Page 29 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

T he sandwich is ridiculous.

Brioche. Imported mustard. Cheese with a name I can’t pronounce and don’t care to learn. He didn’t make it. Obviously. But he handed it to me like he had, which might be worse. Like feeding the zoo exhibit and pretending it counts as enrichment.

Still, I eat it. Slowly. With the kind of eye contact that makes men think twice.

His posture says courtroom. Eyes say autopsy.

He leans on the doorframe like he’s waiting for me to say thank you, sorry, or maybe choke. When I don’t, he hands me a towel.

“Shower’s through there.”

“You joining?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile—an acknowledgment. Like he hadn’t decided yet and now I’ve made the choice for him.

The water’s already on. Hot. Luxurious. The kind of pressure you don’t earn, you inherit. The bathroom’s stone and glass, no curtain, no privacy. Not that I was expecting any. There’s still blood under my nails. A streak on my shoulder. Probably not mine.

I strip. Step in. Let the heat bite first, then soothe. My scalp aches. My thighs are sore. My wrists are raw. All signs of progress.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t announce himself. Just steps in like he owns the water, too.

He does.

His eyes rake me in pieces. Not slow. Not sweet. Just practical. Like he’s making sure all the parts are still where he left them.

Then he pushes me back against the tile and lifts my leg.

No lead-in.

No buildup.

Just bare skin and the sound of his breath when he finds I’m ready.

He fucks me like a man who resents the timing. Fast. Brutal. Efficient.

Like he’d rather be elsewhere—but not alone.

I don’t moan. I laugh.

He pins my wrists to the glass.

I stop laughing.

The sound of our bodies echoes. Slap, grind, curse. I bite his shoulder, and he groans like I hit a nerve.

When I come, it’s not a wave. It’s a snap.

Sharp. Hot. Instant.

He follows with a grunt, buried deep, mouth at my ear like he needs to anchor himself to something solid.

We stay like that. Breathing like we outran it, but didn’t.

Water washing nothing away.

“I should hate it here,” I say.

He looks at me. Still close. Still inside.

“But you don’t.”

“No,” I say. “I don’t.”