Chapter 5: Giving In The Devil
The slap of skin against skin filled the tiny room, a primal counterpoint to their ragged breathing. Jace’s thrusts weren’t just hard now; they were a relentless, driving force, pinning Kate deep into the worn mattress. The purple duvet bunched beneath her, damp with sweat. Her fingers, moments ago tracing the map of scars on his back, now clawed instinctively, seeking purchase on the slick, inked canvas of his skin. She felt a ridge give slightly under her nail – an old wound reopening, maybe – and a hot bead welled, smearing dark against his shoulder blade. He hissed, not in pain, but in a surge of something darker, feral.
His teeth found the tender curve where her neck met her shoulder. Not the soft grazing of before. A sharp, claiming pressure that made her cry out – a sound that was half-pain, half-shattering release. He held the bite, the sting a bright counterpoint to the deep, stretching fullness inside her, the raw friction setting her nerves ablaze.
"Kate," he growled against her damp skin, the vibration traveling straight to her core. His voice was guttural, stripped of anything soft. "Feel it. How deep you take me." He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in, forcing the air from her lungs in a punched-out gasp. His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, exposing her throat further. "Say it."
Her vision swam. The flickering candlelight bled into streaks, catching the iridescent dust on the pinned moth’s wings. The scent of wax mingled with sweat, sex, and the faint, metallic tang of her blood where his teeth had broken skin. Fear, sharp and cold, flared beneath the tidal wave of sensation threatening to drown her. This wasn't safe. This was the edge.
"Jace–" she choked.
"Say you're mine." The demand was a rasp against her ear, punctuated by another brutal thrust that made her arch off the bed. His other hand slid down, fingers digging into the swell of her hip, pinning her utterly. "While I'm buried in you. While I fill you." His thumb found the slick, swollen nub above where they were joined, pressing hard, circling with punishing pressure. "Say it, little moth."
Little moth. The nickname, whispered in the note attached to her the thorn-bound journal, now felt like a brand. Trapped. Pinned. Beautiful in the consuming flame. The dual sensations – the deep, stretching invasion, the sharp spark of pain at her neck, the relentless friction, the demanding pressure on her clit – coalesced into a single, unbearable point of tension. Logic shattered. Resistance crumbled.
"Yours," she gasped, the word ripped from her. "Yours, Jace." It felt less like surrender and more like a terrifying truth spoken raw.
A low, animal sound tore from his chest. The hand in her hair tightened. His thrusts became frantic, uncontrolled piston strokes, driving into her with bone-jarring force. He buried his face in her neck again, teeth scraping the already tender skin. "Mine," he snarled, a dark vow against her pulse. "Always. Every scar. Every breath."
The pressure inside Kate, wound impossibly tight by his words and his body, snapped. Pleasure detonated, violent and all-consuming, radiating out from her core in white-hot waves. She cried out, a raw, ragged sound that echoed off the walls, her body convulsing, clenching hard around him, tearing his release from him moments later. He stiffened, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he drove into her one final, shuddering time, spilling himself deep inside.
For a heartbeat, maybe two, the world ceased. The only sounds were their desperate gasps for air, the frantic hammering of two hearts slamming against ribs. He collapsed onto her, his weight a solid, anchoring pressure, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. Sweat glued them together. She could feel the sticky warmth where her nails had broken his skin, the throbbing bite mark on her neck, the deep, satisfying ache between her legs. The scent of sex and iron was thick in the air.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The weak candlelight. The shadow of the black rose on the bookshelf, looking impossibly dark. The tiny, perfect stone heart she’d slipped from her hoodie pocket earlier, now lying discarded on the floor near the bed, half-hidden in shadow. A silent observer.
Jace pushed himself up onto his elbows, his weight lifting off her chest. He looked down at her, his eyes still dark, the storm not entirely passed. His thumb came up, swiping gently at the small well of blood beading on her neck. He studied the red smear on his skin for a second, his expression unreadable, then brought his thumb to his mouth, licking it clean with deliberate slowness. The intimacy of the gesture, so soon after the violence, stole her breath anew.
He rolled off her, the sudden absence of his heat making her shiver despite the sweat cooling on her skin. He lay on his back beside her, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest still rising and falling rapidly. The intricate tattoos on his ribs and abdomen stretched with the movement, the scars standing stark and pale. Silence settled, thick and charged, broken only by their gradually slowing breaths and the faint, persistent hum of the city outside.
Kate stared up at the water-stained ceiling, her mind a chaotic swirl. The intensity had been… obliterating. Terrifying. Nothing like the calculated cruelty of her past relationships. This felt elemental. Like standing too close to a live wire. Her body thrummed with aftershocks, a delicious ache layered over a deeper, trembling vulnerability. She felt flayed open. Seen in a way that was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. He’d demanded ownership, and in that blinding moment, she’d given it. What did that mean?
She turned her head slightly on the pillow. He hadn’t moved, his arm still covering his eyes. The candlelight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the pulse beating steadily in the hollow of his throat. The scratches on his back stood out, angry red lines against the dark ink. Proof of her own unraveling. She wanted to touch him. To trace the line of his collarbone, to feel the solid reality of him beside her. But the gulf between them felt vast, suddenly. Filled with unspoken histories and the dark promises he’d whispered into her skin.
The silence stretched. Became its own entity. Heavy. Waiting. She swallowed, her throat dry. "Jace?" Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
He didn’t move his arm. Didn’t look at her. Just let his name hang in the charged, sticky air. The candle flame guttered violently, sending shadows leaping across his still form and the stone heart on the floor. Then, with a final, defiant flicker, it died.
Darkness swallowed the room. Utter and complete.
The darkness pressed in, thick and velvety, amplifying every sound: the rasp of her own breathing, the distant wail of a siren, the too-loud thud of her heart against her ribs. The delicious ache between her legs warred with a deeper, sharper sting where his teeth had broken the skin on her neck. Sweat cooled on her skin, raising goosebumps. Beside her, Jace remained utterly still, a warm, solid presence radiating heat in the cool room.
Silence stretched. Heavy. Suffocating. Her thoughts, sluggish moments before, sharpened like shards of glass. The raw intimacy, the claiming, the bone-deep intensity… it receded like a violent tide. What was left felt like an exposed nerve. Vulnerability, sharp and cold. Had the whispered promises of possession, the dark obsession, just been… words? Tools? A sophisticated ploy honed by a man who saw her fragility and knew exactly how to exploit it? Just to get her here? Just to lay her?
A familiar, crushing self-consciousness flooded her. She felt the heat of it crawl up her neck. In the dark, her perceived flaws felt monumental – the softness of her belly, the faded stretch marks, the sharp angles of her hips. Clumsy. Awkward. Used. The ghosts of past mistakes whispered. Her breath hitched, almost silent.
Without a word, she rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. The mattress springs groaned softly beneath her movement. She pulled her arms tight across her chest, a flimsy shield. Facing the dark wall, away from the heat and the unsettling stillness of him, felt like the only safe move. She stared into the blackness, willing herself to disappear into it.
The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, amplifying the ragged rhythm of her own breathing beside Jace’s unnerving stillness. Sweat cooled on her skin, sticky and uncomfortable. Each tiny shift on the mattress felt thunderous, the springs groaning like accusations.
Beside her, Jace’s breathing finally deepened, evening out into the slow cadence of sleep. Utterly peaceful. Oblivious. The profound quiet after the storm of his possession felt like a vacuum. Her neck throbbed where his teeth had broken the skin, a sharp counterpoint to the dull ache radiating from her core. Was it just physical? Or something deeper, something cracked open?
An eternity crawled by. The weight of his stillness, the stark vulnerability of her own nakedness under the cheap sheet, became unbearable. She couldn’t lie there smelling of him, feeling the phantom pressure of his hands. Self-doubt, cold and sharp, pierced the fading warmth. What had she done? Let him claim her? Whispered yours like some desperate offering? The stone heart on the floor felt like a judgment now, not a gift.
Quietly, holding her breath, she peeled the sheet back. The cool air hit her bare skin, making her shiver. She slid her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet finding the worn rug. Every movement was calculated, silent. She couldn’t wake him. Couldn’t face that intense scrutiny now.
Her clothes lay scattered like casualties. Hoodie on the chair. Jeans near the doorway. Bra somewhere in the shadows. Gathering them felt like collecting pieces of her shattered composure. The fabric smelled of sweat, sex, and the lingering ozone scent that clung to Jace. She pulled the hoodie on first, its oversized comfort a flimsy shield.
Padding silently across the creaking floorboards towards the kitchen, she avoided the patch of moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains. The main room felt cavernous and watchful in the dimness. The black rose seemed to gleam. The moth on its pin was just a darker shadow.
The kitchen was a narrow strip of linoleum and laminate. She knew where the whiskey lived – bottom cupboard, behind the chipped mixing bowls. Her fingers closed around the cool glass neck of the bottle. Cheap stuff, the kind that burned all the way down. Just what she needed.
Bottle in hand, she retreated. Not to the rumpled bed. Not to the suffocating dark of the main room. The bathroom door offered temporary sanctuary. She slipped inside, clicking the lock with a soft, final snick. Only then did she exhale, leaning back heavily against the cool wood.
She flicked the light switch. Harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light flooded the tiny space, bleaching everything stark white. The sudden glare made her flinch, squinting. Slowly, she turned towards the mirror above the sink.
The reflection staring back was a stranger. Hair tangled and matted, sticking to her damp temples and neck. Mascara smudged into dark bruises beneath wide, startled eyes, the pupils still dilated. Her lips looked swollen, slightly bruised. And on the curve of her neck, stark against the pale skin, bloomed a livid mark – teeth imprints, ringed by a mottled purple bruise. Possession made visible.
Her gaze traveled down. The oversized hoodie hung shapelessly, but she knew what lay beneath. The ghost of his hands, the ache in her muscles. The small heart lollipop tattoo on her inner right arm, usually a simple anchor, looked insignificant next to the violence etched on her neck. Self-doubt surged, thick and choking. Look at you. Used. Marked. Desperate enough to whisper ‘yours’ to a storm you can’t control. Clumsy Kate. Always picking the wrong fire to fly into. The pin in her septum caught the light, a tiny, cold glint.
Uncapping the whiskey bottle, the sharp scent of cheap liquor hit her nostrils. She didn’t bother with a glass. Tipped the bottle back and took a long, deep swallow. Fire erupted in her throat, tracing a path down to her churning stomach, a welcome, punishing burn. It didn’t cleanse. It cauterized, briefly.
She took another swig, the liquid courage tasting like asphalt. Her reflection blurred slightly. Without looking away from the bruised woman in the mirror, her hand fumbled blindly for the shower control. Found the knob. Twisted it hard.
Water roared to life in the tub behind her, a sudden, angry cascade hitting the porcelain. Steam began to rise, curling into the cold air, fogging the bottom edge of the mirror, starting to obscure the mess looking back at her. She braced her hands on the cool sink edge, bowed her head, and waited for the water to get hot. Waited to try and wash the feeling of him, the feeling of this, away.
The whiskey fumes burned in her sinuses as the water hammered the tub, slowly building heat. Steam began to curl, thick and white, fogging the lower half of the mirror, mercifully blurring the purple bruise blooming on her throat, the smudged remnants of panic in her eyes. She took another savage pull from the bottle, welcoming the fiery numbness spreading through her chest, trying to scorch away the memory of his weight, his words vibrating against her skin – Mine. Every scar. Every breath. The cheap liquor tasted like regret and turpentine.
She set the bottle down beside the sink with a sharp clink, the sound startlingly loud in the small, tiled space. The mirror was mostly steamed over now, her reflection just a pale, distorted ghost in the upper glass. Better that way. She didn’t want to see the woman who’d begged to be owned. The hot water’s roar filled her skull, a physical pressure promising oblivion. She reached behind her, fumbling for the hem of the oversized hoodie, ready to peel off the layers clinging to the scent of him – leather, sex, and something unsettlingly like damp earth beneath old stones.
Just as her fingers found fabric, she paused. Not quite silence, but a shift. The shower’s roar wasn't constant anymore; the water pressure in the old building fluctuated. In that fractional dip, that tiny lull between the hammering of droplets, another sound sliced through the steam-thick air.
Sharp. Distinct. Unmistakable.
Breathing.
Not hers. Hers was still hitched, shallow from the whiskey burn and the lingering adrenaline. This was slower. Deliberate. Close.
Her hand froze on the hoodie’s hem. Ice water seemed to flood her veins, extinguishing the whiskey’s false warmth. The fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickled upright. She didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe herself. She strained to hear over the renewed pounding of the water.
Nothing. Just the shower.
It had been the pipes. Old building groans. Imagination, fueled by exhaustion and cheap bourbon and the raw, exposed nerve endings he’d left humming. She was alone. She had locked the door. The click of the bolt echoed in her memory, definite. Safe. She forced her lungs to pull in a slow, silent breath, trying to calm the frantic rabbit-kick of her heart against her ribs. Paranoia. Just the aftershocks. She started to turn her head, just a fraction, to glance towards the shadowed corner near the toilet, the only spot not washed in the harsh fluorescent glare or consumed by steam.
Movement. A deeper shadow coalesced within the roiling vapor near the door, a shape resolving from the gloom where the light didn’t quite reach. Tall. Utterly still. Watching.
Jace.
He hadn’t tried the knob. Hadn’t made a sound entering. How long had he been standing there, a silent silhouette in the steam, observing her unravel in the mirror’s accusing light? Her breath hitched, trapped in her throat. The bite on her neck throbbed in time with her pulse. He took a single, almost soundless step forward, bringing him to the edge of the steam cloud, his features still half-obscured but the intense focus of his eyes cutting through the haze, fixed on her reflection, on the bruise he’d placed.
"Thought you could wash me off, little moth?" His voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the water, yet it vibrated in the small space, colder than the tile against her back.