I knew he was in complete human form now, his vine-like tendrils receding completely. A stinging on my body told me there would be bruises on my wrists and thighs, and I didn’t mind one damn bit.
But I should have realized that Razar would.
A pained noise broke from his throat, and my eyes snapped open to find him examining my wrists, a tortured look covering his face before he could shutter it. I went to go tell him that I felt amazing and that we could do that any time… you know, since I had finally gotten to feel Razar against me like I’d always wanted to.
But before I could, he was up and pacing by the side of the bed. I tried to adjust myself, sitting up and feeling suddenly embarrassed, my fingers sliding against the light bruising on my wrists. I mean, sure, there was a mark… but I liked that. A lot. Nightmares loved roughly, clearly, and I was finding that I found that far more attractive than I could have ever expected.
“I like them,” I blurted out. “I don’t mind the bruises, at all.”
I mean, that couldn’t be all that odd right? There were humans that liked rough sex, so why did I feel almost embarrassed by what I was admitting? Or maybe not embarrassed, but just cautious, because I had a feeling Razar wouldn’t see it the same way.
He froze and shook his head, continuing to pace as I jumped from bed, steadying myself and approaching him. He winced, his finger coming up to brush my lip as he looked down at me.
“I’m supposed to protect you, not hurt you,” he growled.
“It doesn’t hurt, I feel amazing,” I promised, holding my breath as he examined my expression. Disappointment surged through me as he stepped back and grabbed my wrist, kissing it briefly before seeming to emotionally distance himself even more.
“I need to get out of here,” he responded in a choked tone. “I don’t trust what I’m going to do.”
“Razar, don’t,” I whispered, gripping his forearm. “If your fear of what you could do to me is what’s been holding you back, holding whatever this is back, then that is my decision also. I like how rough you are—”
He turned towards me, his eyes flaring. “Rough? That wasn’t fucking rough, Arabella. My version of rough would fucking kill you.”
I winced at his tone as regret flashed on his face. Tears welled my eyes as embarrassment and confusion filled the widening emotional abyss between us.
“So that’s it? It doesn’t matter what I want, it doesn’t matter that we could at least try—”
“I am not risking your safety.” His tone was firm.
“Don’t you want me?”
My voice was weak, and I knew I was fucking begging him to give me something. I mean, this nightmare was not only my best friend, but the first person I had ever admitted to loving. I just needed him to tell me something, anything to give me hope that we could figure this out.
Razar turned away before I could read his reaction to my words, his jaw hard as he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what I fucking want, I would rather never touch you again if it meant you not having bruises all over your body.”
Okay then. Point made.
“Fine,” I whispered, feeling a surge of anger. “Fucking fine.”
I moved past him as I walked towards my closet, grabbing some clothes before going into the bathroom. I didn’t lock it, but when I heard the main door to my bedroom close, a small, sad sound broke from my throat, realizing that he meant it. Amun had been right after all... which meant that I couldn’t ignore the truth.
My nightmares would never fully be mine.
11
Razar
I wasn’t positive how I had managed it, but I was experiencing both self-hatred and lust simultaneously, both completely revolving around the one constant in my life—Arabella.
The only person who mattered to me. The only woman I would ever love. Hell, the only individual I would ever love, if you could call the emotions I felt love. I wasn’t entirely possible how else to describe it that didn’t sound intensely obsessive. Although that may have been closer to the truth.
Which was why I felt an immense amount of disgust with myself for the bruises that I could see on her exposed wrists, her choice to wear a short-sleeve shirt after changing very intentional. She was forcing me to see it and deal with the reality of what had occurred.
As if I could ever forget.
If there was one thing I knew about Arabella, it was how stubborn she could be when she felt like she was being wronged in some fashion. Or when she felt like someone was taking a decision away from her. I had absolutely never intended her to find out the reason I was keeping a physical distance, because I knew that this would be the reaction. She would want to prove me wrong, and believe me, my entire being was all too thrilled at the notion of giving her a chance.
Which was how I had ended up in the position we’d been in earlier, with her a story above the ground, pinned between myself and a wall as I practically fucking mauled her. All because she had offered me her mouth in a hesitant, almost curious kiss.
I was a bastard. I hadn’t been able to control myself. I’d given in to my urge and need for her and ended up leaving bruises on her stunning, soft skin, all because I had let out a fraction of my strength instead of exercising my normal control. I had made her come on my fingers, absorbing every moan of my name like a fucking addict, before licking her wet heat off my fingers.
I had done all of this and then hurt her goddamn feelings by practically forcing myself from her room when I should have instead been holding her close. Telling her how lucky I was and how beautiful she was.
I’d run. I had fucking run.
Now I was paying the price for being a coward, standing across from her in the emergency care center as she spoke to the medical team quietly, looking over the small girl we’d rescued. The entire situation made me furious, but instead of focusing on the wrongs that had been inflicted on one of our kind or comforting Arabella, who was so clearly upset… I was standing feet away from her, staring at her with what I’m positive was a pathetic expression. My eyes flickered over the marks on her wrists again before I forced myself to look away.
I hated myself for loving that I’d marked her. I hated myself for not being able to love her how someone like Arabella deserved to be loved. A woman like her didn’t deserve bruises on her skin or to be roughly fucked like how I wanted to.
She did say she liked it. I frowned, wondering if maybe I was causing more damage by not trusting her words. Was it so impossible to believe that would be the case? I mean, it wasn’t that unusual for humans to like rough sex… maybe she really meant that. Maybe she liked the marks I left on her.
Or she was just trying to make you feel better.
I closed my eyes, having no idea on how to handle the thoughts running through my head, because up until this point, things had been rather simple. I had obsessed over her, and she had stayed safe and happy, never commenting on the obvious connection between us. Something had changed, though, because I could see the energy running under her skin, a determined and stubborn fire lit in her eyes, and I had a feeling my time for avoiding this conversation was quickly coming to an end.
So what had inspired it?
Also, if I was so tortured by the concept… why couldn’t I stop imagining what she would look like wrapped up completely in my magic, my hand wrapped around her throat as I fucked her pinned up against that same wall? I was so screwed. I loved the imagery of her out of reach from anyone else and completely in my grasp so that I could possessively claim her again and again.