Page 56 of Wicked Vile King
Or at least he would have, when he still cared, years ago. I'm not sure I even believe the words now.
"Pet," he laughs softly and without mirth, "if he cared, he would have shown you mercy and never sent you to me."
Behind him, I swear I see a shadow—no, not a shadow, a girl, her hair long and dark, her skin ghostly pale—staring at me.
I blink, and she disappears. This place, or the lack of oxygen, is making me lose my mind. His fingers cinch even tighter, and I can't breathe. I scratch at his hands again, but he doesn't even flinch.
Like he can't feel the pain.
Or he enjoys it.
I don't know which one is worse.
"You know what I need?" he says, leaning in as his fingers slowly tighten by the second. "A good fuck."
What did he just say?
My heart rate kicks into the next gear, and he looks down at me a millisecond later and scoffs. "No, pet, not you."
Why does it hurt when he says it?
It shouldn't hurt.
"Or you could just admit it," he adds.
"Admit what?" I croak.
"Admit that you are mine."
"Never," I wheeze.
He sighs.
"Goddamn, you're being difficult." His next words fall flat in the air. "Ugh, fine, have it your way then. It's time for your punishment, pet. Now, don't fucking move until I say so, or you will regret it."
What?I think before he releases me, and my knees give way beneath me. The wall at my back is the only thing keeping me upright as he strides past the books and to the end of the row. I'm coughing, choking for air, before he whistles once sharply, and I look up. Through the space above the books, I watch him go to a woman on the other side, a librarian. She's putting books on a rolling cart when he yanks her away from her task by the back of her ponytail. She yelps in surprise as he spins her around, and a second, maybe more, passes between them before he grabs her by the chin and kisses her.
The sight sends a hot poker straight through my belly. It feels wrong watching them, but I'm transfixed. I can't move. I can't believe what I'm seeing as Saint pushes the librarian—a woman who has been nothing but kind to me—against a long wooden desk and roughly shoves a hand up her skirt.
Why am I watching this?
Why does it make me want to scream?
Why am I about to cry?
I should stop watching. I should move, but I can't. I am glued to the floor as she moans, throwing her head back, and I wonder how many times they've done this before he turns her around and she flattens her hands against the desk. She wiggles her ass excitedly as he undoes his pants.
I have to stop watching.
Ineedto stop watching, but I don't as he frees himself. It's dark, and I can't see well, or that's what I tell myself at least, before he shoves roughly inside her. The impale is brutal, and when she screams, he slaps a hand over her mouth and goes very still, whispering something to her, before he starts to move.
Tears slip between my lips and salt my tongue.
I'm crying.
Why am I crying?
Why do I care?
