Page 52 of Shades of Ruin (Sharp Edges Duet #2)
Chapter Thirty-Seven
GREYSON
S he lied. After every warning I’ve given her, my pretty little ruin lied to my face. I can forgive most things, but a lie will never go unpunished. And my forgiveness depends on how well she takes exactly what she deserves.
I had a difficult time deciding how to impress upon my angel the severity of the situation.
She loves pain, she enjoys humiliation, so my usual methods are useless.
As far as I know, she only has one weakness.
And I may be a terrible bastard for exploiting it, but she needs to learn.
If we can’t come back from this, we’re over before we even had a chance to start.
“Grey?” Angélica calls from where she’s tied face-up to the bed. She tosses her head from side to side, trying to sense where I am. I stand far enough away that she can’t pick up on my scent, but she knows I’m here. I made sure to slam the door loud enough that she knows she’s not alone anymore.
An hour ago, I took her up to the third level without an explanation.
I slipped a blindfold over her eyes and cuffed her to the bedposts.
Beyond that, I didn’t touch her at all. Then I left her in silence and returned to my apartment to think.
The last part wasn’t purely to torment her.
I needed to be sure I was prepared to do this.
And now that I’m here, I know that I am.
“I’m here, angel,” I answer finally, my words empty and cold. I walk toward her slowly, letting her sense the heaviness in my steps.
She is smart enough to know something is wrong, but she’s not intuitive enough to know what .
Of course, she thinks her lie to me is safe.
It’s unlikely she’ll guess that Ashford disclosed intimate details about her past. I’d rather she had shared her secrets with me, but given the situation, I’m just grateful someone was honest with me.
If it wasn’t for Ashford’s investigative skills, she might be sitting in a jail cell right now instead of lying in my bed waiting for her punishment.
“What’s going on, Grey?”
“You sound scared, little ruin.” I draw so close I can see the slight shake of her arms stretched above her head. “And you’re trembling. Do you have any reason to be frightened, Angélica?”
I don’t call her by her first name often, and I can tell that doing it now rattles her even more.
“No?” It’s a question rather than a statement. She’s doubting herself, which is a good start.
“Then you have nothing to be afraid of.” My ominous threat hangs in the air, dark and heavy as clouds before a storm.
Her naked body is tense as she braces for what comes next.
She probably expects pain. Given the nature of our relationship, it’s a good assumption, but I won’t be using any implements tonight.
No whips or knives for her to hide behind.
No possibility of her sinking into the overwhelming sensation of it and turning it into something her body senses as pleasure.
There will be no pleasure for her here. Little liars don’t deserve it.
I reach toward her and stroke my fingers over her bare tits, my touch light as a feather tickling her skin.
She jolts like she’s been electrocuted before her heart starts to pound in her chest. I count the frantic beats, the rhythm mounting with every one.
She’s panicking. To calm her, I arch my fingers and claw them down her skin.
She releases a gasp of relief that will prove to be very short-lived.
She thinks the soft touch was an accident, but it was a calculated maneuver to break her down slowly.
I can’t torture her if she passes out right away from panic.
I need to temper the gentle torment with harshness, steadying her just enough that I can bring her to the edge of terror again and again.
And I’ll keep doing it until she can tell me the truth.
“How did the interview with the police go?” I ask, caressing her stomach with soft swirls of my fingertips. I can feel her abdominal muscles clench underneath my hand.
“F-fine,” she stammers through unsteady lips. She’s trying to play like she’s not bothered by my touch, but her body doesn’t lie as well as she does. I lift my hand and slap her stomach, destabilizing her fear once more.
“Any questions you weren’t prepared for?
Anything they found suspicious?” I grab both of her wrists tightly before caressing the undersides of her arms all the way down to her shoulders.
Then I drag my fingers back up her arms to repeat the torture.
Her skin prickles under my touch as goosebumps rise high over every inch of her body.
“No,” she replies, her voice tight and strained. “The lawyer h-handled it all.” I rake my nails down her arms, and she gasps in surprise. “He didn’t let them ask me much,” she adds, the tremor softer.
Of course he didn’t. Because Ashford fucking told him my girl has a bloody past that needs to be avoided at all costs.
Randall knew what was at stake if he let the cops anywhere near Angélica’s reason for leaving Colombia.
And he made sure she came out of that investigation looking as innocent as an angel. Which she fucking isn’t .
The cinnamon oil was a saving grace in the end, along with the blood on her hands.
After they ran their tests, they discovered the blood markings were wrong.
It wasn’t the right pattern of splatter for someone who had just carved a heart out of a girl’s chest—it looked like someone smeared it on her just like she said.
They even picked up a fingerprint left in blood that wasn’t Angélica’s.
The killer made a mistake trying to pin the blame on her.
“So no one suspects that you have any actual blood on your hands?” I trace her collarbones with the tip of my finger before sliding up to pet the little thump of her pulse in her neck. Her blood is thundering through her veins, and she smells like fear.
“G-Grey,” she whimpers, every muscle in her body pulled tight.
I continue to brush my fingers across her skin, giving her no reprieve from the soft onslaught this time. “Answer the question, angel.”
“No, they don’t,” her chest heaves with a soft sob, “suspect.”
I caress her tits again, gently brushing my thumbs over her newly-pierced nipples.
She cries out, trying to pull away in spite of the cuffs keeping her trapped.
She bucks beneath me, and I stroke my fingers down the center of her body like I’m trying to calm a wild horse.
The softness sends her thrashing even harder.
“So you’re innocent?” I lightly circle my fingers around her belly button, her stud piercing catching the light.
“Yes.” She sounds so certain, I would believe her if I didn’t already know her words were false.
“But that’s not true, is it, angel?” I brush my knuckles across her hips. “You do have blood on these pretty hands.”
“No.” She bites down on her bottom lip so hard it breaks. With a disapproving tsk, I tug her lip free from her teeth. She’s not allowed to self-medicate with pain to escape this. I’m going to make sure she feels every agonizing second of it.
“Lying to me again, little ruin?” I growl, my touch slipping down toward her cunt.
“I’m not.” She gasps for breath when my fingers slide lower. “I’m n-not lying.” There are tears in her voice. After months of trying, my angel is finally crying, and the sound of it twists through my stomach like broken glass. But I can’t stop now. Not when she’s so close to breaking.
“Tell me one more goddamn word that isn’t true, and I’m done. Do you understand? Fucking finished .” I pet her soft mound, rubbing my fingers over the smooth skin as she whimpers.
“Grey—I can’t.”
I slip my fingers between her folds. She’s completely dry.
Not a drop of wetness to suggest she somehow enjoys this in spite of hating it.
My soft strokes are more of an assault than my cuts and lashes and slaps could ever be.
For her, this is torture. Taking it one step further, I spread apart her folds and delicately trace her dry hole.
“C-caramel. Caramel. Caramel ,” she begs, the last word a broken sob.
My hands are off her in an instant, moving to the cuffs to unbuckle them as quickly as I can.
I release her ankles, then her wrists, and finally slide off the blindfold.
I clench the black silk in my hands—it’s soaking wet.
The girl who’s never given me a single tear, even when I’ve whipped her and bled her, is a weeping mess, broken by the cruelest tenderness.
“It’s okay, angel. It’s over,” I whisper, trying to calm her, but my words don’t seem to reach her.
Her chest is heaving so violently that I think she’s lost control of her body altogether.
Knowing the only thing that will ground her right now, I wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze until her breathing is forced to slow.
I dig my fingers into her skin, making sure she can feel the comforting ache of the bruises I’m pressing into her neck.
This is the aftercare she needs. The kind that hurts.
“No more soft touch, angel. I promise.” I drag my fingers across her chest, leaving red, raised lines streaked across her tits like claw marks. She doesn’t even make a sound, her watery eyes dead and hollow.
“Come back to me, little ruin,” I plead. I slam my mouth against her, sucking the air from her body as I take more than I’ve ever dared. I bite down on her lips, her tongue, anything that will make her bleed, anything that will make her feel. “Come the fuck back to me.”
As a last resort, I lift my hand and slap it across her cheek.
She blinks for the first time in ages, her dark eyes flashing to mine.
There’s the smallest spark of anger burning in those gold-flecked irises.
Good. I slap her again, not holding back this time.
The brutality of the smack leaves a red handprint painted across her left cheek.
When she remains silent, I raise my hand again.
In a flash, she lashes out and jerks my hand away.
“ Nunca más me toques así! ” she cries, so overcome that she turns to Spanish to express how she feels. “ Nunca !” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “ No quiero verte como él. No quiero temer que te guste. ” She takes a shuddering breath. “I don’t want to hate you like him.”
I should feel ashamed, but more than anything, I need to know why . And it’s time she gave me the truth. “Then tell me why. No more lies, angel. I want the truth. All of it.”