Chapter 201
Magnus Hale
I wake up to the heat of a body beside me. For an instant, I forget
where I am, until I open my eyes and see Adrian sleeping, serene, as if
he were just an ordinary man.
It’s disturbing. Because, like this, he looks… human. Even though he
says he is one, his actions show the opposite. But now, seeing him
quiet, peaceful, with that almost angelic face… yes, he looks like
someone normal, free from that madness that consumes him.
My gaze travels over every line of his face.
How the hell did someone so young become so insane? What made
him this way–so disturbed, so distorted?
Maybe I don’t even want to know.
His slow breathing accompanies me, and hesitantly, I reach out,
brushing my thumb against his soft cheek. The gesture unnerves me.
I don’t understand why he loves me. I don’t find anything attractive
about myself. I’m thirty–eight years old. He’s barely past twenty.
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Sixteen years separate us, and yet, he looks at me as if I were a god.
And if I ask the reason, I can already imagine the answer: “Have you
looked in the mirror? You’re magnificent.”
I roll my eyes just thinking about it. That explains nothing. I’ve never
been desired like this. My childhood was shit. My father abandoned
us when we needed him most, and my mother brought another man
into the house–a worm who beat us for pure pleasure.
I went hungry. I stole to survive. Sometimes, I stole just to feed my
mother, and the bastard punished me for it. He even broke my arm.
The worst part was watching her stay by his side–not out of fear, but
because she wanted to.
I heard her once, while I was hiding, begging him to stay, saying she
didn’t care about the beatings as long as he didn’t leave her. I was
nine years old and already felt too much hatred.
I grew up with no one. I never stepped foot in a school because she
didn’t care. She wasn’t even good for that. Even my stepfather said I
should study, but she ignored it. She never worried about me.
I was the one who had to protect myself. I was the one who killed him
after he tried to kill me from the beating.
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From then on, I dived into crime. Drugs, money, blood. I got my first
scar when my mother tried to kill me over money. A stab to the chest.
Then I left her behind. At twenty, I learned she died owing money to
gangsters.
I never loved anyone. I only knew physical pleasure, casual
encounters that lasted for nothing. Four or five, maybe. I don’t
remember. And I don’t dare ask Adrian, because I know he killed them
just for having touched me.
Too insane.
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And I wonder: if I accept loving this boy, what will become of me?
Will I become like him? Obsessive, possessive, sick? I’m already possessive. When something is mine, I want it forever. And he…
insists on calling me his.
My hatred for him still burns. I hate what he did to me, I hate the humiliation, and I hate the way he stripped my power in front of everyone. I hate remembering that he abused me.
But there is one thing I cannot erase. The pleasure.
I don’t want to romanticize it; I don’t want to confuse things: I was forced, and that doesn’t change. What he did was abuse. That will
never be right.
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I let out a dry, humorless laugh, almost a broken noise in the silence.
And do I know what is right?
Do I?
I look at the ceiling of the cell, the weight of these memories
crushing me.
It wasn’t sexual abuse; I never had to force anyone in that sense. The
people I lay with wanted to be there. But I… I abused my power. I
abused my position. I used fear, violence, and influence.
Whoever disobeyed was punished. Whoever tried to escape ended up
dead. I forced people to do what I wanted, even if it was to save their
own lives.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
