Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 153544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153544 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 768(@200wpm)___ 614(@250wpm)___ 512(@300wpm)
The more I say no, the more ruthless he becomes. The harder I fight, the more severe my ‘punishment’ is. And that can happen anytime, anywhere. Whether it’s in his car—that he got fixed in record time—his room, my room—after he sneaks in from the balcony—or at the firefly lake, that’s sort of become our meeting spot.
Bottom line is, I’m getting trapped deeper into the web he’s been customizing for me and I’m not sure of the way out.
Do I even want a way out?
Killian is not totally a devil and can actually be nice. He prepares all my meals, and makes sure I eat my food and drink my water—he totally sounded like a doctor when he ordered that.
The other day, I caught him watching Inception and he said he wanted to see it again and imagine me watching it for the first time. Totally didn’t like it when I said Leonardo DiCaprio is my celebrity crush, though.
Anyway, he shows interest in my interests, has subscribed to a shit ton of art magazines and bought me a premium palette just because he felt like it.
Then he told me to paint him fucking me with it, the bastard.
As if that’s not enough, he always makes me talk about my art, my friends, and my family. He even chooses to do it when my guard is down, after sex, because he knows I become more open then.
Slowly but surely, he’s getting under my skin to the point I don’t know if it’s a good or a bad thing.
This week has been bubbling with a sense of…freedom. Yes, it’s the scary type—the type where I have to be held down and made helpless to be able to come, but it’s freedom all the same.
It’s the first time I’ve felt like I could let go and not overthink it, have panic attacks about it, or look at myself in the mirror and be disgusted.
The last part is highly due to the fact that Killian often fucks me in front of a mirror and makes me see my pleasure-filled face. He makes me call his name, too. Over and over, until it becomes a hoarse chant.
But he still can’t make me admit that I’m his, something that enrages him every time, and then he shows me exactly how much it angers him.
But screw him.
I’m keeping that last piece of myself even if I die trying. It might be a useless pride thing, but I know, I just know that if I give up that part, I have to be fully ready to accept being completely controlled by him.
That one day, I’ll wake up and not recognize myself, because I’d be molded into his little fucktoy.
And that’s just not me.
So my fight isn’t a useless manifestation of my ego. It’s my only survival mode.
Walking to class, I check the texts I got this morning.
Gareth: The footage I sent last time was the only one we have of Devlin. The last one who saw him alive aside from you was the red mask, and I’m sure you know who that is.
My fingers shake as I read and re-read the text.
Over the past couple of days, Gareth has kept his part of the bargain and sent me surveillance footage clips of Devlin going into their mansion exactly one night before his death. And the footage Gareth was talking about just now is a video where Devlin was ushered into the basement by one of the creepy bunnies. The one who was waiting for him there was the red mask.
Killian.
Then the video ended.
During the initiation, I heard the participants mention that the last one was about mind games. And there’s no one better at those than Killian.
But why did Devlin decide to drive his car off the cliff right afterward?
The only one who can answer that question is probably Killian, but whenever I want something from him lately, he’ll be all like, “Say you’re mine first.”
When I refuse, he shrugs and leaves me hanging.
This will be no different. In fact, he’ll probably be a dick just because he can.
I tuck my phone and thoughts away as I step into Professor Skies’s class. I’m ready for him to roast me for being fifteen seconds late, but he merely gives me a look and says nothing.
Wait. He’s letting it go?
My movements are slow and awkward at best as I take a seat at the back of the class, thankful to be hidden by my canvas.
That’s when I realize the painting I did last time is missing, and in its place, there’s a blank one.
And then, something completely out of left field happens. Professor Skies pulls out a painting, and not just any painting—my painting—and showcases it to the whole class.
My ears heat, ready for the onslaught of his words, this time to embarrass me in front of the whole class.