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Fuck.
I was her first time.
Attwenty-six.
I could wonder how it is that a woman with her looks and her particularly dark kinks got to that age withouteverhaving been fucked before.
But I don’t have to.
I can read between the lines of “edgy kinks” and “hasn’t indulged in physical contact” better than most and see the writing on the wall.
There’s darkness in her past.
Someone hurt her.
Damaged, it would appear, recognizes damaged.
Freya’s whispered words outside her hotel room ram into my brain again.
I’ll be good.
It was a simple phrase, innocent enough. But it sliced into me like a knife to the gut. Thewayshe said it—soft, submissive, like she’d folded herself into something fragile—triggered something dark inside me I thought I’d buried long ago. A part of me I thought I’d locked away.
She pulled me back to a place I’ve tried to forget. To a time when those same words were my lifeline, my plea for mercy.
I’ll be good.
I close my eyes as the memory of those dark years spent in a prison of my grandfather’s making claws its way unbidden to the surface and the past threatens to drown me.
Those were black times. They came after the night of blood and terror at my home, when my family was killed by flame and bullets as I hid in the deep end of the pool, breathing smoky air through a garden hose.
The night I saw Kir prowling the perimeter of the carnage after I finally came up from the depths.
After that night, I went to live with my grandfather, Kasper.
Most people’s memories of their grandfathers involve a warm smile, a rocking chair, maybe a woodworking hobby, or fishing.
Mine taste like poison.
My grandfather was a Nazi sympathizer, a bitter, vicious, devil of a monster. It wasn’t just me at his country home deep in the Norwegian woods on the edge of the lake. There were two other boys already living there when I arrived: Jonas and Filip.
Like me, they were without family, from broken, blackened pasts. But Kasper didn’t take us in out of kindness.
He did it out of cruelty and sadism, because of some fucked-up, Nazi-influenced idea that he wanted to mold us into “true Aryans”.
Those years, filled with Kasper repeatedly beating his hateful, malicious doctrine into us, were hell. They were bloody and terrifying.
Of the three of us, I was the one in the middle. I could weather Kasper’s malevolence and his cruelty, but I never once bought into his twisted world view and poisonous rhetoric.
Jonas went another way. An orphan from the streets of Oslo, he too could withstand Kasper’s cruelty. But where I held my ground against his brainwashing, Jonas dove in headfirst. He was Kasper’s favorite. His prize student. His perfect little hate-filled Nazi pet.
And then there was Filip.
Filip, with the kind heart and broken smile. Filip, who just wanted someone he could call family.
He never stood a chance.
I’ll be good.
