Annika has been silent ever since I carried her to the house.
She didn’t release a sound when I put her down in front of the shower, but she did close the door in my face.
The chances of me breaking that door and claiming her against the floor like a savage animal were close to one hundred percent, but I repressed the compulsion.
One, I didn’t like the sad look in her eyes.
Two, I’m spiraling out of control.
I feel it, smell it in the air, and can sense it crashing against my rib cage.
When I first came up with this plan, I thought of owning her, making her pay. Taking my vengeance while keeping her.
And while that plan is still up and running, something’s changed.
I didn’t count on seeing her again. Really seeing her.
In her purple dress, dainty shoes, and looking like sunshine and unicorns. I was blindsided by her violet perfume. Always violets.
Violets. Violets. And more bloody violets.
They seep beneath my skin, ripping the tendons apart and settling in the marrow of my bones.
I didn’t count on hearing her soft voice, moaning, begging me to slow down.
To let her go.
That won’t be fucking happening.
I strip and step into the downstairs shower, letting the icy cold water wash over me.
Every nook of my body vibrates with the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her whimpers that might as well be singing lullabies to my beast.
And violets.
Fucking violets permeate the air, clashing with the smell of the sea.
I’ve been imagining her naked and sometimes bound to my bed ever since I woke up in the hospital.
One fantasy turned to a hundred, then a thousand, overlapping and spiraling out of control until I became unhinged.
Which is probably why I acted in pure caveman fashion when I fucked her so mercilessly just now.
But she’s the one who wouldn’t shut up and kept talking about leaving and entertained the thought of another man.
Another. Fucking. Man.
I slam my fist against the wall, the cold water doing nothing to dissipate my blazing libido or simmering rage.
After a few more futile attempts to calm the fuck down, I step out of the shower, put on some shorts, and storm upstairs.
I turn the knob to the bedroom, only to find it locked.
My fist clenches around the damn object, but I force myself to sound neutral. “Open the door.”
Nothing.
I bang on the wooden surface. “I know you can hear me, Annika. Open up.”
No answer.
“If you think a door can stop me…”
“Leave me alone!” she shouts, her voice on the edge before it turns brittle. “Please.”
I don’t like how she sounds.
It’s pulling on that corner in my heart that has her name splashed all over it.
I’ve never heard Annika so broken, but ever since she pointed that gun at me, she’s been slowly but surely losing her spark, her cheerfulness, and what made her who she is.
She doesn’t even post on social media anymore, and when she does, they’re no longer those happy, sunshiny, life-filled photos. They’re more about ballet practice, shelters, and others.
She’s more interested in posting about the homeless and the people who volunteer with her—including an older-looking fucker who’s often super-glued to her side.
And she actually smiles at him.
And she called him her sanctuary in one of her posts.
I contemplated killing him before I flew her out of the US, but that would have hindered this plan, so I went with a priority concept.
The wanker is still at the top of my shit list, though.
“You have until the count of three to open the door before I break it down.” My voice sounds harsh, cold, and nonnegotiable.
The type of voice I had before I let her in, before I allowed her to have a piece of me that she conveniently decimated.
“I just need time alone,” her muffled voice comes from the other side.
“One, two—”
I’m about to ram my shoulder against the door when it opens and she appears at the threshold.
All small and broken. All sad and fucking petite.
She’s wearing a bathrobe, her face makeup-free, which makes her look younger, and her half-damp hair falls over her covered round breasts.
And my necklace.
She’s still wearing the necklace I gave her for her birthday. When I saw it back on the plane, I nearly lost it. For some reason, I thought she’d try to erase every memory of me, but maybe that’s not the case.
I expect rage at worst and annoyance at best, but when her bright blue-gray eyes meet mine, there’s nothing there. They’re aimless, dim, and absolutely muted.
They look creepily similar to my eyes when I first escaped that hellhole as a kid.
Back then, I didn’t look in the mirror for months, because the reflection I saw in there was no different than a monster and it rattled the fuck out of me.
“Shouldn’t you try to not hurt your shoulder…?” Her dispassionate words trail off when her vision zeroes in on the souvenir she gave me.
Her lips part, trembling as she studies the gash on my chest. It’s a red, ugly hole that Mum and my nan suggested I get plastic surgery for.
A suggestion I promptly dismissed.
I’m glad I did, if not for anything else, then for the whirlwind of emotions that dance in Annika’s eyes.
She’s no longer numb, dull, and lifeless now that her feelings pour out in a splash of colors.
Her shaking hand reaches out for the wound, but I grab her wrist, stopping her halfway.
“Who gave you permission to touch me?”
She jerks, lips pushing and falling in an O as she trembles. “I…”
“You’re what? Trying to finish what you started by actually killing me this time?”
“I never wanted to kill you. If I did, you’d be dead already. I told you I don’t miss, but I tried to, even when I wasn’t thinking straight.” A sob tears out of her throat. “I only wanted to stop you.”
Using my hold on her wrist, I push her back, my chest rising and falling in harsh breaths.
Annika stumbles backward and winces, her face scrunching as she lifts her foot off the ground.
I pause, and all the anger I’d planned to unleash on her dissipates into a much more prominent feeling.
The need to protect her.
The fuck is wrong with me? She shot me and all I want is to remove anything that hurts her. All I want is to keep her safe from the world.
But not from myself.
I inspect her foot that she’s resting on her calf. “What is it?”
“N-nothing.”
“Annika, don’t fuck with me. What’s wrong?”
She stares up at me with those round eyes, so big and tormented. “I think I cut my foot earlier, but it’s not a big deal—”
Her words end in a yelp when I carry her bridal style to the bed. The moment I drop her on the mattress, she stands up again.
“I-I’m really fine.”
“Sit the fuck down.”
At my order, she flops down on the bed and that’s when I go to the bathroom and retrieve a first aid kit.
A strange feeling grips hold of me when I find her in the exact position I left her in, her eyes focused on the bathroom door.
I kneel in front of her and place her leg on my thigh to inspect the sole of her feet. Sure enough, there are some bloodied cuts, and while they’re not too deep, they would definitely be a hindrance.
Due to her ballet passion, Annika never, and I mean never, allows her feet to get hurt. She told me I could flog and spank her anywhere, but her feet were off-limits. The closest I could get to them was binding her ankles.
So to see her this fucking careless about them makes me murderous.
I retrieve a bottle of oxygenated water and clean the cuts on both her feet and then start to apply ointment.
“Next time you hurt yourself, I swear to fucking God…” I trail off at the strained sound of my voice.
The more I touch her, the faster pain and fucking rage consume me.
I feel the tremor in her body before her soft voice fills my ears. “I didn’t mean to. I only wanted to…”
“Escape,” I finish for her. “That won’t be fucking possible.”
“My dad will come for me,” she murmurs, but it doesn’t sound like a threat, more like she’s informing me of facts. “He’ll find me and you, and when he does, this will end badly.”
“This island isn’t on the map, and I left all your belongings back in the States. He won’t be able to locate you.”
Silence stakes claim as I continue lathering the cream on her cuts without looking at her.
After a moment, her gentle voice reaches me again, all elegant and melodic and made for me. “What do you plan to do with me, Creighton?”
“Keep you.”
“And then?”
“There’s no then.”
“How long do you intend to keep me?”
“There’s no time limit.”
“So we’ll live on the island for the rest of our lives?”
“If need be.”
“You can’t do that.” Her voice becomes panicky. “We both have lives, families, friends, a future.”
“A future where you’ll be married to someone else will not fucking exist, Annika.” I shut the first aid kit closed, about to stand up and cool myself before I act on the dark thoughts rushing wildly in my head.
A gentle palm falls on my chest, stroking the healed bullet wound, touching, trembling, exploring. “Does it hurt?”
“It does.” I grab her hand and slam it on the thundering organ next to it. “Right fucking here.”
“I’m so sorry.” She lowers herself so she’s on her knees facing me and I’m greeted by the pained tears that roll down her cheeks. “I know nothing I say would undo what happened and no excuses would justify it, but I want you to know that I hated myself every day since then. I couldn’t sleep, eat, or breathe properly and was only able to survive thus far after knowing you were safe. I’m so, so sorry, Creighton.”
“Apologizing isn’t enough.” I dig my fingers into the back of her hand. “You have to make it up to me for the rest of your life.”
She breathes heavily, the sound echoing in the air. “If I do, will you let go of your grudge?”
“Don’t worry yourself about that.”
Her eyes shine with that irritating defiance. “You can take your rage out on me all you like, but I won’t allow you to use me to bring my family down.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
She starts to stand up, but I shove her back against the mattress.
And before she can move, I fling the side table’s drawer open and retrieve my ropes and special toys I prepared specifically for her.
Annika’s eyes widen and she struggles against me, but it’s futile. “I did nothing to be punished for.”
“Let’s count what you did wrong. Aside from shooting me, you left.” I strap her hands to the bedpost. “You up and disappeared, leaving me for dead.”
Her fight slowly withers. “I didn’t want to. Papa made me.”
“I’m sick and tired of your father.” I move to her ankles, binding them to the foot of the bed.
She tests the ropes but knows better than to pull on them since they’d only tighten. “Is that why you’re so mad? Because I left? I wasn’t really allowed to visit you, but I wanted to, Creighton. If it were up to me, I would’ve never left your side. Even if I was locked up for it.”
“Is that why you went back to the States ready to marry the first son of a bitch your father chooses for you?” I stand at the foot of the bed and finger a toy, then turn it on. “Is he the older fucker you always smiled at and called a sanctuary?”
“What? No—” Her words end in a moan when I thrust the toy deep inside her cunt and push the vibrator extension against her clit.
The belt of her bathrobe comes undone beneath my ministrations. She arches off the bed and the ropes pull her back down. A pink tit teases from beneath the fabric, the nipple puckering and tightening for attention.
But that sight is not enough.
Nothing is enough when it comes to this girl.
I’m plagued with this need to brand myself on and beneath her skin, so she can’t breathe without feeling me.
So she’s unable to breathe without me.
Unable to exist if I’m not there.
I want her to feel the fucking pain I felt when I woke up and found out she’d left.
I retrieve the plug and her eyes widen as she fights against the ropes. My movements are methodical as I coat it against the juices that are gushing out of her cunt.
It takes everything in me not to replace the toys with my aching cock. But it’ll happen.
In time.
“Bet your arse missed being spanked, little purple.”
A moan is all the response I get as I plunge the plug into her back hole. The sound turns to a whimper when I jostle it inside, on and on just to fuck with her.
When she’s gasping, her skin becoming pink in preparation for an orgasm, I release the toy. “Do not come.”
I engrave my order with a slap to her arse then I go to the wardrobe.
Annika writhes, trying and failing to create more friction due to her position, but her gaze follows me.
My fingers splay around a leather belt and I do a slow show of rolling it around my fist as I stalk back to the bed. Annika’s struggles come to a halt, her lips part at the object, and a flush covers her skin in red.
“You think you can move on that easily? You think I’d let you?” I expose her perky tits and bring the belt down on the hard tips.
She convulses, arching before she’s held down by the ropes.
“Ack—” Her expressive eyes meet mine, pleading, begging, imploring. “Don’t…Creigh…”
“Don’t call me that.” Two successive whips come down on her breasts and pussy, causing her to yelp and sob. “You lost the right to call me that.”
Tears stream down her cheeks even as her holes open and close and stretch and beg against the toys. I bring up the intensity enjoying the sight of her cum all over the mattress. I’m going to make her drench the sheets on and on until she’s all spent.
I whip her in rhythm with the vibrator and she cries out as the orgasm is wrenched out of her.
“You didn’t deserve that, but I will torture you with it.” I hit her across the pussy and turn up the speed of the vibrator.
Every time an orgasm is dragged out of her, she breaks out in sobs, writhing and causing the binds to tighten against her porcelain skin.
Skin that’s filled with my marks, all red and angry and mine.
Her face is flushed, streaked with tears and sweat that rolls down her neck and coats her body.
With each orgasm, she grows lethargic, all pumped up to the brim with an overload of stimulation. Every time I think she can’t come anymore, she does, with a low moan and a jerking of her hips.
But not once does she beg me to stop. She takes it, every depraved part of it. Her eyes even shine with desire whenever I whip and force orgasms out of her.
This girl was made for me. Her submissiveness is everything I’ve ever yearned for. Everything I wanted.
But something about her eyes bothers me. They’ve gone back to that sad state, the absolutely dim and lifeless state.
I undo her bindings and she flinches every time my skin meets hers. Considering the number of orgasms I pulled out of her, any touch must feel like lightning.
Annika slumps on the bed, her lips parted and dry. She’s definitely dehydrated. Is that the reason she’s lifeless?
I turn off the toys and remove them from her.
She whimpers but doesn’t attempt to move, drowning in a puddle of her own arousal.
I planned to finish this by having her admit she’s wrong, and saying she’ll choose me this time, but something tells me this isn’t the right moment for that.
“Are you done?” she whispers in a hoarse, raw voice.
“I’m only getting started.”
“Stop this madness.”
“Beg.”
“Please.” She sniffles.
My muscles tighten and the healed bullet wound burns. “You’re begging for the wrong reasons. You’re begging for your family when you should be begging for me.”
“I can’t just cut myself off from them.”
“You can. I’ll make it happen.”
Her chin trembles and fresh tears stream down her cheeks. “This isn’t the Creighton I know. This isn’t the man I fell in love with.”
Her sadly delivered words and the anguish behind them wrap a noose around my neck.
She hates that she loves me—or loved me. And I want to bathe in the blood of whoever changed her mind.
Of whoever made her dig a knife, or more accurately, a bullet, into my chest.
“The Creighton you knew was shot dead by you.”
“Creigh…”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“But—”
“Shut up and listen well, Annika. You’ll never get rid of me unless you shoot me again. But this time, make sure you aim straight at the fucking heart.”
She cries harder.
I pretend her tears don’t affect me as I hydrate her, make her eat, bathe her, and let her fall asleep cocooned in my chest.
With a knife in the bedside table. A knife she can grab at any moment and use to kill me for real.
If she does, then so be it.
Because I meant it. Death is the only thing that will keep me away from her.
