There Is No Devil (Sinners Duet, #2)(31)

Cole looks at me. “Are you ready to kill him yet?”

My fingers itch with violent impulses. My mind runs wild, too far and too fast for me to rein it in.

I mutter, “I’m damn sure getting closer. Right now, I might be angry enough to do it. But you told me what it does to a person. It changes you. Breaks you away from humanity.”

“Good,” Cole hisses, jerking his head toward the throngs of people fawning around Shaw. “Why do you want to be like them? A blind fucking sheep?”

I can’t take my eyes off Shaw, who stands surrounded by admirers, bathed in his own private golden glow.

This motherfucker killed my friend, and don’t forget, he abducted me too, cut my wrists, pierced my fucking nipples. He’s living flagrantly, joyfully, rubbing it right in our faces. He can kill anyone he wants, do anything he wants.

“I want revenge,” I mutter. ”But I don’t want to take it. I don’t want to give in to it. I said I’d always rise above, I swore it.”

For the longest time after I left my mother’s house, I was tormented by anger. I had run away from her and Randall, but the memories of everything they’d ever said to me, done to me, came along with me, jammed in my head. I couldn’t get them out.

The longer I was away from her, the more I realized how wrong it all was. How monumentally fucked up.

I wanted them to pay.

My mother’s always gotten away with everything. CPS came to our house, summoned by teachers who reported the bruises on my body, the lack of food in my lunch. My mother cleaned the house and bought groceries for a week until they went away again. She was pulled over multiple times for DUIs, she got the fines reduced or charges dropped on technicalities, on overcrowded dockets, by begging and pleading and deploying her best sob stories.

She brought men into my life and me into theirs. Not just Randall—a succession of assholes of every flavor: drug dealers, ex-convicts, even a fucking neo-Nazi who pushed hand-printed copies of American Renaissance and The Daily Stormer into my hands.

While Randall wasn’t the first one who put his hands on my mother (or on me), and some of them went so far as to shove a gun in her face or push her down a flight of stairs, the devastation she wreaked in their lives was always greater than anything they did to her.

She’s sailed through life unpunished, unrepentant.

The worst people are free to maim and defame however they like. There is no justice. There is no fairness.

Cole and I had intended to stay at the party for several hours, to network with the dozens of Cole’s acquaintances all around us, but neither of us can stand Shaw’s malevolent glee, or the omnipresent discussion of his work. To say nothing of the technicolor spiderweb wrapped all around us.

We leave a few minutes later.

We’re both silent on the drive back to the house, Cole gripping the wheel with a rigid expression, and me replaying every taunt Shaw threw at me.

You know we had a fling once …

Don’t worry, Mara, I forgive you …

You must have been in a terrible mental state …

The moment we step inside, into the dark, cool interior of the house, the tension between us snaps. Cole jumps on me and me on him.

Black Out Days – Phantogram

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He tears off the deep plum gown I was wearing, ripping the straps so that the expensive beading scatters across the hardwood floor.

I attack him back just as hard, yanking open his shirt, ripping the material, losing the buttons.

We’re kissing each other with more than passion. We’re exorcising our anger, our resentment, our fear, and our rage.

It’s not directed at Cole and it’s not directed at me. It’s a dark, swirling energy between us. A bitterness that has to burn out before it consumes us both.

Cole hasn’t even got my dress all the way off when he throws me over the arm of the couch and takes me from behind. He wraps his hand up in the long rope of my hair, jerking my head back, using it as reins while he mounts me and rides me hard.

He’s fucking me ruthlessly, roughly, the slap of his hips against my ass punctuated by actual slaps from his hand.

“More,” I moan. “Harder.”

I deserve this.

My guilt over Erin can only be assuaged by punishment. I want to be spanked harder, faster, meaner. I need the sadist in Cole. I need the psychopath.

And Cole obliges.

He forces me down on my knees, the back of my head against the arm of the couch. He shoves his cock into my mouth, my head pinned, no way to escape.

He holds my head between both hands, fucking my mouth. His cock is iron-hard and relentless, tunneling into my throat. I’m choking on it, drooling around it, trying to steal gasps of breath before he drills into me again.

There is something so satisfying in this. Something that I deeply need, that I’ve never been able to ask for before.

The more I come to trust Cole, to believe that he won’t actually hurt me, the more I want him to push the line.

This is the broken, fucked up part of myself. The part that’s furious over every time that I was hurt or used, but still craves the freedom to seek out roughness and even violence when I want it, on my terms.

I’m a tree that grew in cruel wind, twisted and bent by it. Sex and violence, passion and intensity, are inextricably entwined for me. I can’t have one without the other. Right or wrong doesn’t come into it. I am the way life made me.