Page 2 of Always A Villain (Revenge Duet #2)

T en stitches later, she’s passed out in the passenger seat.

She looks…calm. The doc gave her something strong for the pain, and now it’s doing its job. Her dark lashes brush against her pale skin, lips barely parted, the bandage hiding the gash on her head.

Fucking hell.

I watched her fall. Watched it happen, and I froze.

Me. Frozen. Like some useless fucking kid again.

One second, she’s there. The next, she’s on the ground, broken and bleeding.

And I just stood there, a goddamn statue.

The sickening sound of her body hitting the floor still echoes in my skull, tearing through me and trying to gut me from the inside out.

It felt like…Lucas.

All I could see was him falling—slipping right through my fingers—then gone, smashed into the rocks below. I felt it all over again. Helplessness. Terror. The sick twist of guilt. I couldn’t save him. And for one horrible fucking second, I thought I couldn’t save her either.

My hands clench around the steering wheel, knuckles white.

That fear, that paralyzing, breath-stealing fear—never thought I’d feel that again.

But there it was, back to choke me, drown me with a vengeance.

And now, driving, watching her sleep, that same ache, that same raw fear, still hasn’t let go.

I care about her. More than I should. More than I’m fucking allowed to.

Feelings are a fucking liability. I buried them long ago, and they’ve got no place here. No place in me. Every emotion is just one more way to fuck up, one more thing that could get me—and her—killed. I know better. I should know better.

My phone rings, pulling me out of my head. I hit the mute button before the sound can wake her, but I'm too slow. She stirs, eyes fluttering open. Fuck.

“Axe?” Her voice is soft. Dazed, drugged.

“Yeah.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“What?” I grunt, trying to shake the feeling that’s creeping up inside me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why do you hate me?” she repeats. It’s slurred but clear enough for me to hear.

“I don’t hate you, Rory.” My jaw tightens. I don’t even know how to explain what I feel. Hell, I don’t even want to.

“You do…you hate me,” she mumbles, eyes slowly shutting .

“No. It’s you who hates me, little siren. Not the other way around.”

“You said you never cared,” she whispers. “That I’m just a hole to fuck. That I’m nothing to you.”

“I said a lot of things, Rory.” I was angry—at her, at myself, at the way she pulled emotions out of me I didn’t want to feel. Anger and rage, I know what to do with those. But this? Whatever the fuck this is that she stirs in me, it’s dangerous.

“Did you mean it? Is that all I am to you?”

“Rory, we’ll talk about this later.” No, we won’t.

“Tell me,” she pleads, her voice thick with desperation. I look over, her eyes glistening with tears.

“It’s not important,” I mutter and return my eyes to the road.

“It is.”

My fists clench around the steering wheel. “You’re high as hell right now. You’re barely keeping your eyes open. Why does it matter?”

“Because I need to know.”

I glance at her, anger flaring up inside me, mixing with something else.

“Why, Rory?” I snap. “Why does it matter what I think?”

Her lips tremble before she speaks. “Because…sometimes…I’m not sure if I hate you.”

“Oh, little siren,” I sigh. Reaching over, my fingers brush against her cheek. “You should hate me. I’m the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to you.”

And maybe, deep down, that’s what I want. For her to hate me. To make it easier. Because anything other than hate, anything softer, is something I don’t know how to deal with.

Returning to the house, I carry her inside, her small frame resting easily in my arms. Her weight feels too light, too breakable, and the thought of how much worse her injuries could’ve been clenches my gut. As I lay her down on the bed, her eyes slowly open, hazy with exhaustion.

“Axe,” she says, voice muddled with sleep. “What are you doing?”

“Putting you to bed,” I grunt as I pull the covers over her.

My fingers skim her wrist, and for a second, I freeze.

That scar—her failed suicide attempt. I only know the story because she told the masked man.

The man she confides in. The man who doesn’t even fucking talk.

A wave of jealousy surges through me —fucking pathetic.

“If you keep being nice to me, I’ll start thinking you like me.” Even with her eyes barely open, a faint smirk tugs at her lips.

“We can’t have that now, can we?” I brush a stray hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear. I hate that even a gesture as simple as this feels foreign—betrays who I am.

“Nope,” she sighs.

“No more accidents, Rory.” In the last two days, she’s managed to wreck her car and fall from the top of a damn trapeze.

“I thought you liked seeing me hurt,” she breathes, half-asleep.

“Only when I’m the one causing the pain.”

“Kinky.”

“Go to sleep,” I mutter, and her breaths even out. I should leave, but the urge to stay digs into me .

Before I think better of it, I strip off my shirt and slide into bed beside her. I wrap my arm around her, feeling her chest rise and fall against mine. It’s dangerous territory, but I want this. Want her close, even with every instinct blaring in my head.

As her scent invades my senses, my cock hardens.

Fuck.

I shift her slightly, my shaft pressing against her ass. She lets out a small whimper, and I bite back a groan. I should leave, but the desire to be close to her wins out. I feel like a fucking horny teenager, unable to control my own body, unable to resist her.

She moves against me, and I tighten my grip on her. My hand slides down her flat stomach into the waistband of her panties. I run my fingers along the top of her slit, parting her thighs just enough to feel inside her. Her walls are still slick with my cum, the masked man's cum.

My shoulders tense.

This was my idea, this entire fucking game. But now that I'm losing control, all I want is to destroy her. To fuck her until she screams my name. Until she realizes that she’s mine.

I free my cock and press it between her folds, my mouth against her neck.

Removing my fingers from her cunt, I thrust my cock through her wetness and into my palm. Slowly jerking off with her arousal. She quietly moans, but remains completely asleep.

“You're going to fucking ruin me,” I mutter in her ear, my cock twitching, the pressure building in my balls at the feel of her .

I piston my hips, using her pussy like my own personal Fleshlight.

The pleasure is too intense to last. Balls drawing up, I spill my load into my palm, my lips on her neck, teeth scraping along the delicate skin.

My body shudders as I empty myself with a suppressed groan, cum coating my fingers before I drag it through her cunt and push it deep inside her.

I swirl the remaining cum around her clit, and she whimpers again, her hips bucking against my hand.

Grabbing a fingerful of cum, I shove it in her mouth.

“Fucking mine,” I whisper, my claim lost in her hair as her breathing returns to a steady rhythm.

Fucking hell. I've lost my mind.