Page 44 of Irrevocably

There’s a pause and then his reply comes back.

You like pushing, don’t you?

I don’t know why that makes me smile, but it does.

And you like me pushing.

Did you like me using your knife, too?

Another pause, the three dots blinking, and I’m hypnotised by them. I want to know if he liked it. I want to know that I affected him.

Yes.

There’s nothing more, just that one word, and the breath I didn’t realise I was holding rushes out of me. Yes, God, he did like it. A surge of satisfaction and excitement hits me, and in this moment, I feel as if I’ve won a prize.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about anything.

Anxiety has been overpowering me ever since Dad started pulling away from me and putting distance between us. Anxiety about how I can fix things for him, make up for him losing Mom and getting me instead. Anxiety about getting into med school and continuing what she’d planned to do. And deep down, anxiety about whether I can fix anything at all.

I know Lucien’s a threat. I know he’s dangerous. But staring down at his texts on the screen, I realise that he’s also an escape. He’s a reminder that there are other things out there, darker things that make my concerns and anxieties seem small and almost … silly. And I don’t mind that. Lately, everything has felt impossible to manage, what with college and med school and my grades. I’ve been crushed by the weight of my own expectations, yet I watched Lucien slitting a man’s throat in front of me, and really, what’s so bad about my life compared to that?

But I’ll need it back.

You can give it to me along with the information you owe me.

Ah yes, that.

I debate answering, then decide not to, putting my phone screen-down on my nightstand instead.

I’ll get him his information, but if he wants the knife, he’ll have to beg for it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

LUCIEN

I lean against one of the shelves in the campus library, holding a book open in front of me as if I’m reading.

But I’m not reading.

I’m watching Astrid, even though I shouldn’t be, even though I have no reason to keep an eye on her. I gave her two days to talk to her father, and that time isn’t up yet. She’s got till the end of today.

It’s not as if I don’t have anything else to do. I have to give Enzo a report at some point, find out exactly what kind of alliances Lazarus is making in preparation to take the MC’s operation, and who is involved. Enzo needs all the details, and I’ve been somewhat remiss at getting them.

In fact, Lazarus wanted me to come with him to the city today, to talk to a few people, and I should have gone, yet I found myself telling him I needed to talk to “the girl” instead.

Then I came here, to the library, where she’s working a late shift, so I can stop her from running if she hasn’t got what I want. But I know that’s not the reason. I’m lying to myself.

I’m here because I want to be. Because I want to see her.

That little show she gave me last night was a test and I knew it. She was pushing me, using my knife, touching herself, telling me that she didn’t need me. She has more scars on her thighs now, scars from my knife, marring her pretty pale skin.

I shift against the shelves as the beast in me growls, the sight of her pinching her own nipples as she touched herself filling my head. I should have been there. I should have been the one running the knife over her skin, giving her the pain she needs along with the pleasure. I should have been the one punishing her, because that’s why she’s doing it, even though she might deny it. That was clear to me the night I fucked her in her bedroom, when she told me all her deep, dark secrets. About her mother and her struggles to be worth that kind of sacrifice, and how right at the heart of everything, she’s afraid she isn’t.

I know all about that sacrifice. The one my mother made for me, the same as her mother made for her: each dying to protect their children. But I’m not punishing myself the way Astrid is. Enzo delivered all the punishment I needed and then some, and now all my guilt is gone.

Through a gap in the shelves, I see her go about her work, pushing her little book cart. She’s in a dark blue dress today with a short, frothy skirt and black tights, hiding away the cuts she gave herself last night. Her hair is loose down her back, all soft ringlets and curls.

Again, you’d never know that last night she took my knife and cut herself, before touching that pretty cunt of hers until she came. She’s so diligent and hard-working on the outside, but on the inside there’s darkness and fire. She’s a volcano, this woman, and where she was dormant, she’s now waking up. Now the pressure is building and building, and her knife lets out some of the magma burning inside her, but it’s not enough. Eventually, those knife cuts will lose their effectiveness, and she’ll go searching for something else, something more intense, more drastic.