Page 58 of Muerte
The small cuts were no longer bleeding—one a few inches beneath my right breast, another near my belly button, and a third my hip. The one on my inner thigh had yet to stop. I didn’t look—I could feel it. I wasn’t confident in my ability to keep my shit together if I saw his name on me right then.
As if summoned by my thoughts, Alexander returned from wherever he’d gone and joined me, his arms wrapping around me in a protective yet possessive embrace.
I allowed him to hold me, giving in to a moment of vulnerability. Irony in its purest form. I finally shifted away from him to reach for a bottle of shampoo, and he beat me to it.
"I don't need you to take care of me," I tried to assert, the silence becoming too much.
He gathered my hair in his hand and tugged until I was looking up at him. "You like when I take care of you.”
I huffed, having no energy to argue with him out of some obligation to myself. He was surprisingly good at untangling my hair. Being dragged across a rug had turned it into a wispy bird’s nest. His firm yet gentle hands worked a subtly fragrant shampoo into the thick tresses, his fingers tenderly grazing my scalp. After thoroughly rinsing the shampoo, he applied conditioner in the same manner.
Then, he attentively tended to the rest of me, being especially mindful of where he’d carved his name.
He traced the lines with a gentleness that belied the possessiveness of his actions. His fingers, deft and deliberate, moved over the letters with a reverence that touched a chord deep within me. The care he took, the way he tended to me with unwavering concentration, was a gesture that reached beyond the physical realm.
I didn’t know how to handle it. I’d never expected or wanted anyone to treat me this way. Everything about it was out of my depth and with him, all around confusing.
Once we emerged from the shower, his tenderness persisted. As I dried my hair with a plush towel, he applied a soothing ointment to the delicate lines he had etched, ensuring that only his name would remain. We brushed our teeth, and then he handed me the same plush robe I had worn earlier.
Finally, with a soft touch, he guided me to bed, his presence a constant reassurance in the midst of my swirling thoughts as I approached it. I settled into the soft cocoon of his arms, my back to his solid chest, almost believing I was as precious as he wanted me to be. Sleeping beside him was the least taxing thing I’d been subjected to since being taken.
The room was engulfed in silence, my body sinking into a state of deep exhaustion, yet my mind raced relentlessly. I pondered over Anya's situation, concerned about how she was doing and what awaited us the following day.
This unknown layered additional anxiety atop my already stormy thoughts. Alexander shifted closer, strengthening his grip as he whispered softly in my ear, "Somnus, puella pulchra," his words a gentle lullaby, intertwining the unpredictability of what lay ahead.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I woke seconds away from coming.
The room was still dark, just like outside, and the fireplace was nearly out, barely offering any light. I was disoriented. It took my brain longer to catch up to what was happening than my body. The robe was halfway off, my breasts fully exposed. I could tell from how sensitive they felt that he’d been toying with them.
“Alex,” I moaned, unable to stop it from slipping out as I struggled to push myself up onto my elbows. His face was buried between my legs, and he was slowly fucking me with his tongue.
“Alex,” I tried again, unable to close my legs since he was holding them in place. “Fuck,” I whimpered, fisting the sheets as I came. He still didn’t stop. He alternated between fucking me with his tongue and sucking on my clit, making me come until I was begging him to stop.
When he finally relented, kissing his way up my body until his lips sealed over mine with a rough, “Good morning,” my come and arousal all over his face, I kissed him back, moaning softly when he slid inside me.
When I opened my eyes for the second time, morning light streamed through the windows, casting a soft glow across the room. I could tell it was later in the day than when I’d woken yesterday. The lake was free of its early morning fog, and I was alone.
That was better for me.
There were a conflicting number of emotions for me to work through after how the prior night had unfolded—as well as this morning.
I felt the aftereffects in full. I imagined being hit by a car and then steamrolled would’ve felt similar.
I didn’t want to move.
On top of feeling bloated, my inner thigh burned as if it had been lit on fire each time I so much as shifted. My throat felt scratchy and raw from screaming for half the night—and morning. Whatever Alexander had forced me to swallow down after he finished with me had worn off.
I couldn’t very well lie around all day, though. I forced my body into a sitting position, catching sight of fresh flowers on the bedside table—night-blooming jasmines, their petals a ghostly white. It was an eerie sight. A notecard accompanied them, bearing elegant handwriting that could only have come from one person. I reached out and lifted it up.
His words instructed me how to dress for the day, where to go, and acknowledged that these were my favorite flowers.
The domestic gesture gave me a confounding mix of pleasure and nagging sense of manipulation. This too was something he’d learned from essentially stalking me and doing an extensive deep dive about my entire life.
There was little I could do about it, and since I was determined not to let myself get lost in a new labyrinth of questions that had no answers, I slowly rose from the bed and made my way to the bathroom.
I entered the compact space housing the toilet—a sleek, shiny black porcelain fixture adorned with an array of digital buttons, their functions a mystery to me. Like the rest of the house, it was spotlessly clean, and that’s all I cared about. Settling onto the heated seat, I briefly entertained the thought of staying there indefinitely.