Page 113 of The Arbiter
"Look at the woman you really are."
My gaze is pulled, terrified and involuntary, to the wall directly in front of me. I freeze. It’s not a wall. It’s a mirror. Massive. A hidden landscape I hadn't even noticed behind the massive headboard.
The sight is devastating. I am flushed with the heat of my own release, my body arched in a posture of complete, primitive submission. My face is swollen from tears, my platinum hair wild and a stranger looking back at me with wide, hollowed-out eyes.
Behind me, the reflection of Deimos is a stark, intimidating shadow. I watch, my breath caught in my lungs, as he leans back, his eyes locked onto my reflection with a look of possessiveness.
He doesn't say a word. He just moves.
I watch his hands, those same hands that touched every inch of me, grip the hem of his dark T-shirt. He pulls it upward in one smooth, practiced motion, shedding it and revealing the lean, corded muscles of his torso.
The overhead light highlights the definition of his abs, the broad span of his chest, and the scar across his wrist. A fresh scar. Did he hurt himself? Mimicking my own wound as a punishment for his failure of my protection? He wouldn't admit that, even if I asked.
Tattoos are covering his whole upper body. Art I haven’t had the chance to acknowledge before. The sight of him, so powerful, and so entirely in control, sends a sickening shiver of heat racing through my limbs.
"Mine," he murmurs, his gaze never leaving mine in the glass as he drops the shirt to the floor.
"This is where you were always meant to be. This is where you breathe."
He moves back over me, his bare chest hot and solid against my arched back, crushing my body down against the cool sheets.
"Yes," I breathe, my own voice a defeated, surrendered whisper that mirrors his dark satisfaction.
I can't fight the friction anymore. I can feel the rough, calloused texture of his skin against my back as he kneels behind me, his presence a towering weight.
Then comes the cold, metallic slide of his zipper, a sound like a guillotine blade dropping. He doesn't wait. He doesn't offer the mercy of a slow introduction. With a single, forceful motion, he moves into me. The intrusion is absolute. It is a shock of pure, overwhelming reality that leaves me gasping, my breath hitching in a strangled cry that dies in my throat.
I am stretched, filled, and entirely occupied by him. I feel every inch of his dominance, every tremor of his muscles as he settles deep, making himself an inseparable part of my own body. His hands fly up, not to my waist, not to the mattress, but to my throat.
His fingers wrap around my neck, firm and possessive, his thumb resting against the racing pulse beneath my jaw. It isn't a gesture of violence, but of total, terrifying control. He pulls my head back, forcing my neck to arch even more, pressing my face closer to the glass so I have no choice but to watch.
In the mirror, the image is hypnotic and grotesque. I see the way his skin ripples across his back, the way his knuckles are white as he grips my neck, and the way I look, eyes blown wide, lips parted, completely caught in the snare of the woman in the reflection.
"Look at us," he rasps, his voice a low, guttural vibration that travels from his chest through mine.
"Look at what you’ve been fighting."
He begins to move, a slow, rhythmic, and devastatingly deliberate pace. Every thrust feels like he is trying to brand his very existence into my bones. He doesn't let me look away. He forces me to witness the way my body reacts to him. The way I lean into the force of him, the way my hips rise to meet his, the way my own reflection betrays the hatred I’m supposed to feel.
I see him watching me in the glass, his eyes dark, focused, and utterly devoid of anything but a singular, consuming hunger.
"Don't look down, Madeline," he commands, his fingers tightening.
"Keep your eyes on the mirror. Watch how you shatter. Watch yourself becoming a part of me."
I am weeping now, silent, hot tears tracking down my cheeks, but I don’t close my eyes. I can’t. I watch as the reflection of his rhythm syncs with the frantic pounding of my heart. I am witnessing my own undoing. I realize that I don't want the mirror to lie, I want to see exactly how far he’s going to take me.
The rhythm changes in an instant. Before I can find my footing in the wreckage of my own pleasure, he pulls back. The sudden coldness where he was just inside me is a shock, leaving me hollowed out against the sheets.
He doesn't give me a second to breathe.
His hands, heavy and authoritative, grip my shoulders and wrench me around. I’m flipped onto my back again, my hair a tangled web across the pillows, my legs splayed in a vulnerable, open invitation I didn't give.
He towers over me, his bare chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat in the sterile light, his face a mask of cold, focused intent. He looms into my space.
Then, the sharp, stinging crack of his palm against my cheek echoes through the room. Not harsh. But calculated. Calculated to break the lingering haze of the drug and the remaining dignity.
My head snaps to the side, the skin on my face blooming with a sudden, pulsing heat. But it isn't a fear that follows. It is a vicious jolt of clarity, part pain, part pure, undeniable pleasure that twists my stomach in the most obscene way.
