Page 12 of Madness & Mercy (Deadly Sins #1)

I’m supposed to hate him.

I do hate him.

And still, every second he leaves me here like this, I unravel a little more.

My pride doesn’t even flinch anymore. It just rolls over and bares its throat.

He’s not even in the room and he’s still inside me. He’s everywhere—under my skin, deep in my skull, rewiring the parts of me I thought were already dead.

He’s breaking me.

Not with fists.

With silence. With denial. With power.

And I hate how good it feels.

I fucking hate it.

When he finally walks back through the door, something in me snaps.

It’s not loud. Not violent.

It’s terrifyingly quiet.

Like the moment just before lightning hits, when the world holds its breath and everything waits to burn.

I should be furious.

Should spit at him again.

Should curse him out, and bite and snarl, and remind him I’m not his to own.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because by the time he comes back, all my rage, all my pride, all the lies I told myself have been stripped away and replaced with a raw, trembling, aching need.

And the only thing echoing in my skull—over and over, louder than blood, louder than breath—is:

Touch me.

Break me.

Destroy me.

Break me in half and devour what’s left.

Make me forget who I am.

Who I was.

Who I swore I’d never become.

Make me yours.

Worship me with your teeth.

Drag out all the rot, all the damage, all the filth inside me and take me anyway.

Because I’ve lived in the dark so long, I don’t know how to exist without it.

Because I don’t want gentleness. I want ruin.

I want him.

And the most twisted part?

The only person I’ve ever hated more than Nico Vitale… is myself.

So maybe this, being undone by him, piece by piece, is the closest I’ll ever get to salvation.

Or damnation.

At this point, I don’t care which.

Just as long as he touches me.

“Did you have time to think?” Nico asks, his voice low, like he already knows the answer.

There’s blood on his shirt.

Small spatters, barely noticeable. Unless you’re looking.

I don’t ask whose it is.

“Yes,” I rasp. The sound of my own voice startles me. It’s wrecked, hoarse, like it’s been dragged across gravel.

He steps closer, like he’s circling prey. “And what is it you want from me, Julian?”

My pulse thrashes in my throat.

I should lie. Deflect. Bite back. But my pride is gone, and my body betrays me before my mind can protest.

“I want you to touch me,” I whisper.

His mouth curves into a slow, knowing arc. He tilts my chin up with two fingers. His touch is gentle, but it feels like a shackle.

“Is that all?” he murmurs.

I swallow. Hard. My heart pounds loud enough to echo in my ears.

“No,” I breathe. “I want you to break me.”

That gets his attention. His eyes darken, the air between us thick enough to choke on.

“Break you?” he repeats softly, almost amused. “Now, why would I do that?”

He lets his fingers trail down, grazing my throat.

“You’re much more useful to me like this.”

And by this, he means tied down. Strung up. Weak and wanting.

“Because I deserve it,” I grit out, jaw clenched, eyes locked to his. “For everything.”

His head tilts.

“Are you asking me to punish you, piccolino?”

The word burns through me, soft and venomous all at once.

I nod.

And it’s not just an answer. It’s a surrender.

A plea.

A confession.

One I can’t take back.

Nico grips my hair, tight enough to sting, tilting my head back until I’m forced to meet his eyes.

“You should see yourself right now,” he murmurs.

A soft, humiliating sound escapes my throat. I try to swallow it, but his fist tightens in my hair and the sound turns into a moan.

“You’re barely holding it together,” he taunts. “Tell me, Cross. How should I punish you? Hm? What kind of filthy, fucked-up things do you want me to do to you?”

I bite my lip. The metal cuffs rattle against the headboard as I shift, my hips grinding against the air.

“Do whatever you want,” I whisper, my voice damn near unrecognizable, even to my own ears.

Nico tightens his grip in my hair, yanking my head back until I’m gasping, lips parted, completely at his mercy.

“You really don’t know what you’re asking for,” he murmurs, his voice thick with menace and promise. “But that’s fine.”

His free hand drags down my chest, tracing every twitch and tremble.

“I’ll teach you.”

A moan scrapes out of my throat. I don’t even try to hold it back this time. I’m past pretending. Past pride.

“And when it’s too much,” he says, leaning in until his breath brushes my ear, “you’ll tell me to stop.”

My eyes flutter. I nod.

“No,” he snaps, his voice suddenly sharp.

“You speak when I give you an instruction.”

My breath catches. “Yes. I’ll tell you.”

His lips curve against my cheek, a slow, wicked smirk. “Good boy.”

I hate how that makes me ache.

“What kind of punishment do you think you deserve?” he asks, fingers grazing just beneath the sheets, so close I could scream.

I writhe against the cuffs, every nerve in my body straining toward him.

“I don’t care,” I pant. “Just—just use me. Please.”

“Open your mouth,” he says.

I part my lips without hesitation, shame already forgotten, burned out by the hunger roaring through my veins.

He slides two fingers past my lips, watching me like a man sizing up his next move on the board.

“Suck,” he commands.

I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, tongue curling around the taste of his skin—salt, sweat, and something darker. My jaw aches from the angle, but I don’t stop.

His eyes burn into mine the whole time, never looking away, like he’s peeling me open with every second I stay obedient.

“Just like that,” he murmurs. “You’re a natural.”

I want to spit, to glare, to claw back even a shred of control, but I don’t. I keep sucking, mouth full of his fingers, letting him use me exactly how he wants.

“Look at you,” he says, amused. “Already ruined, and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

My cock throbs beneath the sheet.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, dragging them across my bottom lip.

Then he leans in, his mouth brushing my ear.

“I’m going to break you,” he whispers. “You know that, don’t you?”

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

Because at this point, that’s all I want.

He doesn’t say a word at first.

Just wraps that same hand, the one I just had in my mouth, around my cock.

I groan, loud and wrecked, hips immediately thrusting up into his grip like I’ve lost every shred of discipline I ever had.

But he stops. Tightens his fingers.

“Don’t move,” he warns.

I suck in a sharp breath, every muscle in my body screaming to disobey. To take what I’ve been craving for hours. But the look in his eyes pins me down harder than the cuffs ever could.

“If you move again,” he murmurs, slowly starting to stroke, “I’ll stop. And next time, I won’t start again.”

I grit my teeth, nodding once.

He strokes me in lazy, cruel passes with just enough pressure, just enough rhythm to make my thighs tremble and my toes curl.

I try to stay still.

Try to stay quiet.

But it’s impossible.

I pant through my teeth, every fiber of my being stretched as tight as his damn hand works me over, teasing, taunting, not nearly fast enough.

The heat builds fast. My breath catches, eyes fluttering, hips twitching up just once.

“Don’t you fucking—” he growls, pulling his hand away in an instant.

I cry out a raw, broken sound I didn’t know I was capable of.

He clicks his tongue. “You were so close. Such a shame.”

“Fuck you,” I rasp, throwing my head back against the pillows.

He stands, unzipping his pants with maddening slowness.

“You want to come?” he asks, voice a breath away from cruel. “Then you’ll earn it.”

His cock bobs free, thick and flushed, inches from my face as he straddles my chest. Goddamn. Why is it so—

“Do it just like you did before.”

My eyes narrow. “I don’t need you to teach me how to suck a fucking dick.”

He laughs, low and dark and pleased.

“Already talking back?” he muses, brushing the tip across my lips. “Didn’t you beg me to use you?”

I say nothing. My mouth is dry. My pride’s in tatters.

His voice drops to a growl.

“Then open your mouth so I can fuck it.”

I glare at him like I want to kill him.

And maybe I do.

But not before he finishes what he started.

My mouth falls open—not with grace, not with submission, but with a kind of furious desperation. Like if I don’t feel him in my throat, I’ll lose my damn mind.

His smirk is wicked.

Then he slides in.

Hot. Heavy. Filling.

My lips stretch around him, the slick head of his cock dragging across my tongue. The first push is slow, like he’s savoring it. Like he wants me to feel every goddamn inch. And I do. I fucking do.

The taste of him hits immediately—skin and salt and something rawer beneath it. My throat tightens as he presses in deeper, and I breathe through my nose, eyes stinging, spit already pooling at the corners of my mouth.

He groans low. “Fuck, your mouth feels good.”

His hand tangles in my hair again, gripping tight. He doesn’t force, but he guides, hips rolling forward until my nose nearly grazes his stomach. I gag, just once, and he pulls back, letting me breathe, but not for long.

Because he does it again.

And again.

Each thrust is a little rougher, a little deeper, until my jaw aches and spit’s dripping down my chin. My cock throbs against my stomach, untouched, weeping. My whole body is on fire. I can feel every pulse of him on my tongue, every twitch of arousal as he fucks my mouth like it belongs to him.

And maybe it does.

Because I’m not fighting it.

I’m not stopping it.

I’m welcoming it.

The humiliation burns hotter than shame, it’s fuel. My cheeks are flushed, my chest heaving, and still, I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, lips stretched tight, drool soaking down my neck.

He groans again, that deep, filthy sound I hate how much I like. “Look at you. Fucking perfect like this.”

I want to glare. I want to growl.

But my mouth is full.

So instead, I moan around him.

And I feel his cock twitch.

His hips stutter just slightly, just for a second, then he grins like the devil himself.

He pulls out slowly, dragging every inch across my tongue before slapping the head lightly against my swollen lips.

“Think you’ve earned the right to come now, piccolino?”

My chest heaves, eyes glassy, lips slick and red. I nod.

His cock is already flushed and slick as he climbs over me—still cuffed, still helpless beneath him—and grabs the base of my cock, then his, aligning them together, thick and hot and pressed tip to tip.

The friction alone makes my body jolt.

He spits in his hand and wraps it around both of us, stroking slow.

I arch into him, tossing my head back, gritting my teeth so hard I feel my damn jaw pop.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls. “You begged for this. Take it.”

I watch him. Watch his fist work both of us in tandem, the slick drag of skin on skin making me shudder, my cock jumping with every pull.

Every stroke is heat and tension and ownership. I feel every inch of him against me. Every pulse, every twitch, every subtle shift in pressure that pushes me closer to the edge.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

His thumb swipes over both tips, slick and leaking. My hips jerk up instinctively, seeking more, chasing it.

“You feel that?” he rasps. “That’s mine, Julian. All of it.”

My whole body burns.

I can’t hold it in anymore.

“Nico—” I choke, eyes fluttering, heat coiling low and sharp.

“I know,” he groans. “Go on. Come for me.”

And I do.

I come with a sound I’ve never made before, spilling across his hand, my stomach, between us. He follows with a guttural noise, his cock throbbing against mine as he jerks through it, spilling hot against my skin.

We’re a mess. My wrists are raw from how hard I pulled at the cuffs. My chest rises and falls like I’ve just been dragged back from the dead.

He leans down, brushing his lips against my cheek.

“Mine now,” he whispers.

And I don’t argue.