Terrorscape (25 page)

His
eyes
locked
with
hers.
“Kiss
me,”
he
commanded, and though she was sure neither of
them had moved, suddenly their mouths were a snarl
of lips and teeth, and his free hand was cupping her
backside, grinding her against his pelvis. “I think I
shall take you right against this wall.” His hand
stroked down her side. “You won't mind, I'm sure.”

She couldn't speak. She could only stare at him.

He smiled—and then froze. In the darkness, the
whites of his eyes flashed as his gaze cut to the side.
He was staring at the vending machines down the
hall. His grip on her thigh tightened. “What—”

He covered her mouth with his hand without
looking away. He had gone rigid, like a cat that had
just spotted prey. In the dim red glow of the soda
machine she could make out a human form. She
flushed and wrapped her arms around his neck to
hide her body against his shirt. She felt his chest
vibrate and heard the low sound issue from his throat
like a note of warning.

The figure moved closer. Then paused uncertainly
as though noticing that she weren't alone.

Gavin's grip on her body tightened. He pressed
her more firmly against him so his coat engulfed them
both. His heart was beating hard, faster than she
could ever recall hearing it.

One look at his face informed her that he wasn't
scared, or even concerned. No. He looked…
excited
.
The shadow hovered a moment longer, then
disappeared. Something fluttered from its pocket. He
or she had dropped a piece of paper on the floor.
Gavin pushed away from her. She trailed after,
watching as he stooped to pick it up. “Let me see,”
she said, snatching at the paper.

It was covered in letters clipped from magazines
and newspapers like a ransom note. The message
was: I pray the Lord my soul to take. Her mother used
to have her say that prayer as a child. The first part
was—she gulped—If I die before I wake.

“You're coming with me tonight.”

 

She
looked
up
at
him
in
alarm.
“You're
blackmailing me.”

“Mm-hmm. You wouldn't want to miss this next
round. That reminds me—have you solved my clue?
Time grows short.”

“I've been thinking, yes.”
“And?”
“I think—I think it's the queen.”
He looked interested. “Why?”
“Well, she's the only female piece—” thinking of

Mary “—and they've all been religious clues so far, so
I thought, perhaps, Original Sin?”

 

“Very clever,” he said, “but wrong.”

“W-what?” She tried to wrench out of his grip.
“How do I know you're playing fair? How do I know
that you're not lying?”

“You don't. Perhaps I am.” His amused smile
disappeared. “Come.”

Chapter Eighteen
Dahlia

The pale frightened face in the mirror hardly
seemed to resemble hers at all. Of course, Val could
no longer remember what she looked like, only that
she had changed and that the subtle nuances of this
changing were invisible until some visual threshold
was breached—then, they were all too apparent.

Val stripped off her rain-soaked clothing, trying
to avoid looking at her breasts. Their presence made
her uncomfortable; they sexualized her body against
her will. She had never understood why the sight of
them seemed to drive men wild, even when separate
from the female body, but they did.

Not even Gavin was exempt.

She did not glance at the mirror again until she
had put on the nightgown he had given her for the
evening. The cotton was virginal white—surely his
quiet way of mocking the innocence he had so
methodically destroyed, the bastard.

The sleeves were full, her shoulders and throat
bared by the wide boat-neck cut, which was discreetly
trimmed with lace. The bodice laced up in front with
a red satin ribbon, very
Little House on the Prairie
.

She found Gavin sitting in the armchair she had
sat in, when he told her the terms of this new,
horrendous game. His head was tilted back and his
eyes were closed. She doubted he was sleeping,
though.

The scar tissue was pink and shiny under the
light and it struck her as a particularly vulnerable
position for him, of all people, to be in. Baring your
throat was submissive behavior. An appeasement
display. Gavin had been quick to tell her as much.

His trench coat was crumpled in a heap on the
ground. He was wearing a thermal Henley, the two
topmost buttons undone. A few stray curls of chest
hair poked through the gaping fabric.

He stretched, then, pulling the fabric taut, and
regarded her through half-closed eyes before letting
his hands fall back on the armrests. Like he was
posing for her. She watched him sourly, resenting the
stirrings she felt whenever she looked at him.

Resisting him felt as if she were trying to swim
against the tide. She knew he was death, and yet she
continued to court him ceaselessly, recklessly.

She could have killed him for that.

Yes, in that moment, she could have killed him,
because he made her want the very things that she
hated most in herself.

Gavin straightened a little as she approached, his
posture relaxed but ready as she straddled his lap,
compressing his muscular thighs with her knees.

He looked up at her, and said, “What are you
doing Valerian?”
She took hold of his wrists, using him to brace
herself more firmly on the chair. Boxing him in. There
was a note of warning in his voice she chose to ignore.

“I'm doing to you what you do to me.”

His eyes narrowed like a hawk's, but he didn't say
anything. Didn't even resist when she kissed him,
though he didn't kiss her back. She bit his neck, and
he didn't flinch. His eyes were cold when she pulled
back again. “Enjoying yourself?”

“No. No, I'm not.”

She knotted her hands in the fabric of his shirt
and pulled, hard, scattering the buttons with several
small, muted pops. It must have hurt, had to have
hurt, but he continued watching her steadily.

“I don't recall giving you permission to touch
me.”
Fear sparked through her at the look in his eyes.
She was playing with fire—but part of her wanted to
be burned. “Since when have you ever given a shit
about permission? Or consent?”
“Don't be crude,” he said coldly.

Val ran her fingers down his chest, over his
stomach, and felt the muscles beneath the skin bunch
and tense. “Why not?” He inhaled sharply when the
tips of her middle and index fingers traced the tops of
his pants, almost but not quite dipping below the
waistband. “Why the fuck not? Why shouldn't I be
crude?”

Another man might have thrown her off. Gavin
remained seated in his throne, crowned by his own
peculiar brand of cruelty. “This is most unbecoming.”

Val tossed her head, scoffing. “You really don't
want me to touch you? Or is it just that it's no fun
when I'm willing?”

“I don't think you want to play this game with
me. You won't win.”
“Oh no?”

He leaned in. “No.”

She gave him a smile that was all teeth and slid
her hand down his pants. His pupils contracted to
small points as he made an involuntary sound that
appeared to be a cross between a growl and a moan.

He was hot and hard to the touch. She could feel
the veins pulsing in time to his heartbeat. She ran her
thumb over the damp tip and squeezed, laughing in
his ear, “You're a goddamn liar.”

“I warn you, there will be severe penalties if you
do not cease this disgusting display.”

“What are you going to do to me?” She tightened
her grip on his penis just to see him wince and felt a
rush of heat as he shifted uncomfortably beneath her.
The slightest hitch entered his breathing.

Yes
, she thought,
see how
you
like it.

“My grades…are shit. My family…thinks I'm
crazy. I have…no friends. No support. No dignity.”
She punctuated each bit of emphasis with another
squeeze. “Oh, and some psycho wants to kill me.
Besides you, I mean.

“I have
nothing
, absolutely nothing. I spend most
of my life wishing I would die. So tell me, Gavin,
what will you use against me? What do you have left?
Your body? Well, it looks like I've beaten you to the
punch.”

He was breathing hard. “You have five seconds.”

She gave him a swift, smooth jerk that made his
hips buck.
“Two seconds,” he ground out.

“Fuck you.”
“Very well.” He got to his feet, yanking her up
with him. She stumbled and had to grab on to him to

keep from falling. His mouth mashed against hers
and she winced as his teeth dug painfully through his
cruel smile. “We'll play it your way.”

“I'm leaving.”

 

“No.” His fingers dug into her sides. “You're
going to finish what you started.”

 

She tried to pull away. “Touch me, and I'll kill
you.”

“Try.” He swung her around, trapping her against
his body. “It's midnight.” He yanked the ribbon on
her bodice, ripping it, and slid the two pieces out of
their laces. His fingers stroked down the center of her
ribs, slipping neatly into her underwear. “Of the third
day.” Val tried to back away, but there was nowhere
to go, and he half-walked half-pushed her to the
mattress. “You're mine.”

She couldn't break free from his mouth to protest
or scream. The two of them fall against the sheets in a
tangle of limbs. He rucked the hem of her nightgown
up to her thighs. His fingers, outside her panties now
but no less tortuous because of it, hooked in the
waistband and pulled. Val winced, and then cried out
when the stitches broke with a snap, lashing painfully
against her hip.

He slipped his hand into her nightgown. She
winced as he explored the tender landscape her body
had become. “Did you really think to conquer me? To
kill me?”

Val made a low, helpless sound.
“Did you think you would succeed?”
“Go to hell.”

“Oh, yes. We shall. Your hell. Wreathed in
pleasure twined with pain, thorns and roses, all of
them weeping blood. Once a flower is picked it
immediately begins to die.” His lips curled into a
sinful smile, laced with simmering anger. “Fitting,
wouldn't you say?”

She spat in his eye.

“Of course, all that requires obedience, which
must be cultivated like a hothouse flower.” He rolled
her over. One of his hands cupped her breast, twisting
and pinching the nipple in time with each painful
thrust. “Precise measurements, to be meted out as
necessary, signifying the difference between life—” he
used his nails, and she let out a hoarse scream “—and
death. You still think you can kill me?”

“Yes.”

His belly slapped against hers as he slid deeper,
the cords on his arms standing out in stark relief. His
hair was damp, and stuck to his forehead with a curl
not present when dry.

“Really?”

He laughed—his temper restored the moment he
took her—and her body was nothing more than a
cavern to echo his amusement. In that moment, she
saw what it would be like, being his.

A voiceless creature trapped in glass, beautiful
but possessing no freewill.

It would fight, but only because a fight was
required; after perfunctory effort had been expended,
it would collapse in defeat, opening itself up like a
flower.

That was what he wanted.

Deep down, she had always known, just as she
knew
she
would
have
bruises,
and
an
aching
tenderness that would not abate for days.

His drive was terrifying, and seemed to know no
refractory period.

 

He was a Darwinian nightmare. Survival of the
fittest. Nature's Perfect Storm.

As with each time, she thought,
I will kill him
. And
if a divine being had appeared to hand her a weapon,
she would have, too.
Chapter Nineteen

Cypress

Val hated that these serial one-night stands were
starting to feel routine, but they were.
She changed back into the black skirt and gold
lace shirt. In the bathroom, as before. The day she
gave him permission to look upon her was the day
she acknowledged that he owned her.
Gavin was doing up the buttons of his shirt when
she opened the door. He glanced her way when he
heard the squeak of the hinges without stopping. He
looked so ordinary—and deadly, all at the same time.
Maybe her brain supplied those lethal attributes,
filling them in like a coloring book. Confirmation
bias. Top-down processing.
“You shouldn't look at me like that,” he said
mildly, straightening his cuffs.

He was right, only not the way he thought.

“You put the 'sin' into scintillating.” He walked
around behind her and retied the knot of her halter,
kissing the skin beneath the bow before letting it fall
back into place, eliciting a cascade of sensation down
her spine. “I only have so much self-control.”

She whirled around. “You have no self-control.”

“All the more reason not to tempt me.” His hand
around her wrist, stroking her pulse point.
Not affectionate. Proprietary.

She knew that, and knowing did not bother her
nearly as much as it should have.

She was no longer in possession of herself, and it
seemed only logical that someone else would be.
So this is madness.

It was like slipping into a silk robe.

He reached into his jeans pocket and produced a
ring of keys. He played with them, swing them
around on his finger, like a child or a cat, making a
jangling sound that grated on her fraying nerves.

She
had
difficulty
calling
what
transpired
between them “sex.” It was bestial, rough and often
painful,
bereft
of
affection.
There
was
pleasure
sometimes, but a horrible perversion of it. A kind of
pleasure that made Val want to scrub herself for hours
with steel wool, flaying apart her skin until she came
to that foul place inside her that was aroused by such
dreadful depravity.

Fucking
, Val thought. Or maybe rutting. Rutting
had an almost mechanical sound, greasy, dirty, filthy.
Yes. Rutting was good.