Page 42

CHAPTER 42

REDLEY

I would punch him again, but frankly, I’m still afraid to have my knuckles bruised for days like last time. I turn to grab the gun, but even with my fury, I’m not sure I have the balls to actually watch him die. There’s this strange spot in my chest he’s built a home in, and he’s tough to kick out. He doesn’t give me the chance to make a hasty decision, grabbing my arm and yanking me back over to him. I kick him hard but miss his groin by an inch, and before I can recover, he forces me into a headlock.

“Little fucking bitch.”

Oh, I’ve really got him mad this time.

I struggle against his hold, but he only tightens up until it feels like my head is about to pop off.

Shit, shit.

With my head and neck in the crook of his arm and my feet stumbling, he drags me into his closet—which is a room about the size of my bedroom.

Digging my heels in, I try to get free, but his arms are especially powerful, and in this position, I just can’t get the leverage I need against him. With his free hand, he pulls a belt off a rack. Chills break out over my skin, assuming he’s about to whoop me with it. It’s been a long time since I was beaten, and if I’m being honest, I’ve had a grudge against leather ever since the night Granny died. My body shakes with a fear I can’t control between what just happened and this. I'm not sure I can take it.

He loosens the arm around my neck, but rather than letting go and beating me senseless as I expect, he wraps the belt around my neck, taking the place of his arm and letting me out of the headlock. He replaces his arm as he slides the buckle over and then tightens it. The shiny metal against my throat scares and turns me on. It occurs to me that some insane part of me really does trust him, and not just in that tub, because I’m not afraid for my life, just my skin.

“See, Muffin. You were bad, so I put you on a leash. Now, I’m going to spank you like you deserve.”

I can still breathe, but only if I try very carefully. I want to run my mouth, but I truly can’t waste the oxygen. He wraps the length of the belt around his fist until his knuckles touch my neck and then pulls me behind him, leading me on a leash just like he said. Piles of clothing surround us, rows of shoes, I can’t even imagine the price tag behind it all. I’ve never seen one person with so much, not even when I was friends with that rich girl in the city.

He leads me to a three-paneled mirror with a pedestal in the middle like at a department store, but it’s in his house. Does he really get dressed up and look at himself here? I always thought of him as nearly feral. The money is one thing, but is he actually vain? I guess I’m not really surprised at this point that I’ve gotten everything wrong.

“Up,” he snaps at me.

“Fuck you,” I tell him before I spit at his feet.

“Rude little bitch.”

He yanks hard on the belt, taking me momentarily off my feet. A yelp catches behind the buckle as he forces me to step up or choke. I take that step to avoid the crushing pressure on my throat. My heart pounds halfway out of my chest, and it certainly doesn’t help that I know he enjoys killing. He would enjoy feeling me die.

“Look at yourself,” he demands, and it takes me a long, humiliated moment to comply.

My eyes lift to a distorted version of myself. My green eyes look especially bright and frenzied against my face. All the things I’ve learned today overload me and threaten to permanently steal my sanity. My flannel shirt and jeans look so dingy compared to everything here. I’m so unbelievably out of place. My accusations in the room feel even more weighty. He couldn’t have been serious about marrying me because why would someone like him want that? What the hell could he do with someone who would never fit in his world?

I’ll never know the inner workings of his family.

That hurts in a way I don’t expect it to. I hate his family, despise them in a way I can scarcely understand. I want to watch his father bleed out slowly from a gutshot. I didn’t realize that his offer had taken root in my heart. That he appealed to some part of me with his lies. I thought I was stronger than that, but it was just a wild fantasy.

I don’t have feelings for him , I insist to myself, feeling like the world’s most profound failure. I’ve only forgiven him for killing Granny because she was so cruel. I only stopped wanting to kill him. I didn’t develop feelings for him. That would be insane.

I would never love him.

“Remember, you did this. You came here,” he says.

He’s right, more so than he can imagine. I walked into this time and time again. From the beginning, we’ve both been responsible. I deflate visibly, my feet falling flat on the ground, my shoulders along with them. My chin nearly touches my chest in my effort to never face myself again. I’m not relaxed, but there is a certain freedom in realizing just how stupid you’ve been and how useless all your efforts are.

I believed a lie, hunted the wrong man, slept with my enemy, and somehow, along the way, I let him convince me he was my savior? Fuck, I think I wanted to marry him. I had no idea I’d been so foolish.

His eyes trail me up and down, obviously noticing the change but not able to tell what brought it on. He looks like he’s going to ask me. Instead, he keeps up with his own plans. A hand slides into his pocket, and he pulls out a knife. He unfolds the blade and tucks it beneath the collar of my shirt. Cool metal touches my skin, and I jump in shock, expecting the pain, but it doesn’t come. The sharp edge is reserved for my clothes.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks, and it’s like he’s rubbing it in just to hurt me.

“Not you,” I answer, lifting my eyes from the floor just long enough to meet his.

“That’s a shame. Let’s hope my hand doesn’t slip then.”

He cuts the flannel down the middle, the flat black of the blade sliding against my skin, cool but threatening. Strong hands push it off my shoulders, and it falls to my feet. I shiver, not because he’s undressing me and forcing me to watch, but because the knife acts as if the fabric is butter. Something is incredibly sexy about a man who cares for his knives.

He runs the blade over my stomach but doesn’t cut me. “Your skin is so pretty, Red. So smooth.”

Is that another taunt? My skin isn’t smooth on my face. It’s been covered in scars since the night he killed Granny, at least on the one side, and he knows it.

He slips a finger through the loop in my pants, putting space between my skin and the denim, then he slides the knife into the gap he made and slices one leg down the middle, the long tearing sound doing more to damage my dignity than my own revealed skin. He does the same to the other side, and when they fall away, they’re sliced so thoroughly that there’s no chance I’ll be able to mend them. Dammit, that was my best pair.

He could easily unsnap my bra, but he cuts it apart at the center, right over my heart. When it’s time for my panties, he kneels, first pressing his face against the fabric and inhaling.

“You smell so damn good.”

He slices the panties down the center, the blunt edge separating my pussy lips as it passes, and teases that spot. I moan but don’t dare move in the slightest, lest I lose something I’d rather keep. He finishes his cut, and then I’m standing there in nothing but my boots.

My nipples stand hard, and I’m not sure if I’m cold or scared—maybe a little of both—but I don’t want to think about the fact I’m turned on too. Somewhere along the way, I’ve developed a fetish for the knife he uses to kill people, and when it skated along my skin, I felt filthy and alive. What if he spread me with it again and told me how good I smelled? Wetness floods my pussy, and I don’t dare check if it’s obvious in the mirror.

“What do you have to say now, Redley?” he asks, his voice deep and husky.

Has he forgotten about making his point because he seems incredibly distracted. I have nothing at all to say. I can’t even open my mouth to speak. I just stare at my feet as he stands beside me and holds me firmly in place.

“I said to look at yourself, Muffin.”

I do, and I’m not sure what he wants me to think, but I’m relieved. I look better outside of those awful clothes than I did in them. I don’t seem quite as out of place as a naked whore in his closet than I did as a dirty country girl.

“Sometimes I want to cut you,” he admits in a whisper. “Watch your skin split and bleed red like your pretty name.”

“You want to see me die?” I rasp through the tension on my neck and my head that’s growing lighter by the minute.

“I couldn’t breathe if something serious ever happened to you. I just want to cut you a little.”

And some insane part of me wants him to. Before I can really process that, a strong hand smacks my ass, at least as hard as I smacked him, and my first thought is how wildly different it feels than any of the other times this has been done to me.

“Remember that you’ve earned this.”

He grabs me by the back of the neck, forcing me forward until my hands shoot out to prevent my fall. I catch myself against the mirror, and if I had any issue with facing myself, I’m forced to confront it. There isn’t a single detail out of focus right now, and I can’t even remember the last time I looked this close.

Another smack lands on my ass, and it’s so incredibly thrilling I don’t understand it. He strikes me again, and the slapping sound filling the air makes it even hotter. The pain comes in time with the sound, but the most beautiful shattering sensation follows like hot rain falling over my skin. I moan on the fourth one, eyes closed and nose scrunched up as the pain becomes harder to bear. My chin drops to my chest, and his slaps fall in rapid succession now. My tits sway with the force.

“Fuck,” he moans behind me. “Your ass is just as pink as I imagined it would be.”

He rubs my cheeks, and it stings in a dull and pleasurable way. Another smack takes me by surprise, and a long moan slips free. Rather than hit me again, he slides his fingers down my ass cheeks, making me jump as he passes that hole.

“I could fuck you here. That would be a good punishment.”

I don’t say anything, not wanting to encourage him. His finger keeps moving, finding the entrance to my pussy.

“You’re so wet,” he says, and there’s reverence in his tone.

Right when I think he’s about to enter me, and I’m practically shaking my hips begging for it, he says, “You’re enjoying yourself a little too much for my tastes.”