Page 55 of Muerte
"I assumed Esther told you.”
His chuckle was deep and resonant, the kind that vibrated through the air and settled somewhere deep within me. "My sister is diligent in keeping me updated, but my methods of staying informed extend beyond her.”
As he spoke, his hand found mine, encasing it with a touch that was both tender and assertively possessive. It didn’t take long for me to understand what he wasn’t saying outright.
"Cameras?"
He nodded, completely unapologetic. “They’re placed throughout our home. Inside and out." He spoke with a sense of pride, as if the very notion of such constant vigilance was another testament to his devotion.“I’m always watching you, Lolita. I cherish every moment I can lay my eyes on you."
His words were a reminder of the inescapable reality that I would never truly be alone.
His presence, whether in physical form or through the lens of a camera, was always there. A promise of protection and yet another declaration of his ownership. I sighed and closed my eyes. His thumb drew small circles on the back of my hand, a soothing contrast to the turmoil inside me. Abruptly, he stood, and my eyes snapped open in response.
“You’re alright,” he said, his voice a soft murmur. He lifted my hand, brushing a feather-light kiss against the skin. "I have something planned for us. Something special." His tone was like velvet against my heightened senses. There was a promise in his eyes, a hint of something significant on the horizon. He let go of my hand and exited the room, leaving me in a state of wary anticipation.
I watched him, a mix of apprehension and curiosity brewing. This felt like the lull before a storm, a moment of deceptive peace before he turned my world upside down again.
When he returned not even two minutes later, it was with a black cloth wrapped around an object in his hand. He unraveled it, revealing a curved silver blade with his family emblem intricately etched onto its handle.
My eyes widened at the sight, its beauty contrasting with its ominous presence. He moved toward the fireplace, a hook catching my attention as he placed the knife onto it with a certain reverence. The firelight danced off the blade, casting eerie shadows across the mantle.
He returned to my side and wordlessly lifted me off the chaise along with one of the decorative pillows.
“What are you doing?” I questioned more calmly than I felt.
“Finishing what I started.”
I had a good idea of what was coming. My nerves tangled in knots. One side of my mind telling me to fight was easily subdued while the other told me I could handle this.
I didn’t have a choice.
I instinctively knew struggling would make things worse for me, better for him. This wasn’t a battle I would win. Alexander slowly removed my dress, his fingers travelling across every inch of my skin. I forced myself to ignore the enticing scent of his cologne that seemed to wrap around me, intensifying his already dominant presence.
The way he held himself, so close and looming above me, felt like an extension of his control, a silent assertion of his power. I struggled to keep my expression neutral as he scrutinized my face, noting my every reaction as his fingers continued their subtle, seductive dance.
Each gentle touch sent a ripple of unwanted awareness through me, betraying my attempt at indifference. When I was finally naked, I dared to look at myself and see what I had refused to earlier. There were bruises on my hips in the shape of his hands. Not as permanent as the brand on my shoulder, but still a mark of his no less.
“I’ve dreamt of these moments for years,” he confessed, gently easing me down until I was flat on my back, the decorative pillow beneath my head. “I should be fucking you in every room of this house.”
He stood then and took a step away, staring down at me. I lay there, acutely aware of my vulnerability. My skin felt like an open canvas under his scrutiny, every curve and contour on display for his beautiful eyes to trace.
My heart raced in response, the rush of blood echoing the heightened awareness of my own body. I instinctively shifted my gaze upward, fixing my attention on the vaulted ceiling above. The patterns and designs etched into the wood became my point of distraction.
He turned and began to remove his shirt. I watched from the corner of my eye, seeing the scratches marring his back. It was a satisfying sight. I refocused on the ceiling as he began to turn my way again. He moved away momentarily, his form fading into the shadows. When he returned, the silver blade was in his hand. I watched as he handled it with care, so he didn’t burn himself on the handle.
It was then I noticed his pants were off. I hadn’t heard him remove the belt he was wearing, let alone the slacks. He was left in only his black briefs.
There was a conflicting sense of resentment and reluctant admiration at how physically striking he was. It felt shallow and absurd to consider when thinking of my current situation, but I couldn't help but acknowledge that facing all this would have been even more challenging if he hadn't been so compellingly attractive.
As he settled beside me, the way his golden-brown skin glowed with a sun-kissed hue made him even more enticing. His dark hair was still styled the same as usual, and I found myself wanting to touch it. My attention drifted to the intricate tattoo that adorned his skin, the devil in his likeness.
He began to speak, gently stroking my body with one hand. I listened alertly. "My father passed this blade to me. It's a symbol in itself, a private tradition that goes beyond rituals." He rotated the blade slightly. “Things were different when he was in my position. They called him Del Diablo.”
“Different how?” I asked distractedly, my mind racing with implications on why he needed the knife.
“He hadn’t established himself here yet and had to move quickly to claim my mother or risk losing her forever due to some family issues at hand.” He shifted and spread my legs, partially easing himself between them. “My mother was branded with savagery and marred by trauma. She’s never quite forgiven him for it. He hasn’t been able to forgive himself either. I chose to spare you from such an experience.”
I took that in, feeling a sort of kinship and immediate curiosity for this woman. If she was marked in such a disturbing way, that had to mean she wasn’t part of this clandestine world either. I imagined she grew to accept it.