Page 24 of Cracked Doll

"Fucking gorgeous," he growls, his voice thick with a hunger that makes my stomach flip.

He doesn't put the knife away. Instead, he uses the flat of the blade to caress the swell of my breasts, the cold metal sliding over the fabric, tracing the curves of my nipples. I whimper, a sound of pure terror, but there's something else—a spark of heat blooming in my gut that I can't understand.

"Keep your eyes on the wall, doll," he commands, his voice turning sharp. "Watch yourself. If you look away, if you blink, I'll open your throat wide enough to see your heart beating. Do you understand me? Look at it!"

I stare. I'm forced to watch the upside-down image of my own desecration. I see the knife tracing my skin, see the way my chest heaves with panic. Then, his free hand reaches around, gripping the edge of my bra and violently yanking my breast out.

I scream, trying to shove him off, my hands flailing against his arms. "Get off me! You fucking psycho!"

But then, his mouth replaces the knife.

He latches onto my nipple with a sudden, starving intensity. I freeze. I've never been touched like this—never been kissed, never been used. The sensation is an explosion; he isn't just kissing me, he's devouring me. He sucks my nipple deep into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.

I stop fighting. My hands stay poised in the air, trembling, as a wave of reluctant pleasure crashes over me. I look at the projection—the upside-down image of a man buried in my chest, his head bobbing as he feeds on me. It's sickening. It's erotic. I can't tell where the fear ends and the arousal begins.

He moves to the other breast, the knife still dancing across my skin, occasionally nipping at the underside of my breast, threatening a cut while his mouth continues its assault. He sucks the second nipple with a greedy, wet sound, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip just enough to make me moan. He takes his time, savoring me, treating my body like a feast he's waited years to consume. Every pull of his lips, every flick of his tongue, sends a jolt of electricity straight to my clit, leaving me breathless and shaking.

I have read of characters having such moments in the books I have. I didn't feel anything reading them, I never felt a thing. I thought I may be asexual. I thought I was too broken to even feel pleasure passively.

I am trapped between the terror of the blade and the addiction of his mouth. I watch myself on the wall, a broken girl being put back together by a monster, and I find myself arching my back, pushing my chest further into his mouth.

Just as I feel I might break, the light from the hole vanishes. The projection snaps off, plunging us into absolute, suffocating darkness.

I hear his breath, heavy and ragged. He gives my nipple one last, powerful suck, pulling it deep before letting go with a loud, wet pop.

The sudden absence of his warmth is jarring. I feel him move, his hands surprisingly efficient as he shoves my breasts back into my bra and pulls the torn edges of my plum dress together, though the fabric is ruined. He doesn't tie the laces; he just leaves me exposed beneath the ruins of the bodice.

He backs away, his footsteps echoing softly before he disappears into the shadows of the room.

I'm left standing there alone in the pitch black. I'm shaking violently, my breath coming in ragged sobs, my hands clutching the torn fabric of my dress to my chest. I am absolutely terrified of him, but as I feel the lingering dampness on my nipples and the throb between my legs, I realize I'm completely, ruinously aroused.

I stand there in the suffocating black, my chest heaving, tears finally spilling over and hot against my cheeks. I'm a fucking mess. I'm shaking so hard my teeth are practically rattling, caught in this twisted vice of absolute terror and a pulsing, throbbing arousal that makes me feel sick. I clutch the ruined fabric of my plum dress, holding the torn bodice together, knowing damn well he's still out there. He's lurking in the dark, listening to my ragged breaths, watching me like some predatory freak.

I can't stay here. I can't.

I bolt for the door, ripping it open and rushing out into the carnival air, but I don't even get two steps before I slam straight into a solid chest. I scream, a raw, guttural sound, and scramble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. He's right there, a shadow given form, and I don't think—I just run. I sprint blindly, my boots slapping frantically on the floor, until I burst into a room that makes my heart stop.

The Dracula room.

He brought me here once before, the place where he marked me with that first, bruising hickey. It's a nightmare of glass—mirrors lining every single wall, the ceiling, even the floor beneath my feet. But as I stand in the center, I see nothing. No Ophelia. No terrified girl in a torn dress. Just an endless, empty void of reflections.

It's the only kind of mirror I can stand. It doesn't show me the things I'm afraid of because it shows me nothing at all. But as the silence settles, a different kind of dread creeps in. The illusion is unsettling; it's as if the world is confirming I don't exist. Like I'm just a ghost, a lingering echo of my two dead triplet sisters, finally erased.

Then, he appears.

He isn't standing next to me in the room—at least, I can't see him—but in the reflection, he is there. He's looming right behind me, his eyes dark and hungry. I scream and try to spin around, but he catches me in a vice grip, pinning my arms to my sides to keep me from turning.

"Don't bother, love," he rasps, his breath hot against my neck. "The mirrors only reflect me. You're invisible, remember? But you're going to watch me devour you. No upside-down tricks this time. You won't see your face, but you'll feel every fucking inch of me on your skin."

He shoves me forward, slamming my back against the cold glass of the mirror. I'm pressed hard against it, staring straight ahead. In the reflection, he looks entirely alone, a predator in a hall of glass, because I'm still a void.

"If you dare come a little closer," I hiss, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound brave.

He lets out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates through my spine. "Dare? Darling, I own every breath you take. You're mine to break, mine to fix, and mine to fuck whenever the mood strikes me."

He reaches down, grabbing the fabric of my dress and yanking it up toward my waist in one rough motion. I struggle, pushing against his chest, shouting, "Get off me, you absolute tosser!"

Click.