Twisted - Esme Devlin Page 0,93

rejects the very sun that gives it life. Now I crave him like a breath underwater.

But it wasn’t always like that.

I used to back away at the first click of the door unlocking. Press myself against a wall and then move on light feet as soon as he extinguished the candles. When he sat down on the chair and made no move to find me in the darkness, the knots in my stomach would get so tight that I’d kick a stone just to make him do something. Anything.

The next sound would always be metal on stone.

The mask, then the buckle of his belt.

“Come to me, sweet girl,” he’d say, in that playful tone of his. “We both know I can make you feel better.”

I was always so cold before he brought me blankets and pillows and let me make a little nest in the middle of the floor. And he was always hot to the touch.

But I didn’t give in.

I didn’t speak.

He hated that, I knew, but he hid it so well.

There were no games, and I got the sense he hated that, too. He loves his games. His favorite type of foreplay.

But we weren’t fucking for fun.

He fucked me like a man with only one thing on his mind. One purpose. I got the sense that purpose eventually turned into something fun for him, just as the games had been. He’d whisper in my ear that he couldn’t wait until I was swollen with his baby. How he couldn’t wait to trap me mentally, just as he had trapped me physically. I’d never be anyone else's. He would be my sun, and I would be his earth, and the boy we’d have together would own all of it.

The deeper, harder, faster he went, the more I clawed at his back, his face, his arms. The more it seemed to delight him.

It turned him on.

Eventually, it turned me on, too.

Still, I didn’t speak.

It was the only power I had over him.

Then came the night he brought me the blankets and the pillows. “Come to me, precious girl,” he’d say, in that playful tone of his. “Just tell me something, anything, and I’ll give you everything.”

It was tempting. I knew he could give me everything, in his own way. He’d give me everything but only if I danced to his tune, lived in his shadow, and did everything he said.

Would that have been the worst thing?

Still, I didn’t speak. Not even to lie and tell him I hated him.

Baron responded by speaking for both of us.

He’d never roll over after he’d finished. He’d never get up and walk away. He’d keep me locked there with him still inside me, long after my heart had ceased thudding against his stomach and his breath, so far above my head, had slowed.

I’d almost fall asleep while he told me the stories he’d given me in the books with the foreign words.

One about a white bear who told a peasant man that he would make him rich in exchange for his youngest, prettiest daughter.

The white bear took the daughter to the most beautiful castle and visited her each night in the form of a man. But it was always in darkness.

And the darkness meant that she could never see him. Never gaze upon his face.

When the girl got lonely, she convinced the white bear to let her speak to her family. The white bear agreed, but only if she promised not to speak to her mother alone.

The girl broke her promise, and the mother convinced her that the man must have been a troll, and she should take some candles to bed with her so she could see his face.

Baron never got farther than the betrayal part of the story, and that’s the reason I never fell asleep.

I wondered if he somehow knew I’d eventually try to see what was under the mask. I wondered if he’d somehow been waiting for it to happen.

But I never wondered for long because the memory of my betrayal would only get him started again.

I’d fall asleep after and wake up with a hand between my legs, and sometimes I’d moan or whimper subconsciously, but I’d never speak.

Before long, his playful “come to me” changed to “speak to me.”

Just speak to me, sweet girl.

I didn’t speak, but I did come to him. I hated him, but I guess I must have loved him, too, because I felt empty when he wasn’t with me. Empty and with no direction,