Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Eighty Eight

Bianca

I find myself locked in a tense standoff with my reflection in the mirror, the bright lights casting harsh shadows on my features. The bathroom door creaks open, and Derek strides in, his heavy footfalls echoing ominously against the tiled floor. An aura of simmering anger radiating off him fills the small space with palpable tension.

"You'll take his beating," he declares, his voice thick with contempt as he looks at me cockily. The phrase hangs in the air, a haunting echo of a conversation I vaguely recall having with Benji just before he curled up beside me, rambling about his father's twisted demands. Touch me, he had said, but he didn't. At that moment, he chose to heed my voice of reason, and that simple act speaks volumes about the kind of person he is.

"You're sick," I retort, an acidic bitterness bubbling up inside me. I spit the words, my anger surging just beneath the surface as our eyes lock in the mirror's reflection. Derek's gaze is intense, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if trying to strip away the layers of my resolve.

"Yes, I'm sick," he chuckles, dark humour infusing his words. "So are you, Bianca. So is anyone craving control."

"I don't want control," I retort, the words tasting bitter and sharp as they slip from my lips, tinged with the stinging sensation of deceit.

"Don't lie to me. You want control over your life, and so do I. I see the mutual need we both have," he hisses, his voice a low growl that hangs heavy in the charged air between us. He closes the distance in a heartbeat, his swift and deliberate movements radiating a commanding presence that suggests he relishes the unsettling game we find ourselves entangled in.

His hand finds the nape of my neck, fingers curling with a possessive grip that pulls me flush against him. Our bodies collide in an electric rush, a precarious mix of tension and raw intensity that leaves me breathless. He reaches behind me, his belt buckle clanging as he undoes it.

"He won't be here to rescue you anymore. Just how far should I push this, Bambi?" His voice dripped with a mix of menace and curiosity as he turned me around with a firm and unyielding grip. With surprising strength, he lifted me effortlessly, setting me down on the counter just as he had done that fateful morning when I had so naively clung to the illusion that he was my husband. The cold surface pressed against me, contrasting sharply with the heat of the moment, as an unsettling tension filled the air.

"Shall I fuck you again?" he questions me, spreading my legs despite my fight to keep them closed, settling between them, pressing forward to show his arousal at having me in this position. He reaches for one of my hands and then the other, slipping them between the loop of his belt and pulling it tight to wrap them together. His laugh was malicious, his touch greedy. He kisses along my neck as I embed my nails into his chest the best I can at the angle they sit between us.

"Fuck, you turn me on," he laughs, grabbing me in a hold, encouraging my body over his shoulder. He walks us out to the bedroom, and he throws me on the bed, grabbing for my ankles to flip me over onto my stomach, and then he presses down on me, trapping me as I fist the bedding for purchase to move away from him as my the bedsheet enters my mouth when I try to breathe. A sob, though unbidden, slips my mouth as an onslaught of memories flood my mind.

"It seems you've turned my son into a snivelling lovestruck idiot. But my question is, are you as special as I remember?" he growls into my ear, his fingers pulling my shorts down with my knickers, both articles bunching around my thighs, acting as a restraint.

A grunt, one that doesn't come from Derek, sounds behind me, and in that moment, I feel his presence—Benji's—his warmth seeping into me much as it has done every day he's been with me. Another person's aura is there, too. But though I strain to turn my head, I can't quite make out who's watching from the sidelines.