Page 50 of Dark Soul (Tainted #1)

I fuck her like I’m claiming something that was never meant to slip away, each thrust a vow, a theft, a fucking obliteration of the distance she tried to put between us. Her muffled cries fill the space, a fractured symphony that drives me harder, deeper.

The seat creaks beneath us, the car swaying with every movement, a cage for our war.

Her body clenches around me, her thighs trembling, and she comes fast, her climax a violent shudder that ripples through her, her muffled moans cracking behind the gag.

I don’t stop. I fuck her through it, relentless, chasing the next wave.

I pull out, shifting her roughly, bending her over the backseat, her knees digging into the leather, her cheek pressed against the cool surface. Her wrists rest awkwardly in front of her, her fingers curling into fists as I enter her again, the angle deeper, and more punishing.

Her muffled gasps are a rhythm now, syncing with the slap of skin on skin, the car rocking harder, the windows steaming over. I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her flesh, leaving marks that will linger for days, a map of where I’ve been.

She comes again, her body shaking, her muffled cries sharper now, almost desperate. I lean over her, my chest pressed against her back, my lips grazing her ear as I drive into her, each thrust a claim that feels like it could break us both.

Her breath hitches, her body trembling beneath me, and I feel the third wave building, her muscles tightening around me, pulling me deeper. When she comes this time, it’s with a muffled scream, her body going slack, trembling, spent.

Only then do I let go, spilling inside her with a groan that rips from my chest, my hips jerking once, twice, until every part of me is buried deep, where she’ll feel me for days.

I don’t move, holding her there, my hands on her waist, her skin hot and marked and undeniably mine. Her head rests against my shoulder as I pull the fabric from her mouth, her breath ragged, her lips swollen and bloodied from my bite.

She isn’t crying. She isn’t angry. She’s quiet, and that silence is worse than anything—a heavy, unreadable void that settles between us.

I shift, pulling her upright, her body weak and trembling as she leans against me. The car is a cocoon now, fogged windows shutting out the world, the air thick with the aftermath of our collision. I wipe the blood from her lip with my thumb, brushing her hair back from her cheek.

It’s a confirmation, and a silent acknowledgment of what we are. She lets me, her eyes distant, not leaning in but not pulling away either.

We sit like that for a long time, two bodies tangled in the wreckage of our war, the car a battlefield littered with the evidence of our fight. The silence is deafening, heavier than her muffled cries, heavier than the weight of her body against mine.

There’s no going back from this and no pretending this was casual, tactical, or anything less than everything.

This is mine or nothing, a line we’ve crossed that won’t fade.

She pulls herself upright slowly, her movements sluggish, her lips swollen, her eyes shadowed with something I can’t name—grief, maybe, or defiance. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I.

The city hums outside, its filthy pulse indifferent to the chaos we’ve unleashed. But she’s still here, in the car, her body pressed against mine, her breath mingling with my own.

And that’s enough. For now.

Her face is turned away from me, hair clinging to sweat-damp skin, lashes lowered like she cannot bear to meet my eyes. I stare at her spine, at the line of bruises forming under her shirt, and feel the ache crawl up my throat.

I hadn’t come here to fix this.

I’d come here because I couldn’t stay away.

She shifts eventually. Sits back against the seat and straightens her clothes with shaking fingers. Her thighs still tremble. She crosses them anyway.

I let her.

Even now, I don’t speak.

There is nothing left to say.

I’ve already said it with my hands. With the scars I leave. With the fact that I showed up, dragged her into the dark, and claimed her like the world wasn’t watching.

Because it wasn’t.

Let them watch.

Let the whole goddamn city burn as long as she stays mine.

Her eyes meet mine then.

Not soft.

Not shattered.

Just…haunted.

And I know in that moment—she has gotten exactly what she wanted.

The real me.

The version I’d hidden behind restraint, behind calculated power plays and careful silences.

The version that doesn’t negotiate.

The version that takes.

And it terrifies her more than anything else ever could.

Good.

She needs to understand. This isn’t about romance. It never has been. I’m not a man who comforts or soothes. I don’t offer apologies wrapped in roses.

I am the punishment and the prize.

She leans her head back against the leather, closes her eyes. Not in surrender. Not in peace.

But like someone who has finally realized the depth of the water she’s drowning in.

I don’t touch her.

Don’t say her name.

I stare through the fogged window at the blinking streetlight above. Rats scatter along the edge of the alley. Somewhere, far away, a car horn screams.

None of it matters.

She is here.

In my car.

Wrecked and shaking and silent beside me.

And that means I haven’t lost.

Because Vera Calloway doesn’t cry for just anyone. She doesn’t come undone like that unless she wants to. And now, she knows exactly what it means to want me.

I don’t need to mark her with ink or steel.

I have her moans. Her breath. Her silence.

That is mine.

You walked away, I think, watching her chest rise and fall slowly. Now you know what it costs to test me. And you’ll never walk the same again. Not with the weight of me still inside you. Not with the echoes of tonight lodged in your ribs.

We don’t speak on the drive back.

I drop her at the corner of her street, and she gets out like her legs might give out.

She doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t slam the door.

Doesn’t whisper a goodbye.

And I watch her disappear into the dark, one slow step at a time.

She has no idea.

I’m not letting go.

Not now, not ever.