Page 13 of Bound Wings
Nora
Today I learned my own subconscious is a mastermind.
Because a few hours ago, I didn't understand why I was kissing a man I wasn't even into. Why it felt wrong the entire time and I still didn't stop until the last possible second. Why I left the front door unlocked, when I have never once done that in my life.
It took Slava spelling it out loud for me to realize my own unconscious mind—which apparently missed him far more than I ever let myself admit—planned this whole disaster from the start.
Did I actually want to be forced back to him? Want an excuse to return to his side with a clear conscience, because it wasn't my choice, because he made it for me?
I genuinely don't know.
All I know right now is that my legs ache and I'm sore everywhere, especially between them.
I watch, sprawled naked on the bed, as Slava climbs off me, tucks himself back into his pants, and starts typing something into his phone. He throws the blanket over me first, though, without even looking up, like it's a reflex.
I keep my eyes off the man tied to the chair. Yes, he was pushy, and yes, he wasn't exactly charming, but he didn't deserve to be dragged into whatever went wrong between meand Slava. I don't know what happens to him next. But I know that looking at him now will only make it worse for him, so I give him that one small mercy.
He's trembling against the restraints, fighting them uselessly, spitting out words around the gag that I can't piece together into anything coherent.
Some part of me still doesn't believe Slava actually let another man see me like this. He's always been possessive to the point of absurdity. But I suppose I pushed him somewhere he'd never let himself go before. And I hate admitting it, but I liked it. I fought it at first, but the second his hands were on me, every single inhibition I own packed its bags and left.
This isn't something I want a repeat of, though. And judging by the tightness in his jaw, neither does he.
A short, quiet knock sounds at the front door, and my brows pull together. Who visits at this hour? If Slava weren't here, I'd already be halfway to a panic attack.
And that's exactly the problem. He isn't safe. He is, by every measure that matters, a dangerous man. And yet nothing in me is afraid of him. If anything, some traitorous part of me runs straight toward him for safety.
My mouth falls open as I watch him lift the entire chair—man still tied to it—and carry it out the door like it weighs nothing. I scramble up, legs shaking so badly I nearly face-plant, but I catch myself on the dresser, throw on my silk robe, and follow just in time to see Slava hand the whimpering mess over to another man, nearly as tall as him, clearly someone from whatever underworld Slava actually crawled out of.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
Slava shuts the door, locks it, and I turn the other way, wincing as I walk, cringing at the feel of his sperm dripping down my legs. I crack my sister's door open just enough to check—still snoring, dead to the world as always, thank God. I don'twant her anywhere near this. I ease the door shut and head for the bathroom to clean up before I can be swept off my feet again.
Which, of course, is exactly what happens.
Slava is disgustingly good at aftercare. Always has been. He kisses my hairline, and I gather the nerve to ask, "What's going to happen to Luca?"
His gaze sparks. "Don't say that name to me again."
"But—"
"Forget him," he hisses, and then kisses my forehead so gently it makes no sense at all. What a walking contradiction this man is. I decide I've had enough excitement for one lifetime and drop it—for now.
He takes me into the bathroom, where he's already run a bubble bath. My eyes sting and I blink it back.
How does a monster manage to make me feel this cherished?
His hands make quick work of my robe, and it pools at my feet, leaving me bare. Not that there's anything left to hide from him at this point. He kneels and presses his mouth to every mark he left—the bruises blooming on my arms from his grip, the faint red still sitting on my backside.
"You did so good. My good girl." He looks up at me from the floor, voice rough. "Are you sore, little butterfly?"
I whimper and nod, because that's all I've got left in me.
He rises, presses a kiss to my lips. "I'm sorry, baby, I checked the fridge for frozen peas and didn't find any."
He used to freeze a bag just for this, for after, because I'm five-foot-three and he's six-foot-five and the sex can be brutal sometimes. Heat floods my face, and he lowers us both into the water. It's a tight fit with a man his size, but I've always loved being crowded by him.
His fingers dig into the base of my spine, working slow circles that have me melting. "I'm scared," I admit into the quiet.
