Page 20 of His to Ruin

His breath hitches. He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t answer either. Not with words.

The street lights flicker, barely holding against the thick, suffocating dark pressing in from all sides. Kaleb groans from the ground, a weak, painful sound that reminds me he’s still here … right.

Not everyone here is dead. Fuck, Kaleb. His wound isn’tfatal. We can call the police, and I can possess them for a few hours, having them help Kaleb while also not pursuing charges against Christian. Even if it is self defense, I don’t want my human getting caught up in bureaucracy. He needs to be writhing beneath me, not locked up behind bars.

I lean back just enough to meet Christian’s gaze, brushing my thumb along his lower lip. His skin is warm, alive, and flushed with thrill. I hum, slow and pleased. “Time to clean up, Little Nightmare.”

But before I can pull away, he yanks me down, crashing his mouth against mine.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s heat and hunger and something far more dangerous. His teeth scrape, his lips part, and I let him devour me. Shadows curl around us, drawn to the pulse of something dark, something alive between us. His fingers tighten in my shirt, desperate, claiming, mine.

And when he finally pulls back, breathless, eyes burning?—

I know he is mine now. Forever.

13

CHRISTIAN

The springs of the cushion groan beneath me as I shift my weight uncomfortably. The harsh fabric of the couch scratches against the exposed skin of my arms. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks down the seconds. The man across from me lets out a long sigh. I pull at a loose thread on the hem of my T-shirt. I wonder how much time is left in this session; how much longer I have to sit through this.

“Therapy only works if you talk openly and honestly, Christian,” the man in the slacks sitting across from me says in exasperation. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Let’s talk about how you’ve been sleeping since the incident.”

The incident.

Is that what we’re calling it now?

I was required to attend therapy regularly as part of the agreement to my sentencing. I received no jail time. The judge was convinced that the stabbing was self defense, but I’m required to go to therapy. My therapist, Dr. Howe, is a stuffy man who seems resigned to a mundane life that he doesn’ttruly enjoy. It makes speaking to him… tedious. There’s better things that I could be doing with my time.

“I’ve been having nightmares again,” I tell him honestly. No use lying.

He scribbles on his legal pad. The sound of the pen scratching against the yellow paper grates at my nerves. I roll my shoulders in an attempt to throw off the growing annoyance that’s building inside me.

“So, you haven’t been sleeping well then?” he asks as he continues to scribble things down.

What the fuck is he even writing?

“No, doctor, I’m an insomniac, so sleep kinda eludes me. That’s why I’m here, right?”

He shoots an annoyed stare in my direction. He doesn’t appreciate my sass. If Kaleb were here, he’d laugh. I stare at the simple gold band on the therapist's ring finger. It glints in the low light of the room. Something about the glimmering band sends a thrill through me. It’s a symbol of claiming—of ownership. My gaze flits back to his. He cocks an eyebrow, an invitation for me to continue talking.

During the trial, my lawyer claimed I was sleep deprived, hallucinating and not in my right mind during the stabbing. I guess that made me more sympathetic to a judge than a story about how my demon boyfriend helped me slaughter my homophobic bully. The lines between what did and did not happen even started to blur for me for a while after that. Things are better now, at least, most of the time they are.

“Have you had any violent fantasies lately, Christian?” Dr. Howe asks as he shoots another knowing gaze in my direction. “Have you been fantasizing about the blood again?”

Dr. Howe is a middle-aged man with glasses and thinning hair. His dark brown locks are graying at the temples. He always wears the same outfit: a button down creamor blue shirt tucked into dark brown slacks. I wonder how many pairs of the exact same fucking pants a person could possibly own. Hearing him talk about violence, about blood, is a bit ridiculous.

“No,” I tell him firmly.

Not completely a lie. I haven’t wanted to reallyhurtanyone. But I have gotten off frequently thinking about the way the blade felt piercing his flesh. The amount of power I felt as I watched his life fade to nothing was a rush. I’ve been chasing that rush ever since. But it’s usually only at night that I find my thrills. They told me that I should fear the nightmares, but it’s in the terrors of my dreams that I feel most alive.

He sighs again. He’s clearly annoyed.

“Have you been taking your medication, Christian?”

About that.

They diagnosed me with a grocery list of various disorders, symptoms, and issues. It made me feel uncomfortable. Why did I need so many fucking labels? They prescribed me a variety of medications. Some I take to sleep, others I take to avoid psychotic symptoms, and a couple stabilize my mood. But they all make me feel dulled. Like the color had faded from the world. Even food tasted shitty when I was taking them. So, I stopped. I don’t want to not feel. I want to experience every single second of it all. The bad with the good, the pain with the pleasure. Better to have felt it all, than never to feel anything at all.