“Let me suck your cock,” I gasp as his aggressive hands rip my dress up, leaving my arse exposed to the air.
“Yes,” he hisses and steps back so I can finally breathe again.
He moves over to press the radio on as I take in a deep lungful of air as he completely drops his trousers. My knees hit the floor automatically and I have to swallow hard against the wave of disgust that threatens to rise up my throat. It sits there, heavy and choking, as I stare at his boner. Daniel starts pleasuring himself, undiluted lust burning in his eyes as he licks his lips and looks down at his dick like it’s an offering I should be excited about.
I’m not.
I never am.
“Want me to paint that pretty little cock red?” I lick my lips, trying to force the look of lust back into my expression as a flicker of humour threatens to break through at how I emphasised little.
“Yes, be a good girl,” he steps closer as I quickly move my eyesight to my clutch that was thrown on the floor when he pushed me. I scramble for it.
“What are you doing?” he barks
“Getting my lipstick, gorgeous, you’ll look so good covered in it.”
He smiles a sly, disgusting smile, and I realise with a jolt that it’s nothing like Roman’s smile. My hand reaches in my bag as my fingers close around the familiar shape of my Dior lipstick. I make my way back over to him, my head tilting back as he continues to pleasure himself in front of my face. I twist the lipstick without looking at it. There’s a soft click as the mechanism shifts, and the blade slides free so smoothly it almost feels like an extension of me.
This time there’s no hesitation or second thought, I move as fast as possible. Faster than he can process or react to. The slice is clean and precise as the blade sinks in. I can feel it meet resistance that makes my grip tighten before it finally gives way. I push the blade through with sickening pressure before there’s a muted, wet pop that lands somewhere between a sound and a sensation.
For a split second, nothing happens.
Then everything does.
Blood surges out in a violent rush, it feels hot as it splatters across my hands, chest and face. I gasp as I jerk back, the force of it catching me off guard even though it shouldn’t. He stumbles, a strangled sound tearing from his throat as his hands scramble trying to stop the bleed. It’s useless.
I push myself up, slipping slightly as I force distance between us. My pulse is hammering too loudly in my ears, drowning everything else out as I wipe at my face with the back of my hand, only to make the blood splatter worse.
I watch as he falls to the ground, my chest rising in quick succession as I move to the bathroom to try and wash the blood, but it’s no use.
God damn it.
I turn, crossing the room in quick strides, my hand already reaching for the door, my fingers slipping slightly on the handle before I wrench it open?—
My heart free-falls.
“Hello, Tinkerbell.”
CHAPTER 20
FAE
“Ro… Roman,” I stutter, my mouth opening and closing like I can’t quite catch up with what I’m seeing.
He moves before I can think, stalking forward and kicking the door shut behind him with a force that rattles through the room. Roman barely spares a glance for the man still twitching on the floor as the rage rolls off him in thick, suffocating waves. It is as if the air has turned electric and I’m stood right in the middle of his storm.
“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” The words come out fast as I take tentative steps back into the room.
“Well, imagine my surprise when I come home and find my wife sneaking out like a fucking burglar in a dress that screams job,” he spits out. Each one of his words comes out sharp and deliberate, like he’s been holding them in place before they snap.
I barely hear anything after one word.
Wife.
It hits me harder than the sight of him standing there. Harder than the body on the floor. Harder than the blood drying on my skin. For a second, everything inside me just… stops. Wife.
My brain latches onto it and refuses to move past it, like if I stare at it long enough it will change into something safer. Something smaller. But it doesn’t. It stays there, feeling heavy and impossible, as it drags every thought down with it. Wife means being chosen. It means belonging. It means permanence. It means him saying mine in a way that feels terrifyingly real. No one has ever looked at me and spoken about keeping me like it is the most natural thing in the world. No one has ever made something so dangerous sound so close to hope.