LIES OF MY MONSTER

32

A soft moan leaves her lips, and my c**k hardens to a painful degree. f**k.

I should’ve f****d her before I came up with this torture method.

Or better yet, f****d her while I tortured her.

I went celibate for months before she came along. Searching for a drama-free hole was a hassle that I didn’t want to take part in unless absolutely necessary.

But being celibate after being in Sasha’s p***y exactly two hundred twenty-seven times has been pure f*****g torture.

What? I didn’t mean to count, but I might have grown obsessed with it and done it unconsciously.

My fingers linger on the slits of red on her pale skin. Is it f****d up that I want to put more marks on her so the world can see who she f*****g belongs to? Probably.

That doesn’t mean the thought disappears, though.

Her head lolls to the side and falls on my chest. f*****g f**k.

For a second, I forget that I’m mad at this woman. No, mad is an understatement. I’m livid and so close to losing my f*****g mind whenever I think she has someone else.

Those thoughts make me consider setting the whole of Russia on fire just to weed him out.

Such crazy, completely impossible thoughts haven’t left me alone since I heard her telling him on the phone that she loved him and that she’d go back to him.

As if I would ever let that happen.

Add the sense of betrayal and being shot, and I’m spiraling down a path even I don’t like.

Not one bit.

I stroke my finger marks on her neck, and she leans her cheek on my palm, snuggling close as if I’m her safe haven.

More like, I’m her custom-made hell.

As I wipe the droplets of sweat off her face, the name of the abyss I’ve fallen into punches me in the f*****g gut.

Obsession.

That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? This is what it feels like to have the need to own someone when I’ve never thought about that concept before. This is also why I’m plagued by images of complete wrath if anyone dares to take this woman away from me.

And that includes her.

I meant it earlier—if she continues to not choose me, I’ll be the cruelest monster in her life. I’ll completely destroy her until one of us dies.

And that’s dangerous. Not only for her, but for me as well.

Because she’s starting to look like a f*****g weakness. She’s someone who can be used against me to put me on my knees.

And I don’t do weaknesses.

I’ve always been the type to play, never to be played with. I’ve never gotten too close, never revealed my cards or allowed emotions into my decision-making process. So imagine my f*****g annoyance when I realized that the very damn foundations of my being were being shaken by none other than an enemy.

And Sasha is an enemy. I might not treat her like I do my traditional enemies—which is usually to kill them or manipulate them, then kill them—but she’s not someone I’d trust.

She has relations with the Belsky Organization, and while I have no idea why they want me dead, I know they’re after me.

And until I can completely turn her to my side, meaning she’ll hide nothing from me, she’ll have to stay in the gray area.

Now, if my c**k would understand that f*****g her is reckless, that would be wonderful.

It doesn’t help that her naked body is splayed out in front of me, tempting me to take her and remind her exactly who she belongs to.

Down, boy. We’ll have our time.

I lift her enough to remove the damp cover—along with the s*x toys, the knife, and my belt—from beneath her, and then I place her on the clean, dry sheet.

She whines in an adorable way that doesn’t help with the state of my starving c**k, then turns on her side with a sigh.

My self-control has been tested today more times than in my whole f*****g life. It takes everything in me to go to the bathroom and place a few towels in a bowl of hot water. When I return, she’s on her back again, every inch of her naked skin laid out for me.

I stare down at my c**k that’s becoming a f*****g nuisance. “Really, now? Since when are we into somnophilia?”

The only reply I get is an antagonizing erection.

I think of babies, the faces of people shot in the forehead with a shotgun, and Yulia.

The last one does it.

I sit on the side of the bed and start by wiping Sasha’s face, then her neck—lingering for a bit too long on my finger marks. Then I clean the blood off her chest and stomach. After that, I take extra care of cleaning her unsatisfied p***y. She moans when I wipe her folds, and that threatens to wake my c**k after I finally put him to sleep, so I move on to her hands. She injured a few of her fingers with her nails during the struggle earlier. I stroke those and then move to the red stripes left by the belt.

After I finish, I do it again, touching every nook, every slope, and the scar the bullet left on the back of her shoulder. She has a few other scars, too—some are on her stomach, but the majority are on her hands and feet.

Such a soft body wasn’t made for the military or being a bodyguard, but then again, she looks like she enjoys it.

Not so much the military, since she always seemed to be on a mission there. Ever since we came to New York, however, she’s more carefree, and I catch her grinning whenever she finishes her perfect sheet—one of the few who manage to do it.

She shivers, and I realize that I might have been at this for way too long.

I retrieve a fresh blanket and cover her with it.

A few seconds pass as I watch her sleep.