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“Fucking hard, choking you, biting you, bleeding you, hurting you. I cannot help it, little dove; it is what I like,”
“I am not,” he whispered against my mouth, peppering my lips with gentle kisses here and there. “See, little dove, the only way I can possibly reconcile how much I want you, long for you, find myself annoyingly drawn to you like to no woman before in my life… a Brisden, no less,” fingernails dug into the scar tissue on my chest, straining the puckered skin until it ached, “is by hurting you just a little bit more.”
“Eyes on me, Galantia. Don’t you dare fucking move those hazel eyes from mine when I make you come on my cock while my shadows feast on your cunt.”
“You still feel me there,” Malyr rasped and squeezed the sponge, letting the warm water trickle down and soothe sore flesh. “A decent man would sink his head in shame.”
“No, I am not,” he said. “I cannot help but feel a sense of pride, eagerly awaiting the blossoming of my marks and bruises.”
It was an odd sensation, as if he was saying I love hurting you and I hate that I hurt you all at once, his touch the most delicious contradiction.
“And what if I want you to look at me?”
“To forget who I am and start seeing what we could be, if only you allowed it?”
“Then hurt me. Hurt me… but look at me.”
I hate that I hurt you.
I love hurting you.
“Saw you playing, running, and laughing while I bled, hurt, and fevered nearby,” he said. “It seemed so… unreal, unfair. Made me furious beyond measure.”
“Maybe we are truly fated only to end in emotional tragedy…”
“Little dove,” his whisper came with a salty kiss to my lips before he straightened and placed his own by my ear, “love is tragedy.”
I hate that I l...
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“Come to me… Just one more step, and I’ll break your fucking neck, little white dove.”
Together, we beat our wings, our croaks merging with the rumble of the waves. That, and the echo of laughter, a haunting melody that would forever remind me of the girl who should have died at my hands.
“But if you separate even an inch from the leather, I will carry you into the stables, bend you over the saddle rack, and whip that delicious ass of yours red with these reins. Then I’ll put you back on the horse, and I swear by the goddess, Galantia, every time you lift from the saddle, you will be punished with hellfire the moment you come back down.”
“Little dove… why did this look as though you failed on purpose?”
“Maybe you need to rethink your punishments and stop making them sound like rewards.”
“You were not supposed to be quite so perfect, little dove,”
“I can’t help but wonder if I am about to make a grave mistake,” he whispered between one kiss and the next. “Because the more you enjoy the things I do to you, the less I want to inflict them. And that is a problem.”
There was a love in Malyr’s punishments, a sincerity in his cruelty that stripped me bare and made me feel more seen, more understood than ever before.
What would it feel like to be loved with such intensity? Such unequivocal fortitude, not even death could impose conditions?
“See, there is no love for you here—not from me, not from him. There is no love for you anywhere.”
“I told you I would break you like your father had done it with me, little white dove. And, oh, how delicious your tears are.”
With a storm of white wingbeats, my ravens carried me up to the flight hole, and out into the even whiter winter from there. Our plumage blended with the snow and the clouds. Our wings carried us east. Away from the pain.
