Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123575 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Why are you doing this?” I demand, pushing aside the sheets to stand despite my nakedness, despite the pain that shoots through various parts of my body. “You’re not innocent, either. You used me to hurt him, to torture him. And you still fucked me, even after he claimed me. If you want me to believe he is a monster, then I would have to believe you are, too, and that’s not possible.”
His gaze skims over every mark, lingering just long enough to make my skin burn, before he meets my eyes with a quiet, unreadable stillness. “It is possible. You just don’t want to acknowledge it. The proof is in every bruise, the tenderness between your thighs, the bite marks on your shoulder.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What do you want me to say?” His voice cracks with its weight. “That watching him touch you made my vision blur with rage? That seeing him inside you felt like betrayal carved into my skin? That I wanted blood before, but now I want war? That finding your limp body on that floor made me want to rip him apart, piece by piece, until he begged for the end?”
I’m caught off guard by his response. This isn’t the calculated manipulation I’ve come to expect from him. This is something else—something dangerously close to genuine feeling.
“I want the truth,” I insist, stepping closer despite my vulnerability. “Not whatever twisted version serves your revenge fantasy.”
The air is so tense, crackling with unsaid emotion and rage. I’m waiting for the moment he snaps, but it never comes. Instead, he moves to the desk where his laptop sits closed. He makes quick work of opening it and typing in a few commands before he turns the screen to me.
“Don’t believe me?” he asks, voice flat. “Take a look for yourself.”
The security footage is grainy but clear enough. The time stamp shows yesterday’s events, during the flood. The camera angle captures the corridor outside Aries’s cell. I watch with growing horror as the events unfold on screen. Aries finishes inside me, then my body goes limp beneath him. He pulls out and pushes up off the floor. There’s no hesitation, no moment of concern or care for me. He simply stands, gathers his soaked pants, and walks away.
The camera follows his retreat down the corridor, and not once does he look back at my unconscious form. The clinical brutality of it, the casual disregard, makes my stomach clench.
“He didn’t even check to make sure you were still breathing,” Arson says quietly. “Didn’t try to move you out of the water. He just used you, fucked you, and discarded you like you meant nothing to him.”
A knife pierces my heart. I want to deny it, to claim the footage is manipulated, but the evidence is too raw and too real to be anything else. The time stamps continue, showing minutes passing with me lying there on the floor. Then Arson appears, regaining consciousness.
The rage on his face as he pushes himself up is unmistakable. Not calculated. Not performed for cameras, he might not have remembered were there. He wears a mask of pure, protective fury as he first checks me, then follows his brother.
“Please, stop,” I whisper, unable to watch more. “I’ve seen enough.”
He closes the laptop with a soft click that seems to echo in the silent room. I stand motionless, trying to process everything, trying to reconcile the Aries from my fantasies with the man who left me like discarded trash.
“I want to see him,” I finally speak, my voice steadier than I feel.
Arson’s head snaps up. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I didn’t ask if it was a good idea.” I move toward the pile of clothes he left out for me. T-shirt and sweatpants. All his, all too big, but at least they’re clean and dry. I pull them on, my hands trembling. “I need to hear him say it.”
“What exactly do you think he’s going to say?” Arson questions warily. “That he’s sorry? That it was a mistake? That deep down he actually gives a fuck?”
I don’t bother confirming that those are, in fact, the things I hope he says, so I ignore them and focus on getting dressed. Once fully clothed, I turn to him.
“You can’t stop me,” I tell him, though we both know that’s not true.
He could lock me in this room if he wanted. Could restrain me as easily as he has Aries. I don’t doubt that he would do just that, but I’m too invested in understanding what happened to give a shit. With a sigh, he runs a hand through his hair in a gesture that is so reminiscent of his twin, it makes my chest ache.
“If that’s what you want, then fine. I’m coming with you, though.”