With two more brutal thrusts, he lets out a roar as he explodes inside of me. I feel nothing as he collapses onto me; with each dying jerk of his hips, the extent of the pain becomes apparent when it hurts even to breathe.
Sighing, he finally moves off me, and once his touch is gone, cold air nips at my sweat-soaked skin. It’s cold, but I welcome it, needing to be numb.
“Fuck me,” he gasps, collapsing on our bed. Turning, I take in the terrifying sight of his body through the strands of my damp hair. After nearly two years with him, he’s still the same as when I first laid eyes on him. Just as lethal and feared, though perhaps a little rougher around the edges.
Licking sweat from his top lip, he lifts his hand and crooks his finger. My body tenses. No. No more. I can’t—
“Come here.” When I don’t move, he cocks one eyebrow, and I know it’s his way of silently asking if I dare go against anything he wants.
My body shakes as I rotate, using the wall to keep me upright as I face him. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fallen after his attack.
Dark eyes devour me. I’m naked—his private exhibition. My scars and bruises his art. And he’s proud. So fucking proud of what he’s done to me.
Letting go of the wall, I stumble over to him when all I truly want to do is stab him. Grabbing my sore hips, he sits me on his lap and pushes my hair aside. “What will you do while I’m gone?”
“Nothing,” I whisper as he puts tiny sick kisses along my jaw that only make my skin crawl.
“Oh?” He chuckles. “You’re not going to dream of me, baby girl?”
Heat creeps up my neck. Shit. “Of course, Blake—”
His hand wraps around my neck, fingers clenching against my windpipe. Pulling me closer, he flicks out his tongue and licks me, leaving a trail of cigar-smelling saliva from my chin to my hairline. “You better dream of me, Heidi. Dream of me rollin’ in on my bike in a few days. I want to see you waitin’ and ready for me.”
“Y-yes, Blake.” I hope he crashes on his fucking bike and dies.
“Good girl.” He shoves me off his lap. “Now, get me a drink. I got calls to make before I go.”
Wiping spit from my face, I grab my housecoat from the floor and slip it over my shoulders, groaning from the ache in my bones. As I slip my feet into a pair of slippers, he starts talking on the phone. “Drop the guns off Monday. I’ll be up in Dawlin this weekend, sorting shit out with that fucker Jerome. The boys left this morning. There’s no one here, but Milton.” He lights up another cigar and then stops, eyeing me. Dropping my gaze, I scurry out of the bedroom, and as I make my way through the club, I cringe at the state of it. The place is trash. Alcohol and stale smoke linger in the air from last night’s party, empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays filling this pit that I call my prison.
There was a fight—a brawl between two men over a new girl named Florence. Like madmen, they couldn’t seem to grasp that she is to be shared. Blake allowed the fight to go on longer than it should have for entertainment. It’s made the place extra messy, tables and chairs toppled over, with sprays of blood on the floor.
I let out a sigh, knowing Nicole’s meant to clean the place before Blake comes out and sees. He’ll beat the crap out of her if it’s not done, hard on her the most. After failing to give him the money owed for the heroine she took from him, he doesn’t trust her.
I find her curled up on the floor passed out as I’m heading into the kitchen. Seeing her soaked in vomit with her panties twisted around her ankles drives that knife further into my heart. Because no matter what she did and how much I despise her, she’s still my sister, and I hate seeing her like this.
“Nicole. Get up.” I nudge her with my foot, and she groans. Still alive—though I’m not sure how with all the puncture holes from needles dotting her arms. An addiction she hid from me when she could have told me. I would have helped her.
“Fuck off,” she slurs, drunkenly flapping out her arm, I think to hit me. Cracking her eyes open, she stares up at me blankly, not recognizing me. She never does when she’s like this.
“You need to clean the place,” I tell her, wishing I could be strong enough to let her stew in her filth and not care about her. She doesn’t deserve it. Not by how she treats me—the drugs stealing her humanity and replacing her with a creature that would do anything for a shot of it.
“You clean it,” she sneers, saliva dribbling down her chin. She doesn’t even wipe it away. That’s how much of a mess she is. Cruelly smirking, she adds, “Princess.”
So she does know it’s me.
Squaring my shoulders from her taunt, I step over her and go into the kitchen, ignoring her cackling behind me. She won’t follow. She can’t even stand, and Blake will beat her before he leaves. Hopefully, bad enough that I won’t have to see her for the weekend while she heals.
Shutting her out, I take my time making Blake’s drink, not in a rush to
