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My hands vibrated with self-hatred as I unzipped my trousers, preparing to touch her just like they had.
Heat radiated off my body as I followed the curve of her arse up to the valley of her back, where bruises as black as the cancer in my soul bloomed from her ribs to her spine. They were the same size and shape as a fist or the toe of a boot, and judging by the smoothness of the edges and the depth of the bruising, I assumed that it was the latter.
Water had pooled in the small of her back, fed by delicate streams running from her sopping wet hair, and I had to resist the urge to bend over, press my lips to her skin, and drink. I didn’t know what I was craving more—water or the opportunity to kiss and lick and suck every injury on Clover’s body until she was better. Until she no longer saw me as one of them.
When I lifted my gaze to hers, that thought, along with any hope that she could ever forgive me for what I was about to do, burst into flames of blinding murderous fury.
As Clover glared at me over her shoulder, the narrowed, hardened slant of her eyes did little to mask the single tear clinging to her bottom lashes or the swelling purple cheekbone that it finally cascaded over.
Tearing my gaze away before I did something stupid, like react, I pinned it directly on the dead man who’d been trying to fuck her face when I walked in.
He stumbled backward in response, which was the opposite of what I needed him to do. I was going to have to calm down before I could lure him back over. Be more convincing.
Clover’s arms hung down the other side of the counter, tied to something I couldn’t see below, and at the sound of my zip being lowered, she hung her head below the counter as well.
“I should have let you die.”
Her words caused the first slice of pain I’d felt since standing in that field, but the sensation was quickly consumed by the raging inferno burning inside of me.
“What did she say?” the balding bastard asked, spitting in his hand before smearing the filth all over his already-shriveled cock.
My presence must have intimidated him more than I’d realized.
Good.
Grabbing her hips with both hands, I replied in Russian, “She said she hopes my dick is bigger than yours.”
I wasn’t trying to taunt him; I just needed the distraction. As soon as the room burst into laughter, I yanked her head back by her thick, wet hair and thrust myself into the seam between her tightly closed thighs.
I hated myself for being even semi-hard. She was beaten and trembling and had possibly been tortured, but she was still the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.
And the first naked girl I’d ever touched.
They’d brought prostitutes into the Kletka every month or so to keep the men from killing each other, but every time I looked at them, all I could see was my mother. She’d been a stripper, but she also sold her body on the side. It was no secret—that’s how I was conceived. She would come home early in the morning—a split lip here, a black eye there—but she never wanted my sympathy. She never wanted me to touch her at all. And one glance at the hateful eyes and defensive postures of the women in the Kletka had told me that they felt the same way.
Just like Clover must have felt when her trembling body stiffened beneath me.
But my wrath quickly shut down that line of thought and refocused.
Leaning forward—my bullet wound now a distant ache, thanks to the adrenaline pumping through my veins—I pressed my lips to the curve of her ear and whispered, “Scream.”
Then, I thrust against her again. I felt the sound vibrate through her back and into my chest as it clawed its way out of her body. Every cell it passed through vibrated with the animalistic fury I heard in that scream. It was the frequency of my own soul.
I felt truly connected to her in that moment, understood in a way I hadn’t thought was possible. But then she opened her mouth again and remined me who had made her feel that way. Who had taken everything from her. Who had reduced her to this shivering, snarling beast.
“I hate you!”
I hate you.
I hate you.
More words came pouring out of her as she thrashed, but the rest of them fell on deaf ears as my wrath turned inward.
I glanced down at the place where our bodies were joined and felt as if I were seeing myself with someone else’s eyes. We weren’t sharing some fucking connection—my officer’s uniform was decorated with the patches of her enemy. My scabbed knuckles—sunk deep in the soft flesh of her hips—turned white as I struggled to restrain her bucking, terrified body. And my cock was now fully fucking hard, as if I got off on causing her this much pain.
I hate you.
I hate you.
