A blank slate he could paint with blood.
A stupid girl he could pin down, where he might relish the pleasure of watching the shock on her face as he forced his cock past her lips and down her throat, choking her and denying her air.
Tongue pressed flat, her blunt teeth scraping the sides of his shaft, he ruthlessly fucked her mouth. When she began to bite, something changed, a look in the fiery red eyes, and Pearl swore that meat down her throat kicked.
The devil roared, pressing forward with such strength he tore out bits of her hair.
Salty tang burned like bile, coating her tongue, stinging her throat, and dripping from the corners of her swollen lips. Mashing his pelvis to her skull, Darius ushered more of that poison down his pulsating shaft and straight into her belly.
He held her that way after the last drop was spilled, watching her suffocate as if the view were magnificent.
Frantic for air, she begged with wide, wet eyes.
He smiled, yet did not move. “Speak of your God again, Pearl. Name him.”
Scratching at his thigh, working her throat around his softening tool, she garbled, desperate to form the sounds of his name in a bid for freedom.
A satisfied cock popped from her lips, bloody vomit and tears following.
Much of what he had given her was spilled, cum and blood pooling on the bed. As she heaved, he patted her head, as if a good dog has performed well.
Arms came around her. Cuddled to her back despite the mess, he pressed his lips to her ear. “There is no reason to be afraid of the demands I make on your body. I would never truly harm you past the point your body might regenerate.”
She was sobbing, coughing between gasps. “And tomorrow I will have forgotten, and you will do this again.”
“Hush, child.” Darius kissed the back of her head, sliding his fingers over her ribs, across a sick belly, and lower still, until he cupped her bruised sex. “You’ve pleased me. As a reward, I swear to be the sweet lover you wish for tomorrow. I’ll fool you into smiles and laughter. When I fuck you, I won’t draw blood. You have my word.”
His word meant nothing to her. “And you have mine that I will hate you tomorrow as much as I hate you today.”
He smiled, and let his finger penetrate where she was slippery with his cum. There they played no matter her sulking or lingering discomfort. “You love me, kara sevde, of that I have no doubt.”
Chapter Seven
There were so many pages, unfamiliar entry after entry—all of them in her choppy handwriting. Yet, each lacked a date, filling up the tome that sat upon the room’s solitary desk with a vague story of her time in this stone room.
I did not sleep last night, and when Darius came to me again, he smiled as if he knew I’d waited for his return. Bone tired, I was poor company, but he was kind to me. He even offered an explanation. My sentence in this room, he claimed, is twice the lifetime of the man I killed.
Chadwick Parker had not been a young man, and I worry I might be trapped here for near a century.
How many times had Pearl read this first entry? It was impossible to know, but the page was growing worn and the book was filled with hundreds if not thousands of similarly pinned memories.
Darius held my hand when I grew sad at this news, claimed he hated to see my anguish. That is why he enforces his gift. My memory each night is wiped away so I might be spared from a monotonous eternity in prison. One day he’ll hold my hand as I am set free. One day, I’ll be allowed to meet others like me. I’ll never be alone again.
Flipping through the journal, Pearl looked for something she couldn’t pin. Over and over this Darius character was mentioned, but so far, she’d seen no sign of anyone in the cramped cell. Which was well and good. Yet something about the book was disturbing, obvious in its wrongness, but with no explanation.
Pages were missing, torn out. Gone forever.
Why?
Why remove pages from the journal? What had been written on them that Darius didn’t want her to see?
Had she torn them out? And if she had, why do it?
Letting the book thump back on the desktop, Pearl looked over the grotesque grandness of the items piled inside her cell. From the red velvet draping the walls, to the jewels scattered over desk and crevice, everything seemed staged—like an altar.
Like an offering.
What would a girl locked in a room need with jewels? She was hardly even dressed in little more than lace bound by a sash around her middle.
She was also sporting dried blood under her nails and she smelled in need of a bath.