Page 80 of His Trick

I swallowed hard, but I didn’t answer. Hate wasn’t the right word, not anymore. I’d fought him with everything I had, cursed him, clawed against the truth inside of me. But the truth was, I couldn’t have given in without him taking it from me, without him breaking me open first, like a horse before you rode them for the first time.

He certainly rode me.

My come was still on the ground under my feet. The worst part of all this was that I hadn’t even touched my dick once, meaning I came solely from being…fucked.

That thought should have broken me.

God help me, I didn’t feel broken. I felt…whole.

“I had to make you see it,” Carrington went on, not even knowing the war inside my head. His breath was warm on the back of my neck, and his soft kisses made me sigh. “You’d have run forever otherwise.”

He was not wrong.

My chest tightened, and I felt the sting of tears burning behind my eyes. He wasn’t wrong. He’d cornered me, left me nowhere to hide from what I wanted.

From what I needed.

I finally pulled my forehead from the cell’s bars, turning just enough to catch his face in my peripheral vision. He looked different now. Still rough, still wild, but now, there was a softness around the edges, and those golden eyes of his were steady on mine.

“You didn’t give me a choice,” I whispered, though my voice trembled more with need than accusation.

His lips curved, not in a smirk but something quieter. “You’d never have taken it if I gave you one. I chose for you so you can put it on me when the shame hits. I took it because I fucking needed you, Shiloh. And I know you needed me.”

I hated how much that rang true. My throat felt like it had closed, choking me, and I dropped my gaze, unable to face the weight of it. His hand slipped up my thigh to my hand and threaded through it against the bars. His grip was firm, but not trapping. For the first time tonight, he wasn’t holding me down.

He was holding me up.

The silence stretched between us, filled only by our ragged breathing, and the soft sighs I couldn’t hold back as he cleaned the blood and come on my body and helped me get dressed. For the first fucking time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone in this big ass world.

I couldn’t move, just listened to Carrington shuffle around as he pulled my underwear and pants back up and covered my dick like nothing had ever happened here. He righted my clothing, taking off his own hoodie to give to me since he had ripped mine earlier.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and almost tender. “You needed this, Shiloh. You needed me to take itbecause you were too fucking scared to ask. I won’t apologize. But when we do this again. I want your permission. I want you to beg me. I need to hear you want me, too.”

A shaky breath left me, as my chest loosened. Maybe he was right. Maybe I had needed it, needed him, exactly this way. But could I really tell him I wanted this? Allow him to own me like this again? I fought harder than anything to keep from being consumed by my shame and confusion.

But could I let him take me…

That was different.

I didn’t have an answer. So, I leaned back, just a fraction, enough to feel his body against mine, enough to let him know I wasn’t pulling away this time.

“I don’t know myself anymore,” I said, barely above a whisper.

His mouth brushed my temple, a ghost of a kiss. “I do.”

In this moment, with his warmth at my back and his hand tangled with mine. I almost believed him.

My legs still felt shaky when Carrington finally eased back, and I had to turn around so I could sag against the bars. My wrists were still sore, my jeans were stretched out, and my belt loops were broken where he had ripped them. My skin was red, marked where his hands had owned me. I should’ve felt ruined. Instead, I just felt…steady.

In some warped way, his violence was my only true peace.

He crouched in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking out the flickering light at the end of the corridor. His rough hands zipped my pants and looked me over.

I probably looked like a bitch fucked to an inch of my life. The scrape of denim over my tender skin anytime I moved made me wince, but his fingers lingered on my hips, grounding me.

“Stand up straight,” he said, not a request.

“I can’t,” I muttered, but I tried anyway, pressing my back to the bars, forcing my legs to hold me.