When I ran to Colorado, I stopped caring about myself. My hair got weird, and I never wore it down. I got too skinny, too pale. I never did things like wear makeup or buy pretty new clothes. I lived out of a duffel bag, uncaring of how it looked. In short, I survived.
Since being back, it’s been different. I put in the effort—not because I care about looking pretty, but because looking pretty is now a part of that survival. The shiny hair. The makeup. The clothes. These are tools. When I first came here, the sight would meet in the mornings like an alarming surprise each time I looked in the mirror, this new awareness that I’m playing a part.
But at some point, that awareness wore off.
Now when I look at my reflection, I just see someone who’s squirmed their way into a costume they’ve forgotten they’re wearing. In books and movies, there’s the thing a girl does when she loses her virginity. She looks in the mirror, searching for a physical change, some tangible mark of the transition from girl to woman. It’s dumb, and it’s not real, but I find myself doing it anyway, trying to reconcile this person I’ve become; the girl who walked into my stepbrother’s room last night and emerged this morning a woman.
It took me a long time to see it, but now that I do, it seems like having sex with Killian was always strangely inevitable. It was right in all its wrongness, just like these clothes I’m wearing—inappropriate yet perfectly tailored. After all, we’ve been drawn to one another like the hammer to a head of a nail since the night we met over dinner with our parents. The prize of my virginity was something I leveraged to protect myself, but I knew that would run out, and I’d have to give it to someone. Who better than the man I hated most? Yes, that’s perfectly fitting.
That’s not what’s spinning me around. Not the pressure of Killian inside of me, pushing past the barrier I’d held intact for so long. Not the fact he was kind of nice about it. Not even the fact that, despite all my resistance, he somehow made it feel not horrible. No, that’s not what’s changed me the most.
It’s finding out how hard they played me.
I agreed to be their willing slave, but knowing I’ve been an unwilling pawn in their stupid, childish games has lifted a veil. I was foolish enough to think that, despite the contract and abuse, we’d developed a bond.
That’s what I see in the mirror. The reflection of a fool.
Every encounter I’ve had with the Lords was fake, from the meals Tristian so painstakingly chose for me to the soft, comforting safety of Dimitri’s bed. Sure, I’ve been hiding my motive for coming here—for protection from my stalker, Ted—but I signed that contract and I agreed to be their Lady. I stopped fighting back. There for a minute, it’d really felt like things had shifted. It’d seemed as if Dimitri—Rath—and Tristian were men I could curl up against, count on, trust.
How unbearably pathetic.
I stare at the woman in the mirror. The one who just made Killian dinner. The one who’s dressed for his bed. I’m wearing white, sheer lingerie picked out by one of these three sociopaths. I force myself to see the authentic person under the makeup and lace; a woman who knows how to survive.
The Lords aren’t the only ones with secrets. I’ve put up with their deranged behavior because I need them. Ted is out there somewhere, and when I got the package at my mother’s house, I realized he’d found me. Again. I’d met Ted back when I was playing as a sugar baby in high school. I only did it because I was trying to escape Killian and his pervy father, Daniel. Ted worshiped me. Stalked me. Tormented me. He was obsessed with having me and he would go to any length to keep me pure.
Jack, my old roommate, is proof of that. When Ted found out we were close, he killed him, which is why I knew sending him that text last night was firing the first shot.
Ted now knows what Killian took from me, that he made me bleed. And I’m not exactly sure what he’ll do to the Lords, but I know it’ll make them regret toying with me. Until then, I’ll keep to the rules of the contract and be their Lady. I’ll play Tristian’s mind games and help Rath with his schoolwork. I’ll even spend my nights in Killian’s bed.
And then…when Ted is ready to make his move, I’ll watch them burn.
However misguided and stupid it was, until twenty-five hours ago, Rath’s bed had been my psychological happy place. Always so comfortable, plush, and inviting. Killian’s bed is different. Firmer. Colder. His room is a touch too tidy, giving it an eerie impression, as if everything is staged. I lie under the blankets and stare at the perfect line of his shoes against the wall beneath the window, and I shiver, tugging the blanket up. There’s no music. The only noise I can make out is the faraway hum of traffic. I’m not sure how long I lie there, listening. Waiting for the sound of his footsteps. Wondering what he’s going to do to me. Wishing there were somewhere safer in this house to be, even though any bed here is an invitation to shame and hurt.
I don’t mean to fall asleep.
It shouldn’t be so easy here, in this uncomfortable bed, in this cold room. And yet, curled on my side, I find my eyelids falling, the phantom tug of exhaustion pulling me under. It’s effortless to give into it, to hand myself over to the mindless drum of slumber. I don’t know how long I’m like that, but I know I dream.
I dream of quiet breaths that tickle the skin below my ear. A cloud of masculine scent, so thick that I might choke on it. A fingertip against my bottom lip, parting my mouth. Sounds of ticking clocks and rustling fabric. The brush of a hand against my thigh. Cold air and the prickle of my gooseflesh. I dream of whispered words I remember all too well.
“Yeah, you fucking like it.”
His voice floats up to me quieter than it was last night. Barely audible. More distant. And then it morphs into something a little different. New words, spoken from behind me. “I bet you’re nice and wet for me already.”
The dream is thick and hazy, so full of sensation that I can’t help but arch into it. I’m aware I’m dreaming of Killian, of his breath on my neck, of his body being so close that the heat radiates from his skin. I should be disgusted, revolted, cringing away and rousing myself, but the last thing I want to do is wake up. This is the only place that’s safe anymore, lost inside my dreams, letting myself acknowledge the desires that only ever seem to bring me shame and suffering.
Barely half-conscious, I reach down to push my fingers between my thighs, sucking in a breath at the much needed friction. It says something about my life now that I mindlessly pause, some fundamental part of my hindbrain acknowledging that this isn’t allowed—not without their permission.
There’s a rustle, the whisper of a hard exhale, and then Killian’s voice behind me. “You’re dreaming about it, aren’t you?” he’s saying, something both warm and cold—a tongue—grazing the skin above my jugular. “You’re dreaming about being split open on my dick.”
My belly twists with want at the words, at the memory, and I sink deeper into the phantom hands on my body, teasing and toying with my nipples. I can sense the strength in the fingers that tuck below my bottom, fisting into the crotch of my panties, yanking it aside, exposing my heat to the cold. Knuckles against my backside. Fingertips sliding through my folds, prodding, exploring. I unthinkingly push back, seeking the warmth and touch, my breaths coming faster. It’s a good place to be, indulging in the build of my thrumming pulse, the quiver in my thighs, the softness of the whispered words against the shell of my ear.
“Because you’re mine, now.”
I don’t really understand it at first—the pressure against my entrance, the heat of all the skin pushing against my back—until the first sting of pain comes. I think I make a sound, but I feel it more than I hear it. It’s small and pained, but mostly surprised. This is supposed to be a better place. A place without the hurt and agony.
“Shh. You’re still dreaming,” the voice is saying, the pressure digging deeper. “Your pussy’s fucking soaked. That’s how much you want this.”
A hand grabs my thigh from behind, pushing it forward, rolling me almost completely to my stomach. He shifts on top of me, and with one powerful, lurching shove, pushes the rest of the way inside. The intrusion is shocking and sudden, sharply painful in a way that makes me aware my flesh is tearing. Again.
My heart pounds and my eyes fly open, scrambling to acclimate to the dark. The first thing I see is the orange and purple Forsyth flag. The next thing I feel is the punch of a cock—his cock—thrusting in and out of me. I know it’s him. His room. His bed. His scent. His pelvis against my ass. His need for absolute control.
Nothing about this is a dream.
He’s huffing these short, hot exhalations against my neck, his dick relentless in its pursuit as his hips push into mine. “So many times,” he whispers, scoring my shoulder with the drag of his teeth. “I’ve thought about doing this so. Many. Fucking. Times.” The words punch out in time with his hips.
I slam my eyes closed and, like a coward, play dead. It hurts and I can’t process what’s happening fully, the weight of his body surging into me, the way his hand looks, fisting into the sheets beside my pillow, the sound of his panting breaths, the way he’s using my body.
But mostly, I can’t process how good it is.
The arousal from earlier doesn’t fade. Instead, it just builds and builds, swelling inside me until it becomes a struggle to remain limp and passive. I allow myself a little bit—a writhe against him, sleepily wedging my arm beneath my body to touch myself—and hope he doesn’t realize how awake I really am.
Luckily, he doesn’t. “That’s right,” he says breathlessly. “You’re dreaming about this. You want it. You can’t fucking wait for me to fill you up.” His pace increases, the relentless drive of his powerful, athletic body into mine. All-consuming. Completely controlling. Ruthless.
He unleashes with a sharp, guttural growl—the sound of an animal catching his prey. It’s a sound I’m now familiar with, one that will end the physical pain but still leave a wound. He pushes into me hard, shoving me against the mattress, and it makes the heel of my palm grind into my clit, sending me over the edge.
It’s a gentle sort of orgasm—almost painful in its quiet intensity—but it somehow clears the fog of the moment, leaving me with a vivid awareness.
My mouth parts on a soft gasp. “Dimitri…”
Killian goes rigid, even as his cock begins to soften inside of me. His chest heaves as he suspends there, nothing but the sounds of his harsh breaths filling my ear. There’s a long moment where nothing happens, and then he shifts, slipping free and falling away, landing on his back at my side.
The anger radiates from him just as plainly as the cum dripping down my thigh, and for the first time in days, I let myself smile.
It hardens just as fast.
“I’ve thought about doing this…”
Flashes of Killian in my room flicker through my mind. The sensation of being watched. Him sitting in the chair. Jerking off. Standing inches away. Things that I’ve always assumed were dreams, a lot like this one, but far more vague. Killian holding himself, stroking himself, tracing my mouth with his fingertip. The sensation of a tongue against them. Waking up with sticky lips and tasting salt and flesh on the back of my tongue.
It’s going to take more than another man’s name on my lips to even this score.
