Page 16

Scarlett

“Fuck, Scarlett. That’s some crazy hot shit you’re dealing with. Seriously, I will take them off your hands if you need me to.”

Penelope and I are smoking on my balcony, recounting Saturday’s slew of horrific events. I admitted that the fiasco with the fire alarm was just a ploy to get me away from The Prince, but I couldn’t bring myself to confess what happened when I made it home. I had to make up some story about them cornering me in the club to demand I go to the New Year’s party.

I scoff, taking another drag of my cigarette. “Of course it’s fucking hot, but that’s beside the point. Are you listening to yourself? You’re as crazy as they are. They have no boundaries, no limits.”

“That is my point, I’ve never been more jealous than I am right now. You have men committing crimes in your honor, just to sabotage their competition. It’s hot. So…” She taps her thigh awkwardly. “Do you wanna go? ‘Cause I was thinking about it myself, but I don’t have as much fun going when you’re not with me.”

I’d be stupid not to see their visit for the threat it was meant to be. They know where I live, where I sleep, and they have access to me no matter where I am .

I could toy with them; I could make them come to me and teach them I don’t play by their rules—especially if they’re going to break all the ones we supposedly agree to at Eden. But I’d be naive to think it would end in anything considered a win on my part.

I only have two choices: go to this party and let them finally have me, or lose them forever to somebody else.

What’s not really making sense to me is where Broody fits into this dynamic. Sure, he tried to hit on me that first night, but after Penelope scared him off, I thought that would be the end of it until I saw him sitting with Casanova at the bar.

Are they partners themselves? There’s no way that kiss in the woods was their first. Not with the chemistry they had.

I find myself imagining what it might be like to pull on Broody’s long hair. Would I be in control then? I already saw how Casanova lost it when I sucked his dick with enthusiasm rather than letting him force it into me.

I bet they each have their own little weaknesses—something that would have them bending at the knee for me instead.

“So, what do you think? Should we go?” Penelope repeats.

None of this makes my decision any clearer. If anything, I’m more confused. “I don’t know, Pen, but I promise I’ll let you know when I do. Okay?” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I need time to think on it.

She’s pouty about my answer, to say the least, but lets it go for now.

It is my birthday, after all.

I only have two classes on Tuesdays—painting and sculpture—but that doesn’t stop the day from dragging. Three years of pottery has done nothing for me. Aside from throwing on the wheel, I’m atrocious at building anything of significance when it comes to ceramic work.

My degree’s concentration is in illustration since it’ll help me the most with tattooing, but sculpture is the only medium I can’t seem to find inspiration in.

By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. I’m tired of this day. I’m tired of my thoughts. I’m tired of impossible choices. I’m tired of everything.

Normally, I would be excited to walk into the apartment and find that Penelope surprised me with a visit from my dad. But today, I’m just not here for it.

I guess it’s a good thing that I’m fantastic at masking.

We spend a few hours together catching up on recent news, ordering takeout for dinner, watching a horror movie, and finishing the night with a cake Dad brought. It’s a sweet gesture, but when it’s time for him to leave, I’m more relieved than anything else.

The day has come full circle; I’m sitting on the balcony with a pack of Marlboros, chain-smoking until my nerves dissipate. The longer I look, the more blurred the colors become when I trace my finger along the green line separating the black top from the white bottom.

Ding.

Thoughtlessly, I reach for my phone, instantly dropping it when I read the notification. It bounces off the stone floor and lands a few inches away but I scramble to get it, not even bothering to check for cracks.

Well, what in the actual fuck am I supposed to do now? Block them? I probably should, but it doesn’t really fit our habit of dramatic antagonization.

Probably, yeah. I just figured they followed me home from Eden.

I don’t know why I feel possessed to instigate when he doesn’t answer right away, but I do.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

If they broke into my house and read my journal, I can easily assume they’ve snooped through my other personal belongings. If they had access to my phone, they would know my real name, they’d have seen pictures of my dad and Penelope, and they probably know all about school and my apprenticeship.

Unless they’re stupid enough to threaten the people I love, I doubt they know anything that would actually bother me.

I light up another cigarette while waiting for his reply, but it doesn’t come. I don’t know why I care, anyway. I shouldn’t even be entertaining his delusion because it’s only feeding into my own—the idea that they actually want something with me and wouldn’t throw me away the second they get it. I don’t know what to make of the way they keep pursuing me, but I do know it’s not healthy.

Crunch.

A twig snaps, or maybe it’s dry leaves, but it means something is moving out in the woods. I could chalk it up to the nocturnal animals of the forest, but I know better.

A figure emerges from behind a tree, wearing a sweatshirt and the same Anonymous mask from Halloween. The reddish tint of his long, flowing hair shines in the moonlight from beneath the hood, and suddenly it all makes sense.

This is fucking ridiculous.

Here we are, watching one another text from across the yard like a couple of teenagers who are too shy to actually talk. It’s another game. He’s daring me to push him enough to come up here, and I’m daring him to do his worst.

I’d be stupid to think the little bit of blood they drew on Saturday was enough to appease them, especially with the way Casanova slurped it up like a fucking vampire. But I also think there’s a reason they won’t go to the full extent of what must be their Red Room shenanigans.

They want me to want it. They’re testing me, and I’m failing .

I don’t like pain. Tattoos are an exception I make work because of my lifestyle and aesthetic, but I don’t get them because I like the feeling. If I could kill my pain receptors, I would. Pain absolutely does not make me feel alive.

But Casanova cutting me? That triggered some fucked up part of my brain, and I barely felt it at all. I’m not sure if it was the adrenaline of the chase, being held down by Broody, or something else. I just know it was fucking hot.

And I’m still horny as shit.

The second he reads my text, his whole body jolts into action as he makes a break for the trellis. I’ll admit, the sight of him sprinting towards me is enough to make my skin crawl, but if I want him really wound up, I’ve got to push more.

With less-than-perfect aim, I chuck my lit cigarette down at him when he starts climbing, getting a little laugh out of the way he frantically swipes at the burning embers on his shoulder.

I only just breach the doorway of my bedroom when he catches up to me, tugging my hair with one hand while the other covers my mouth to stifle an involuntary yelp. The tension eases on my scalp, but then there’s the familiar flick of his knife before his arm comes around the front of my body, pulling me closer.

“I think you have things skewed, Ruby. You can bet your ass I’m worse than him. I don’t need to learn a goddamn thing. In fact, I think you do,” he says. “Who knows what vanilla bullshit your little Prince has been showing you. Maybe it’s time you took a step into our world.”

It’s hard to think about his words when his hot breath is blowing directly into my ear. I don’t know if it’s just an erogenous thing, but I spiral into a frenzy whenever their mouths come within an inch of my ears.

The hairs on my body stand at a point—my skin chilled and sensitive to the touch—and I’m helpless to the way my head leans back against his shoulder.

Broody takes a few steps, dragging me further onto the balcony until I feel the thud of his back hitting the railing. The small whimper I release into his hand from the impact makes him tighten his grip for a second, then he’s spinning me around. My mouth is free, my hands are free, I can do whatever I want.

But I just want to taste him again.

He must sense it, because when I reach my hands up to grip his hair and pull him in for a kiss, he’s already surging forward to meet me in the middle. With one hand curled around the nape of his neck and the other tangled in the hair against his scalp, I claw my way in, shoving my tongue further into his mouth until we’re one being.

His hands don’t stay in one place for too long; they’re all over my body—running from my ass up the expanse of my back, in my hair, and on my waist. They finally land on my face in that tender way you always see people kiss in the movies, his thumbs rubbing my cheek while his fingers curl around the sides of my neck.

Where the fuck did this come from?

He’s kissing me with passion and reverence, not hatred and fire. I don’t know if I like it. I need him to be anything but this . I do the only thing I can think to in the moment. Biting his lip and pulling his hair at the same time, I do my best to physically rip him apart.

That does it .

He takes his hands off my face and holds me by the waist, lifting me off the ground before I can protest. My first instinct is to kick, but when my ass hits the railing and I start propelling myself backwards over the ledge, I freeze.

“What are you doing?!” My flailing hands find purchase in the fabric of his sweatshirt, but it isn’t until I feel his arms wrap around my back that I actually relax.

“Don’t you trust me, Ruby?” He’s being facetious, and I don’t appreciate it very much. Of course I don’t trust him. “I told you, I’m going to teach you what it’s like to live in our world for a minute.”

The railing isn’t wide enough for my fat ass to sit on without toppling over, and I don’t have anything to hold on to except for him. I’m only wearing a T-shirt and panties, so the icy wind bites at my skin with every passing breeze.

“I saw enough the other night. Please, I just want to get down. I’ll do whatever you want!” I can’t control the panic in my voice or the tears that well in my eyes. If he drops me, I could break my goddamn neck.

I don’t trust either of them—not with my body or my life.

“This is what I want, aren’t you listening?” Despite the condescending tone of his voice, his hands travel underneath my shirt and run along the skin of my back so sweetly, I almost want to give in. Almost. “This is what it means to come to the Red Room. Giving your life to someone else, letting them hold it in their hands, to play with it—”

“To take it?” I ask contemptuously.

He cocks his head, hands freezing in place at the same time. “Why would we do that?” He seems genuinely curious, like I’m the one who’s crazy between the three of us.

“Why wouldn’t you? All you guys have done is torture me, and you won’t stop unless I go there. I can only imagine my life ends where my self-respect does.”

He smiles at the comment, grinning in a way that makes me want to either slap or kiss it off his face. “We’re just boys on a playground, Ruby. We want you, so we torture you. We only want you to want us back…and you do, even when you hate us. So, what’s the problem?”

“That’s juvenile. You’re a bunch of fucking children if you really think that w—”

I scream when he lets me tilt backwards, but then his hands are on me again—one pressed to my mouth and the other hugging my waist.

“Watch it,” he warns, "I’m just saying. You want us, we want you. You like being tied up. You like being hit. You even like it when he spits on you.”

If my senses weren’t completely heightened, I might have missed the way his fingers twitched at the last statement.

Is he jealous of Casanova?

He continues, “I think you’re afraid of how much you’d enjoy it if you gave in. We aren’t blind, I saw the look on your face when he cut you. There’s nothing wrong with this lifestyle. It’s not for everybody, but I think we all know it is for you. So, we’re going to try something. But I’m warning you, if you scream, I will drop you.”

His hand leaves my mouth, traveling down to grab a fistful of fabric in the center of my chest. I don’t have time to register what he’s doing until he leans forward with his arm extended, using his grip on my shirt to dangle me over the edge of the railing.

“Wait, wait!” Grabbing his wrist with both hands, I try my damndest to claw up his arm so I don’t fall. “Please stop, please.” I’m trying not to scream but the tears are flooding my cheeks and I’m on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. He has me floating in midair, suspended at a 45-degree angle with nothing to keep me from plummeting to my death.

Broody doesn’t say a word. He wedges himself in between my thighs, bringing the arm that was supporting my waist down to finger at the cloth of my underwear. Another wave of terror washes over me when I feel his fingers dip beneath it to run along my pussy .

There is no way. No way in hell this is his idea of pleasure, for himself or me. If he makes one mistake, I’m dead. If I alert anyone, I’m dead. If I squirm too hard, I’m dead. There is no way I get to walk out of this alive.

If he doesn’t want to stop until I orgasm, we’re going to be here all night. Nobody has ever been able to make me come from just their fingers—only I have. Even Casanova has only brought me there with his tongue, whether his fingers were involved or not.

“Please, I swear I’ll do anything else, but I can’t—oh. Oh, fuck… ”

Okay, maybe I was wrong.

Somewhere in the middle of my plea, Broody stuck two fingers in my pussy, and is now working some sort of magic on my clit with his thumb. As much as I wish he would move the fingers inside, he’s keeping a nice, steady pressure and moving gracefully over my clit in small, circular motions.

I’m not saying I trust him, but the fear of falling has gotten muddled somewhere between the ecstasy of his fingers and the satisfying rumble humming from his throat.

Without the threat of death at the forefront of my mind, it just comes natural to lay my head back and moan along with him, drowning in the euphoria of it all.

I wrap my calves around his hips and ride his fingers until the electricity creeps its way to the top of my spinal cord, erupting in a display of fireworks that shoot from my mouth in the form of a silent cry. My limbs turn from stone to jelly, and if I fell right now, I think I would die happy.

Unfortunately, he rips me forward instead, catching me around the waist when I fall from the railing. I don’t have to say anything—not that I could, anyway—he just scoops up my immovable body from behind the knees, cradling me in his arms while I lie here lifelessly.

I don’t know if it’s an adrenaline crash, but I can barely keep my eyes open. As he carries me to the bed, I unintentionally slip further into unconsciousness. The last thing I remember before I fall asleep is my heavy blanket being laid over my body, then an even heavier kiss being pressed against my temple .

“Happy Birthday, Scarlett.”