“It’s just a graze.”

“It’s not!” My voice shatters, tears falling down my cheeks. “I’m just like him, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not.”

He grabs a tissue from the side table, removes my hand, and wipes his neck. “See, it looks worse than it is.”

Now that it’s not covered with blood, the cut isn’t long, but it’s there, and it’s still bleeding. The more blood comes out, the harder the tears leave my eyes.

“I’m going to fix it,” I say through sniffles. “I know how.”

I crawl to the first aid kit on the bedside table, then go back to straddling Jonathan’s lap. Although I expect him to push me away, and he has every right to, he doesn’t.

Jonathan leans on one hand as the other goes back to stroking my hair.

I retrieve the disinfectant and clean the wound with barely steady hands. I can’t stop crying, even when the blood dries. By the time I place the gauze on his skin, I’m a sobbing mess.

Jonathan pushes me back so that I’m sitting on my haunches on his thighs and changes my bandages. He glares at the cut on my palm from when I clutched the shard of glass earlier. The fact that he disapproves of how I reopened my wounds, and then made them worse, is loud and clear in his dark gaze.

“Hurt yourself again and I’m tying you the fuck up, Aurora.”

A sniffle is my answer. I couldn’t talk even if I wanted to. My attention keeps filtering back to the gauze on his neck, to the blood that’s soaking the collar of his shirt.

“How do you know how to do it?” he asks in a quiet tone.

“W-what?” I manage through tears.

“You said you know how to fix it.” He pours disinfectant on my palm, but I don’t even wince. He pays special care to wipe his blood from between my fingers and from under my nails.

That makes me cry harder, feelings of shame and regret haunting my words as I try to speak, “I w-was stabbed when I was young and I-I sutured my wound myself.”

I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe, like him, I’m trying to get my mind off the present.

“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

I shake my head frantically. “I didn’t trust them. I still don’t. They hated me and would’ve probably accused me of doing it to myself. I…that’s why I didn’t go to the hospital either, because they would’ve reported me. Besides, if the perpetrator was a victim’s family, I didn’t want to hurt them. They’d experienced enough pain for a lifetime.”

“There.” He drops my bandaged palms to my lap, and I soak in the comfortable feeling when the wounds stop pulsing. He then wipes what I’m sure is the mess on my face with a wet piece of cotton.

My brow furrows. “What?”

“There’s the reason why you’re not Maxim. He wouldn’t give a fuck if people suffered as long as he got his gratification. You got stabbed and remained quiet to protect others.”

“But I c-cut you.” The words burn in my throat.

“You were cornered, and I’m certain you won’t do it again.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.”

My chin trembles. “I-I’m so sorry, Jonathan.”

“Stop apologising.”

“But —”

“If you don’t, I’m going to spank you.”

My insides liquefy at that promise. This feeling of utter surrender to the lust I have towards Jonathan is the reason I trashed everything. I tried to get anyone’s attention so they would open the door and I’d get to flee.

The fact that he could use my body against me scared me. It still does, but now, I feel like I’m suspended in an altered reality. Now, I don’t have the right to think about anything past the fact that I hurt him.

I could’ve killed him.

I could’ve lost him once and for all.

“Jonathan, I —”

“Shut up, Aurora.”

“But I —”

His hand wraps around my throat and his lips capture mine. My words and tears come to a halt and my thoughts scatter into thin air. Something tells me I shouldn’t do this, but that reason can be damned.

I moan into his mouth as he claims me whole. He tastes of cognac and coffee. I love this taste on him so much. The fact that it’s mixed with his woodsy, spicy scent feels as if I’m diving deep into him.

My tongue meets his, keeping up with his pace — or trying to, anyway. He’s too intense for me to maintain the same rhythm. Having his fingers around my neck adds to the lethal feel of his sheer presence surrounding me like a vice.

Still kissing me, he flips me over so I’m lying on my back on the mattress in the midst of the chaos of thrown clothes, towels, and sheets.

His mouth leaves mine, and I breathe heavily, my lips are swollen and raw, but I want more. I need the confirmation that he forgives me, that he sees that I didn’t mean to hurt him.

Jonathan’s fingers tighten around my throat, and I clutch his hand, not to remove it, but to keep it as leverage. I need to hold on to something, and it’s strange that he’s the only thing I can turn to.

“Don’t cry again.” His voice is hard yet tender at the same time. “Those eyes aren’t made for tears.”

Before I can make complete sense of his words, he crawls down my body and flings the nightgown to my waist.

I didn’t bother with underwear after my morning bath, and I’m glad I didn’t.

An appreciative groan comes from Jonathan’s lips as he slides his fingers through my folds. I’ve forgotten what it felt like to be dead down there. Jonathan made me bury that part of me with every orgasm he’s wrenched out of me.

Now, I don’t even need pain. I just need his presence and my entire body flames back to life.

He releases my throat, and before I can protest, he settles on his knees at the foot of the bed and starts to open my legs.

They widen of their own volition as his fingers slide from my core to my inner thighs, leaving a wet trail.

I’m falling into that sensation when Jonathan’s tongue does a long swipe. My back arches off the bed as a zap of pleasure sparks down my spine.

He holds my thighs in a merciless grip as he thrusts his tongue inside me. At first, it’s slow, almost as if he’s sampling me.

I’ve never allowed anyone to go down on me. It felt too intimate and just wasn’t something I was willing to give up. Just like, before I met Jonathan, I’d never gone to my knees to suck a man off. However, Jonathan has burnt through my inhibitions one by one like it’s his God-given right.

The foreign sensation causes my lips to part in a needy whimper.

“Fuck.” His head peeks up from between my legs. “You’re the best thing I’ve tasted.”

And then he’s back to feasting on me. Gone is his unhurried pace. Jonathan thrusts in and out of me with a rhythm that liquefies my limbs. My nipples turn into hard pebbles, straining against the nightgown’s material.

I grip his hair with both hands, fingers digging into his skull as he ruthlessly devours me. There’s no other description for it. Jonathan doesn’t only eat me, he claims me. He owns my body, but he doesn’t stop there. In a way, it’s like he’s also coming after my soul.