The 7: Sloth Read online

  “I’m not hungry,” he growls.

  Could have fooled me. “Do I need to wear anything specific today? Sturdy shoes for the long hike to hide the ashes?” I sass. Not that I have any choice other than what I have on.

  “You’re more than fine how you are.”

  I shrink a little as Dallas prowls forward, my eyes fixed on his hands, waiting, pacing my breaths … He reaches between us and snags the front of my T-shirt to haul me closer.

  “Did you realize I left marks on your neck last night?” he asks with a strange sort of admiration.

  My skin chills at his touch as he lazily drags his fingertips across my throat. “Did you?”

  “Perfectly formed.” His pupils darken as I sidestep out of his hold, leaving the trash in my hand on the counter as I make a quick exit.

  The granola bar turns in my stomach as I step through to the bathroom and check out my reflection in the cloudy mirror. Fuck. Not only is my forehead bruised on the side I hurt, but he’s right: there are undeniable fingerprints wrapped either side of my jugular.

  I’m still zeroed in on the reddish-purple hues that adorn my neck when Dallas shadows me, his hand sliding into place to replicate where it was to leave the marks last night. Only this time he doesn’t grip my throat, he merely leaves his palm hovering over my flesh, teasing, taunting.

  “Want to stab me now?” he whispers, dragging out the last word as though to make light of the situation.

  There’s nothing funny about the fact I’ve let a ticking time bomb into my life. Or the fact I still don’t want him to leave me on my own.

  “How can I when you know I left the knife in the car last night?” Little does he know there’s another still in the top drawer of the kitchenette.

  “Thinking how you’re going to get your hands on this?” He reaches around me and gently sets the exact knife I had in mind onto the basin. “There it is, April. Sharp—” He drags his fingertip along the flat side of the blade. “—and lethal in the right hands.”

  Game on. I reach for the weapon, yet gasp as the hand around my throat tightens. The surge of pain steals my focus, my desperate fingers missing the target as the edges of my vision blur.

  “I don’t think your hands are the right ones, though, are they?” The cool steel presses against my cheek, and all I can do is stare at the pathetic excuse for a woman looking back at me as I come around. “Look after me,” Dallas murmurs as he watches me in the mirror, “and I’ll look after you. Hurt me, and I’ll make you wish you were already dead.”

  I nod in his hold, wincing at the ache in my neck. “I understand.”

  “Because …”

  “You own me.”

  “I will always own you.” He tilts the knife enough that it nicks my skin. I do my best to stay deathly still to save further injury. A spot of red blooms on my pale cheek and then slowly runs in a line to where his hand rests around my neck.

  Dallas watches the beads path, his eyes midnight as he waits until the droplet is almost on top of his hand, and then strikes. A whimper falls from my lips as his hot tongue brands my skin. He licks a lazy line, clearing my cheek of any sign of the veiled threat.

  This man shot the guy who made my life a living hell, and now he proves how easy I really had it.

  Only, what worries me most, is as nervous as Dallas makes me, I’m not afraid.

  I still don’t want him to leave.

  I deserve to die. How could somebody be so twisted in the mind, so affected by the life they lived, that they cling to danger because of how familiar it feels rather than run from it?

  “Have a shower, April,” he coos in my ear; his lips brush the shell. “You’ll feel better.”

  I expect Dallas to leave, to shut the door with another warning, yet he doesn’t. To my horror, and equal parts my intrigue, he simply releases me from his hold and starts to undress. I watch in my periphery as he shirks his T-shirt, throwing it on my monstrous washing pile, and then sets to work on his jeans. His back is broad and defined, exactly what I assumed when I first saw his silhouette standing over me on the road. Yet the detailed artwork is unexpected. His tattoo depicts hell: classical demons and tortured souls that battle amongst rivers of fire. And overseeing it all, spread from shoulder to shoulder, is the devil himself.

  Dallas turns slowly, dressed now in only his boxers as he frowns at what I assume to be my shocked expression. “Postcard from home,” he states plainly before reaching past me to turn the shower on.

  The patter of water on my broken tiles fills the silence as Dallas and I stand toe-to-toe, unwavering. He huffs out an amused sigh, and then reaches for the hem of my T-shirt, slowly lifting the fabric over my head as I raise my arms on auto-pilot to assist him. He continues to undress me with the gentlest of hands—nothing like the touch he used to bruise my flesh. All I can do is stare at the scripture that adorns his chest—The one who believes in me will live, even though they die—only I don’t think he’s talking about God.

  I don’t think this man knows God at all.

  “Why me?” I ask. “What is it about me that made you choose to stick around?”

  He hesitates, bent at my feet as he guides my jeans free. “I have a body to get rid of. You’re collateral damage.”

  “Bullshit,” I challenge. “You could have driven off when you saw I was okay. You could have killed me too. You had plenty of options.”

  “Maybe I was out of bullets,” he snaps. “Consider that?” I frown as he stands again, his eyes hard and fixated on mine. “Maybe I did want to shoot you too, but you got lucky.”

  I set my jaw and stare the asshole down; I don’t believe him. “Want to stab me then?” I ask, mocking his question.

  My heart thunders in my chest, the running water a roar in my ears. What if he decides that using the knife on me would be a good idea? What if he reaches over right now and—

  “Yes, but I’m not finished with you yet.”

  His cold indifference leaves my skin covered with gooseflesh. What more could he want from me? Don’t be naïve, girl. His intentions are written in the glint of his eye. This man has a plan, and it involves my complete submission.

  Why does that make me so curious?

  “Get in the shower, April.” He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra, then guiding the straps off my shoulders so that it slides down my arms and falls to the floor.

  My breath catches in my throat as he blatantly checks my assets out and hums his approval. Hungry eyes devour my flesh; curious hands cup my breasts.

  A broken mind enjoys the attention.

  I close my eyes and frown as his palms skim down to my panties. He hooks both thumbs into the waistband and shoves hard, unperturbed by my silence. I shimmy out of the ordinary pair and kick them aside. Dallas pushes his boxers to his feet and shucks them as well.

  What am I doing?

  I wished for a savior for years, somebody to show me the way, to guide me through the process of leaving Terry. I wished for a knight to ride in and rescue me. I wished for anybody but this murderer before me. And yet, I don’t feel as though I deserve any different.

  My life has never been easy, and in no way has it ever been conventional. I ran away from an abusive family, right into the arms of an abusive man, not realizing that I subconsciously sought out what I knew because it was easier than dealing with the change to something else—to being someone else.

  And here I am, starting the ride all over again. Only each time I get on, the stakes are higher, the risks more significant, the odds even more so against me.

  If I survive this, then what next? How many more times can I do this before I step into something I can’t handle?

  The question is, do I want to survive? What sweeter death than at the hands of a man as virile and consuming as Dallas? I can’t deny he got under my skin the moment he pulled the trigger.

  “Are you with me?” Dallas holds out his hand, inviting me to join him.

  I let my gaze fall the length of th
e man, taking in the dip of his muscles at his hips, the firm thighs and weapon he packs between. The guy is hung, which should come as no surprise given how cocky and self-assured he is.

  I place my hand in his and let Dallas guide me into the tiny stall. There’s no way for the two of us to share the shower without our bodies staying connected in some way. He maneuvers me so that I tuck in his arms with the spray hot on my back.

  It feels like heaven.

  “Do you have a job?” he asks out of the blue as his hands start to massage my back and shoulders.

  “Not right now.”

  “Family?”

  “Are you curious if I’ll be missed?” He’s softening the blow, buttering me up with his touch before he sticks the literal knife in and removes the complication from his day.

  “I am,” he answers, “but not for the reasons you probably think.”

  “Is that so?” I rest my head against his chest as he works his hands lower, releasing the tension from my lower back.

  “I want to take you home like a stray animal, April. I want to keep you, feed you, and make you depend on me for survival.”

  “But not love me?” Strays need love. I need love.

  “I don’t know what love is,” he says quietly as he threads his fingers through the hair at the base of my skull. “But I could try, I guess.”

  “Again,” I whisper, allowing my mind to twist this into some warped dream, some wicked fantasy. “Why me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you have somebody at home you love already,” I point out.

  He tips my head back with his hold.

  “You killed my boyfriend,” I continue.

  His free hand runs a path over my chest; between my breasts and around my side to pull my hips flush against him.

  “And I’m nothing but a possession,” I say. “Nothing but a conquest. Somebody who’s indebted to you. I’m nothing, Dallas. Nothing and no-one.”

  The water runs from my hair into my eyes, forcing them closed. I concentrate on the rush of his breath as the hand in my hair flexes, the feel of his hard length pressed into my stomach. Seconds pass like hours, every twitch and flex of our bodies against each other a stab to the senses.

  “You’re somebody,” he whispers, his mouth close to mine. “You’re something.”

  His lips sweep over mine, soft and careful. The hesitation is so unlike the man I’ve known these past twelve-something hours that I will myself to keep my eyes closed. I refuse to open them and see the truth, reveal the lie.

  His kiss intensifies, the hand in my hair roughly directing me out of the flow of water. I let him guide me so that my back rests against the side wall, relish the feel of his body pressed against mine as he puts the other hand under my thigh and hitches me higher, pinning me in place with his hips.

  I’m doing this. He’s taking what he wants to be finished with me, and I’m okay with that.

  I’m more lost than I ever knew.

  “Tell me,” he grumbles between chaste kisses on my shoulder and neck. “Did he fuck you in the shower?”

  “No,” I answer on a breathless whisper.

  “Did he ever look at you and lose control?” He moves the hand from my hair to my chin, holding my head in place as he pierces me with those dark eyes. “Did he ever tell you how fuckable you look when you’ve given up on life?”

  I shake my head, rolling it side-to-side on the shower wall. “No.”

  “Who do you belong to now, April?”

  “You,” I murmur, lost to the feel of his thick erection as he rocks his hips against me, the security of his arms as he holds me steady.

  “Who did you always belong to?”

  I frown, unsure if he means what I think he does.

  “Me,” he snaps, clearly agitated that I failed to answer. “You’ve always been mine; I simply let that fucking cunt of a boyfriend you had borrow you for a while.” His eyes are pure darkness as he places his cheek against mine, whispering in my ear. “I needed him to ruin you so that you’d crave what I am.”

  “What are you?” I ask, my head swimming with the mix of lust, nerves, and regret.

  “I’m the fucking devil,” he says, shunting me higher up the wall to reposition his hips. “Loving me will destroy you, but I promise by the time we’re done today, you won’t care.”

  “Care about what?” God, he’s crushing me, he’s pressed against me so tight.

  “That I’ve stripped you of your soul. Stripped you of everything you are or might have been.”

  FOUR

  He punctuates his threat with a hard thrust of his hips, entering me on one brutal stroke. It hurts, the stretch as he fills me, but by the second blow I’m holding out for more.

  My shoulder blades dig into the tiles as he lays his claim, my body violently shunted against the wall over and over again. Dallas threads his fingers through mine, placing our joined hands above my head as he presses them into the wall. The mix of pleasure and pain, the contrast of his satisfied groans and the brutal way in which he takes what he needs without wasting time on meaningless foreplay—I understand what he meant by stripping me of my soul.

  I’d endure purgatory day in and day out if this were the reward I’d get each night.

  “You’re mine now,” he growls as his thrusts become harder, jerkier. “You can’t leave,” he murmurs. “I won’t let you.”

  I’ve heard these threats before from Terry, yet the difference is he would scream the lines at me as I cowered from his fists. I’m not stupid enough to call what I have with Dallas at this moment anything other than reckless lust, but the threats carry less weight when my core clenches at the fullness of his cock. Maybe I’m drunk on the sex; perhaps I’m the classic case of Stockholm syndrome and in love with my tormentor. Whatever the fuck it is, it’s the most treasured I’ve felt in a long time. I don’t care if it’s wrong.

  When your life isn’t worth the paper it’s written on, love and acceptance come in any form you can get them. And right now, I’ll take it, even if a psychotic man who is yet to dispose of my boyfriend’s dead body dishes it out.

  Dallas stills inside of me, his lips grazing my ear as he whispers three simple words that send me over the edge. “Come for me.”

  I open my mouth and cry out as he resumes his brutal pace, falling undone around him when he places his fingers in my mouth and pulls down—hard.

  “Mine to fuck when I want,” he grits out through a stiff jaw before his hips jerk as he shoots his load. “Understood?”

  “Understood,” I pant.

  “Mine to take where I want,” he continues as he slides out of me. “Mine to give to who I want.”

  Wait. “What?”

  He shrugs. “I go away when I work sometimes. You might need company.”

  “I’m okay on my own.” Like fuck he’s going to lend me out like some cheap car.

  Jesus. When did I start thinking about the future with this man as though it’s a given?

  His lips curl up on one side as he steers me under the water and proceeds to clean away the cum that drips from my swollen folds. “You won’t be okay on your own, baby.” A cool chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

  I might be bent, traumatized from a life of abuse, but like hell I’d be that dependent on a man. Would I? A sinking feeling takes hold in my gut as I realize that this man, this stranger, might know me better than I know myself.

  What the hell have I got myself into? “Where will you take me?”

  He slides a lazy digit inside my pussy, hooking it around to tickle my still sensitive spot. My legs buckle around his hand as he answers, “Home.”

  I slam both hands down on his shoulders to steady myself. “This is my home.”

  “No, April.” He slips his finger free and resumes cleaning. “It’s a rotten fucking shoebox in a building that should have been condemned decades ago.”

  Maybe so, but it was mine … ours. I worked hard to save
up the security to get us into this place. The security that would be gone twice over by now, I’m so behind on the lease.

  Dallas rinses the suds from my body and then with a firm slap to my ass, orders, “Out.”

  I do as I’m told, too drained to fight about something as petty as being instructed to dry off. He washes as I towel dry with the same one we used last night, and then go to find some clean clothes.

  “April,” he calls as I step out into the living area.

  “Yeah?”

  He pops his head out the shower door, and fuck it all if that boyish smile doesn’t undo at least half of what he’s put me through so far. “What will I use?” He pointedly flicks his gaze to the fluffy towel.

  Right. Of course. “Sorry.” I quickly hang it on the rail and then head out to get my clothes with my arms crossed over my naked chest.

  The water shuts off as I tug on a clean pair of panties, and then go in search of a bra. There isn’t one. At least, not one that won’t smell like Terry’s work clothes in the laundry pile. Dallas steps out of the bathroom in nothing but his jeans as I pull a loose sweater over my head, hoping the way the material hangs will hide the fact my girls are swinging free until I can get enough together for the Laundromat.

  “Let’s get something straight,” he states as he runs the towel over his head, messing his hair up in a way that makes me forget what a monster he can be. “You try to hide your body from me again, I’ll make it so your arms are too fucking sore to cross over yourself. Got it?”

  “Are you done with the threats yet?” Amazing what extra confidence a slip of cotton and two feet of breathing space can give a girl.

  He tips his chin down, those shark eyes blacker than black as he grins. “Warnings. Not threats, baby. Warnings.” He tosses the towel carelessly on the floor. “They’d be threats if I didn’t intend to go through with them, but I will hurt you if you don’t obey.”

  “What if I don’t want to be your whore?” I snap. “What makes you think I’m not going to ditch you the first chance I get?”

  My bravado seems to amuse him as he leans back on the rear of the armchair and folds his arms. “Where would you go? What would you do?” He lifts both hands to gesture at my apartment. “What have you got in this world other than a barren place to rest your head?” He pushes off the chair and marches across to my nightstand. “Where are the family photos, April?” He jabs at the empty space where the reminders of loved ones should sit. “Where are the signs that somebody gives a shit about you, or that you give a shit about anyone either?” He strides over to the bathroom and re-emerges with the jeans I wore last night, ramming his hands in the pockets as he carries them to where I stand. “Nope. No phone.” The denim hits the floor with a dull thud. “I haven’t seen you indicate that there’s anyone in this world who would miss you if you were gone, April. No one.”