else than to find out her exact relationship with the fucker.
If he used her to spy on me, then I’m not beneath doing the same.
But then I started noticing things about the outwardly boring Cecily Knight. Like her infuriating love for animals, her nerd tendencies, her deliberate façade, but none of those held my attention for long.
What kept me coming back for more is manifesting right at this moment.
She’s zoning out—or more accurately, dissociating.
I know the technical term for it. More than anyone else, I’ve been exposed to this phenomenon since a young age and researched it as soon as I could understand what mental health meant.
Soon after I started following Cecily, I noticed these moments where she’d stare into space in a catatonic state, unblinking, and completely unaware of her surroundings. Her friends or her colleagues at the shelter would call her name and she’d show no sign of hearing them.
It would take them a few tries, snapping their fingers and waving their hands in front of her face to wrench her out of it.
At first, I thought it was an ill-fated coincidence. After all, what are the chances of me witnessing someone suffering from dissociation again?
But the more I watched her from the shadows, the deeper I inserted myself in her life, the surer I was that she definitely has it, and the worst part is that she probably doesn’t know about it.
It’s mild, barely noticeable, and unlike severe cases, she can be brought out by external intervention.
The ghost remains inside her, though.
Lurking beneath her skin, waiting for the time he’ll be able to completely take over.
It’s come back now, right after she threw up.
Her body has stiffened, and she’s no longer staring at her beloved bastard while he’s fucking another girl.
I hadn’t planned to bring her here tonight. I was following her as usual, all the way to her apartment. It’s become a habit to shadow every move she makes, lurk in the darkness, and wait for the ghost to return.
Don’t ask me why. Even I have no fucking clue why I want to tug that part of her out and sink my knife into it.
Or her.
I don’t know which at this point.
However, no matter how many times I follow her home, she doesn’t experience that state. She only slips into it when she’s with friends or sitting alone.
I planned to end the night as usual—watch from afar and gather clues, but then she stuck earbuds in her ears and some assholes thought it was a good idea to follow her.
Only I am allowed to do that.
When she saw me, there was no point in hiding further, and I made a last-minute decision to bring her here. She needed to realize that Landon King isn’t the revered saint she makes him out to be.
He’s a monster like the rest of us—if not worse—and has no business being held in high fucking regard.
But I didn’t think she’d vomit and dissociate at the view.
If it were anyone else, I’d completely ignore her and get on with my day. I have zero interest in people. Especially shady ones who might or might not be getting in the way of my plans.
But something stops me.
The stiffness in her limbs, the freezing state of her face. The bulging of her eyes that nearly pop out of their sockets.
I grab her by the shoulder and shake her, gently at first, but when that doesn’t work, I use more force.
Nothing.
Her gaze remains glued to Landon’s erotic show that he offers to anyone willing to watch.
Motherfucker.
I tug her with me, but I might as well be moving a stone. One that’s planted in place and refuses to move.
So I physically drag her behind me. But no matter what I do, her attention remains glued to the fucker.
I round the table and click the button underneath it that blacks out the scene and mutes the sounds. The painting slides back into place, but Cecily doesn’t snap out of it.
Her bulging eyes that have transformed into a muted green color watch the red impressionist painting with undivided attention.
I fall on the chair and pull on her arm so that she sits on my lap. Her muscles don’t unlock, remaining as stiff as granite, and she’s barely sitting. Her hands are glued to her thighs as if they’re an extension of them.
“Cecily,” I call her name with a firm voice.
She doesn’t show a hint of hearing me.
The Cecily I’ve come to know these past few weeks has sensitive hearing. A misophonia of sorts. She can’t handle a lot of noises and uses sleeping buds to be able to go to sleep.
It’s also how she knows I’m there whenever I couldn’t give a fuck and become sloppy in hiding my tracks. She hears a step or the rev of my bike’s engine, and her ears twitch like a fucking cat—or rabbit.
So it’s not like she didn’t hear me just now.
It’s that she can’t.
My fist clenches before I slowly flex it and force myself to breathe deeply.
Then I tap her on the cheek once. Her pale skin immediately reddens at the impact, and I didn’t even put force behind it.
Still no response.
My hand splays out on her skin, on the redness that spreads all over her cheek and neck. Then I stroke it, sliding my fingers over the tiny freckles beneath her eyes. “Cecily, can you hear me?”
No reply.
I rummage through her bag and retrieve her packet of sugar-free mint gum. I’ve often seen her crunch on these, even during her zoning-out states. The moment I place two pieces at her lips, she gobbles them inside and chews them. Maybe it’s a sense of recognition at something familiar that makes the gum a break from the unusual. It’s robotic, though. As if she’s not aware of the effort.
“Cecily?”
More chewing, but no reaction.
I grab the glass of vodka and place it to her lips. Maybe some alcohol will snap her out of it.
I’d pour it over her head, but that would shock her, and shocks aren’t good for getting someone out of a dissociation episode.
Her lips thin in a line and she swallows the gum. Her mouth doesn’t move, doesn’t allow even a droplet of alcohol inside. So I press on her cheeks in an attempt to make her open up. Her lips part slightly, but not enough.
I take a sip of the alcohol and then use that opening to seal my lips to hers and pour it in her mouth. She shudders in my hold, so I do it again; this time, my lips linger on her full, velvety ones longer than need be.
I bite her lower lip into my mouth, licking and toying with it. My tongue slips inside and latches onto hers, stroking, playing.
My cock twitches and strains against my jeans. Her taste, the flavor of her tongue, the way she slowly melts in my hold boils my blood.
Fuck her.
Finish what you started the last time and show her what it means to be fucked raw.
The beast inside me churns and writhes against its bindings, wanting to sink its teeth into her flesh, rip into her heat, and claim her.
But I force myself to focus on her reaction, on how she lets me kiss her, on how her lips turn pliant beneath mine.
The stiffness in her body slowly subsides. Her muscles loosen, slowly but surely molding into mine.
She even wiggles her ass against my cock, rubbing the tender flesh all over me. My erection grows against her skin beneath her jeans, and all attempts to keep my beast in its bindings wilt.
Cecily picks up her pace, her tongue meeting mine while her eyes remain closed. She lets me ravage her lips, kiss them, bite them, drink the alcohol I poured on her tongue from them.
Her small hands slide up my chest, feeling along the muscles, stroking, exploring as if it’s the first time she’s touching another person. She flat-out dry humps me, sliding her ass up and down my erection, matching the strokes of my tongue.
Her daring, albeit innocent, movements are enough to turn me into a raging animal.
I fist my hand in her silver hair and pull her back, wrenching my mouth from hers and forcing her to pause her ministrations.
“Stop that unless you’re ready to be fucked.”
Her eyes snap open and she freezes again, her bitten, red lips parting.
Not again.
I tighten my hold on her hair. “Don’t go there.”
“Go where?” she whispers as if she’s afraid of the sound of her own voice.
Wherever it is she goes to.
But that doesn’t seem to be the case right now since she just talked. That means she’s just in shock, and not zoning out.
“I…I thought this was a dream.” She avoids my eyes, stares at the ground, and rubs the side of her nose.
My lips curve, but my voice comes out husky. “Do you often dream about kissing and dry humping me, Lisichka?”
“I d-do not.”
“Your stuttering and quick reply don’t play in your favor.”
She pushes against my chest, a futile attempt to make me let her go, but I only tighten my hold on her hair.
“And now what?” she asks with a tinge of annoyance. Which means she’s at least in her right state of mind.
“Now, I ask you questions and you answer them.”
“Can’t we do that while I’m sitting on an actual chair?”
“What’s wrong with my lap?”
“I can feel your…uh, you know.”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you name it?”
She fixates me with a deadly glare but says nothing and quits fighting.
Cecily might be infuriatingly rebellious, but she knows how and when to pick her battles. With my fist in her hair, she’s well aware this isn’t a battle that she can possibly win.
“Why are you interested in me, Jeremy?” Her voice echoes in the silence with resignation.
“What makes you think I am?”
“The fact that you were stalking me.”
“I was keeping an eye on you.”
“Why?” The molten green of her eyes fires up. “Why me?”
“Because you had the audacity to capture my attention.”
“Can I un-capture it?”
“That’s not even a word. And the answer is no. You can’t make me do anything, Cecily. All my decisions are taken inward. Your actions, or the lack thereof, have no influence whatsoever, so don’t act stupid or desperate in order to drive me away. That will only make me retaliate and you’ll be collateral damage.”
A slow fire hums beneath the surface and her temperature rises. “So I’m supposed to take everything you dish out and remain put? That’s not who I am.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Moving on to a more important topic, do you remember what just happened?” I ask with enough nonchalance that it surprises me.
Cecily’s eyes widen and they fall on where she vomited earlier, then back to the painting she watched Landon through.
“You’re sick,” she tells me, lips trembling.
“For showing you Landon’s true nature?”
“For showing me sex.” Her throat works up with a swallow, and she looks nauseated again. “I don’t like looking at it.”
“Is that why you vomited?”
She nods once. “I know. I’m a prude. Ava and Remi tell me that all the time. No need to remind me.”
“You’re not a prude if you like being chased in dark places.”
Her body freezes and that red hue covers her cheeks again. Like the spilling of blood on the ground, her skin flares and heats at an enthralling speed. And then she strokes the side of her nose. “Can you not bring that up?”
“Why not? Are you ashamed of it?”
Her lips part before she seals them shut again and stares sideways.
Hmm. Interesting.
She is ashamed of it.
Cecily doesn’t like having that kink. It probably took her a long time to admit it to herself, and signing up on the app was the first time she’s tried to act on it.
She probably thought the not-so-prince Landon would be able to satisfy her kink and they would ride off into the sunset on his black horse.
“You weren’t so embarrassed when you all but threw yourself at Landon.”
“Lan is different,” she whispers.
“Different.” My voice must convey the dark demons swirling around in my head, because her wide gaze flits back to me. “Different how?”
“Just…different.” Careful apprehension coats her tone. No attempts to soften it or hide a lie.
“You just saw him fucking another girl and you still think he’s different?”
“I knew about that.” She lifts a shoulder. “I know a lot of things about him, and his darkness. I know his preferred methods to purge and his twisted relationship with art and his family. I don’t like him because I have rosy misconceptions about him. I like him because he’s different.”
Different.
Again.
I tug on her hair and throw her off me.
She stumbles but catches herself before she falls to the ground.
“W-what’s wrong with you now?” She watches me with that caution again. As she should.
I’m two seconds away from bashing her head in, and I have to remind myself that I can’t do that.
Unless I’m in the mood to see her brain.
Which isn’t a bad idea, after all. I should see what the fuck is going on in her dysfunctional mind to cause her to harbor thoughts like that.
With one last glare in her direction, I stand up. “We’re leaving.”
She wants different?
I’ll show her what different actually means.
