Page 13 of Redemption (Favorite Malady Duet #2)

“Just because it’s not carnal doesn’t mean it’s not a form of seduction,” I inform him.

“You’re trying to lure me in with every word, every tender action.

Even offering me this studio is part of a twisted game to you.

But you can’t trick me into loving you again.

I don’t think I ever did love you, because I didn’t know you at all.

I loved an idea of you, but that man was never real. ”

His eyes turn stormy, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing.

“If you’re feeling so emotional, I’m sure some time at your easel will help.” He speaks in clipped tones, and his massive body seems even larger than usual as all of his powerful muscles flex with barely restrained aggression.

I take a wary step back, refusing to enter the studio with the beast. “Dane…”

“You will paint, Abigail.”

“You can’t compel my art.” I swallow hard against my rising fear. “That’s not how it works.”

“I’ve seen your real masterpieces,” he reveals coldly, no longer bothering to hide behind charm and beguilement. “The dark, erotic paintings that you keep hidden in your closet. But you don’t have to hide your talent anymore.”

The reminder that he’s broken into my apartment multiple times makes bile burn at the back of my throat.

“Those are private,” I choke out.

“Not from me. Any secrets you think you have, I know them. I know you . All of you. And I choose every part of you. I won’t apologize for wanting you.”

“That much has become clear,” I reply bitterly. “I won’t hold my breath for an apology.”

He doesn’t feel a shred of remorse for what he’s done to me, for the countless violations that I can’t even begin to fathom.

“Paint,” he commands.

“No.”

He can’t make me. He could crush his fist around mine and force me to lift a brush to the waiting canvas, but he can’t compel me to create art.

My tumultuous emotions are my own to purge through my paintings.

That part of me will never belong to anyone else.

Certainly not the man who’s betrayed me on a level I never thought possible.

“Abigail…” My name is a warning, but I refuse to heed it.

“I won’t do it. I won’t paint for you.”

His brows draw together, forbidding. “You can come in willingly, or I can put you here.” He points to the chair that’s set up in front of the easel, presumably for my comfort. “If you won’t do it for me, do it for yourself. You need this.”

“You don’t know what I need!” I fling the defiant words at him, losing my composure. “I need to get away from you. I need my freedom.”

“I’ve set you free,” he growls. “You just don’t want to listen.”

Rage curls my fists at my sides, and suddenly, I’m surging toward him.

“You want me to come to you like a trained pet?” I rail at him. “You think I’ll roll over and do what you say?”

The canvas is in my hands, and I hurl it at his beautiful face.

“Fuck you!”

He bats the canvas away at the last second, and it clatters to the parquet floor. His lips peel back from his teeth in an animal snarl, and he lunges for me.

A defiant scream tears from my chest, and I grab the table where the paints have been neatly arranged for me. It’s lightweight enough that I’m able to lift it, and I raise the delicate antique like an unwieldy bat. In a split second, I swing.

But he’s too fast. Too strong.

He lifts one corded arm just in time to stop the impact to his head. He barks out a rough shout as the table splinters against his shoulder, and I’m not sure if it’s a sound of pain or a predator’s warning.

I lunge for the easel, desperate for another weapon.

Arguing was futile. My rationality is gone. His insane refusals to listen to reason have driven me to a purely primal, enraged state.

I’m not sure if I’m fighting to get away from him, or if some savage part of me just wants to inflict a fraction of the damage he’s caused me. I want him to feel the pain that’s shredding my heart. I know now that he’s incapable of that kind of emotional agony, so I’ll wound him physically.

His arm loops around my waist just as my fingers brush the easel, and he drags me back before I can fully grasp it. He tackles me with his full weight, and we’re both falling.

At the last instant, he turns his body so that he catches the brunt of the impact with the hardwood floor.

I shriek and writhe in his arms, but he rolls on top of me, quickly pinning me so that I’m face-down beneath him. My hands scramble for purchase, and my palms slip in something wet.

I’ve fallen on the canvas that I threw at him, and several paint tubes have been squashed under us. Blue splatter becomes a sapphire smear under my hands as I continue to struggle like a wild thing.

“That’s it,” he rumbles at my ear. “Fight me like you’ve always wanted to. Like you really mean it.”

I scream again, a sound of pure fury. I’ve never meant anything more in my life than my desire to hurt him now.

His left hand is beside my scrabbling fingers, sliding in the paint so that his palm is coated in blue.

His other fists in my hair, drawing my head back sharply to further restrict my struggles.

Then he caresses my cheek, and the paint is warm on his broad palm.

It slides over one side of my face, covering me from my brow to my jaw.

His grip on my hair shifts, forcibly tilting my head to the side and shoving me forward. My cheek presses against the canvas, marking it with my twisted expression of fear and impotent rage. I shriek and jerk in his cruel hold, but all I manage to do is spread more paint in manic swaths.

“I want an imprint of your pretty scream,” he says, voice rough with desire. “I’ll admire this masterpiece later. We both will.”

I can’t find the air to tell him that he’s insane. My lungs seize, and my chest draws tight enough to crush my heart.

My fists pound the canvas, sending sprays of blue droplets flying.

“This is what you’ve always wanted.” He says it like encouragement rather than a condemnation.

“You want to know the difference between me and the men who violated you? Your body already knows. When they touched you, you shut down and surrendered. But with me, you fight back. You feel safe enough to challenge me because you know I won’t truly hurt you. ”

“You are hurting me!” I wail, an agonized truth drawn deep from my soul.

No one has ever hurt me like this.

Because what he’s saying makes some perverse sort of sense, and I can’t accept it. If it’s true, I’m just as crazy as he is. Just as fucked up.

He thinks I’m perfect for him, but that can’t be real. I can’t let it be real.

The prospect that I was destined to satisfy a heartless monster is too disgusting to process. I’ve always known that something is deeply wrong with me, but the Dane I loved made me feel like I could embrace every part of myself. Indulging in my dark desires had become empowering.

But I’ve never been more powerless than I am now.

“No, I’m not.” He refuses to acknowledge that he’s hurting me in the worst way. “I won’t so much a leave a bruise on you to prove it.”

Tears leak from my eyes, diluting the paint beneath my cheek.

“When you shared your fantasies with me online, you shared your true self,” he reasons.

“If I hadn’t found your screenname, you never would’ve trusted me with your secrets in person.

You want to know why I couldn’t simply ask you out at the café?

This was the best way. The only way. By the time you agreed to a date, I already knew exactly what you wanted.

You wouldn’t have opened up to me enough to sign our contract if I hadn’t positioned myself as GentAnon.

I have no regrets, Abigail. This is how it had to be between us.

I will fulfill your every forbidden desire. ”

“I don’t want you to,” I counter in a ragged whisper. “Let me go.”

“No. Not until you accept the truth of what we are, what we share. I’m not letting you leave this room until you scream my name while you orgasm.”

“No,” I moan in pure horror.

My revulsion is that much more acute because I’m starting to realize that the warmth flooding my veins isn’t simply white-hot rage. Desire pulses between my legs, and my nipples are hard buds.

He keeps his firm grip on my hair with one hand while the other dips between my chest and the canvas.

“Hush now, pet,” he soothes, dropping a tender kiss on my nape. “No more arguing. I don’t want to hear another word unless it’s my name on your pretty lips.”

I want to defy him, to continue railing at him. But my screams stick in my constricted throat, and I can’t manage more than a garbled groan.

It sounds unbearably erotic, and he drops another doting kiss on my exposed neck.

My cheeks flush with shame, and my clit pulses in response.

In this moment, I hate myself. I hate him.

His paint slicked hand wedges beneath me, sliding under the neckline of my dress to cup my breast. The pressure is uncomfortable, but the bite of pain makes my nipple throb where it’s crushed against his palm.

He squeezes gently, and I gasp into the canvas.

I’m writhing, and I tell myself it’s because I’m still trying to escape.

But my struggles only fuel my lust, just like in all of the terrible, forbidden fantasies I so foolishly shared with him.

“Dane…” His name is a whimper, a plea.

“Better,” he praises. “But I want you to scream for me.”

His other, unpainted hand finally releases my hair, but his bulky frame is heavy enough to keep me pinned. He traces the shape of my body with something like reverence, coveting every inch of me. When his fingertips skim my thigh, I tense.

“You’re safe with me, little dove,” he soothes. “Submit.”

I choke on a sob, and pleasure sizzles through me when he pinches my nipple. He tugs and torments it in the exact way I like. He knows his clever ministrations will make me come undone.

My body uncoils for him even as my heart hammers against my ribcage like a trapped bird.