ALESSANDRA VITELLO VOLKOV.
“Christian.”
I touch his tats, I scour his chest letting every ridge of muscle, every scar of his imbue itself in me and remind me he’s alive.
“You… alive.”
My tongue feels heavy, like I’m carrying fifty pounds on it.
The rasp in my voice scratches my throat as I swallow saliva to make the parching stop.
He gives me his eyes. Brown in the middle with darkness wrapped around them.
He’s always been like that. All dark on the exterior but a big brown teddy on the inside at least for me.
I smile, running my hand over his stubble, over his nose, over his lips.
“Lick…”
I want to lick your lips. I want to kiss you.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks.
Tears well in my eyes as I open my lips.
I want to say ‘heart’. It hurts right there in the chest.
His breath skitters over my neck and my breath catches in my throat.
His lips touch my skin and I hold onto his bicep for sweet oh sweet relief.
“Christian.”
I slur. I moan. I keen. I need more. More, please.
“More.”
I beg and he doesn’t give me more.
He holds me like a baby while words tumble out of my mouth and my head burns with whatever I’m assuming to be fever.
When I close my eyes, I hear his voice, “Sorry.”
Sorry for what, Christian?
***
My eyelids twitch at first then daylight strikes my face and I yawn getting a little comfortable in the sheets that feel like heaven.
Opening my eyes turns out to be a bad move because as soon as I do the headache that rushes in feels like I chugged a whole bottle of Jack Daniels in one night.
I hiss.
Darkness settles in front of me before light and everything comes into sight.
My eyes linger on the man seated in front of me on a metallic chair opposite the bed that kinda looks like it will give in at any moment.
Memories of last night come to my mind and the first thing I do is retreat back to the headboard of the bed.
“Easy, easy, Melissa, I’m not gonna hurt you”, he assures.
That less baritone more vibrational voice elicited bitterness and sadness from me.
No but you did hurt me.
Memories or not, trauma on your part or not, you hurt me, Christian. You… you became Rhett and hurt me.
“Y-You strangled me”, I murmur and my voice comes out with more vitriol than necessary.
He looks at me like he’s wounded but I look at him and the pain and torture of this man not being my man hits me like a freight train.
Christian would never hurt me not in a million years. My Christian would never…
My Christian might be dead. Beyond reach now and whatever I’m doing is futile.
“I never meant to-”
“You broke my phone!”
You took my kids away. That phone had our texts, that phone had you in it too. That phone had my family. You gifted me that phone!
“Melissa-.”
I push the covers away, crawling to the footboard of the bed, before my legs step on the burgundy carpet and I stand in front of him.
“I punched you because you deserved it. I begged you not to drop that phone and you-.”
“I bought you four more. All of them the latest iPhones.”
My head throbs even more.
“I don’t want your phones. I don’t want those.”
My right foot hurts, why does my foot hurt?
The bastard in front of me notices it because his hands land on the back of my thighs and he pulls me to him so much so that I’m trapped between his muscular thighs.
“What can I do then? I made a mistake, Melissa. How do I correct that mistake?”
Remember me.
“You can’t because I’m handing in my resignation right now. I’m done working for you, sir.”
Tell me to stay.
Beg me to stay.
If you are in there, give me a sign. Tell me I’m not gambling away the time I should spend with my children with you.
I get my answer when Christian’s bedroom door opens and I turn around.
Dark blue eyes meet mine and a sloppy smile meets me.
Weston Marasigan looks over at me and eats the distance between us in seconds.
In a flick of a minute, his hand cups my cheek and he swipes my hair from my neck.
“Jesus Christ, Alek. You weren’t kidding when you said you did a number on her. How are you doing, beautiful? Anything hurt?”
Christian called another man for me?
Christian called another man to console me?
“I want to leave”, I mutter, my back to the man who’s far too hopeless to remember anything.
Weston stares behind me at his best friend.
I want to punch his best friend again.
“That’s what I’m here for, beautiful. My friend can be an asshole sometimes but he realized he fucked up so I’m here to clean up his mess.”
“I want to leave now. I’ll work for you, I’ll… take me out of here.”
Take me out of here, because I can’t make myself move.
I can’t make myself leave him even when I know it’s the right thing to do.
“Right away, beautiful. Right away.”
Wes stretches his hand out for me, I raise my hand ready to interlock it with his and be done with this miracle that has turned out to be a nightmare.
My hand never gets to touch Wes because Christian’s hands wrap around my tummy, pulling my back into him.
“Get out.”
The growl is loud and clear and by the look on Wes’ face, he knows he’s the one being spoken to.
“Alek, you choked her. You called me today because you lost control of a maid you’ve known for a week. This is for the best.”
“Get the fuck out of my house, Weston.”
“Alek…”
Wes slips his eyes to me, his smile impassive, his expression murderous.
Then back to Christian.
“This isn’t over.”
A minute later, I watch as Weston’s leather brown jacket disappears from sight and the harsh bang of the door hits my ears.
The asshole caging my legs with his and pining my waist with his large hands turns me around.
My brain is still processing what just happened.
Our eyes meet. I’m angry, he’s fucking fuming as if he has the right to.
“No to your resignation. You are not working for Weston; you are not working for anyone else either.”
“Lucky for me, everyone’s got free will and I’m telling you right now, Sir, I’m done working for you.”
“Well, I’m not done with you little stalker. Not after a little game anyway. You up for one?”
“Sir-.”
“I’m even going to be a little generous and strike a deal with you. If you win, you get to walk away with Wes or whoever the fuck you want but I win? I win and you stay.”
My hands sweat; my throat constricts, the blood in my ears roars for me to stop this.
I don’t like the smirk on him right now.
I nod.
A yes? A no? I have no clue.
He pushes the chair he was seated on back, freeing me.
Then he stands up, walking to the door and locking it.
I watch with anxiety and dread as he walks to the windows drawing the blinds, keeping out the sunshine, keeping the world out.
I stand on wobbly legs as my eyes ricochet his every movement. He walks to the nightstand, opening a drawer and taking something out.
The minute my eyes catch on the silver revolver in his hand, fear and a lot more than dread rid me of air.
‘Christian.’
Instead, I say, “No.”
He goes back to the chair behind me, sits on it and pats his lap with the gun in hand.
I know what game he wants us to play. And there’s no way I’m playing Russian Roulette with him.
“You nodded, little one. Where I’m from that counts as consent. Either you sit on my fucking lap or I tape you on my lap.
Your choice.”
“Don’t do this.”
“On my lap. Now.”
My unsteady feet lead me to his lap and I sit on top of his thighs, my back to him, my body trembling.
“Russian roulette with a little twist. There’s one bullet inside the revolver and every time I roll it and point it at my head, there’s a chance that bullet hits me and I die first which makes you the winner. And if not, I’m the winner.
So, let’s change the rules a bit. I ask the questions with the gun to my head, if you lie to me little stalker, I pull the trigger.
You are free to do the same.”
I tilt my head to the side, my eyes filling with tears.
“Please don’t…”
He rolls the revolver and in a split second, he places the nozzle on the side of his head, smirking.
The bastard.
“I’ve choked you before. Yes, or no?”
What? I let out a shaky breath, my eyes widening.
“Sir…”
He presses on the trigger the sound of it almost stopping my heart.
The sound of it elicits tears and a wail from my lips. Like déjà vu at the church again.
“Stop this!”
“That’s not a yes or no answer.”
“Yes! Okay? Yes, yes you have! Stop this!” my hands grip the gun trying to rip it off from his head but he doesn’t let it go.
He doesn’t let it go.
“The game’s barely begun, little stalker.”
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
I’m your wife!
“Y-yes.”
I sob.
He doesn’t pull the trigger as his thumb reaches out to my cheek, lapping my tear and sucking it into his mouth.
“You don’t work for my mother. Yes or no?”
“Y-yes.”
“Who’s Christian?”
“Please”, I stiffen, I shake, my pulse accelerating at the seriousness in his voice and the threat that looms in his eyes.
“Anything. A—ask me anything else.”
I can’t tell you because I don’t know what effect it will have on you or your health.
“I don’t make the rules, sweetheart.”
He pulls the trigger; I flinch closing my eyes.
There are six slots in that gun. Five blank slots and one slot lodged with a bullet. He has shot twice which means there are four remaining.
And any of those four slots could have the bullet that will kill him.
“I’ll stay! I’m staying, I won’t leave. I’m staying so stop this madness… please stop this…”
“Who’s Christian, little stalker?”
His teeth grind in his mouth, his lips forming a harsh thin line.
He’s not bluffing even as his trigger finger touches the metal that could take him away from me any second.
He has me trapped. I can’t… I can’t… lose him.
“The man I love.”
“Good girl. One last question before we stop this. Am I or am I not Christian?”
“What?”
My chest rises and falls as I search his eyes.
Then in one lucid moment, he pulls the trigger again not caring whether he’s breaking my heart every time he does so, not caring whether he’s killing me too with this fucked-up torture.
Three slots remain.
My defenses crumble, my will to fight goes with the wind as I sniff back tears and murmur, “Yes.”
You are him.
His deadpan expression still remains locked but I’m grateful when he removes that gun from his head.
I don’t even realize I was on the verge of a meltdown until I slap him.
Until I slap his chest, until the sobs ball in my throat and my anger pushes me to hurt him like he just hurt me.
“You asshole. You fucking asshole! I hate you. I hate you…I hate you…I hate you so much!”
I fall limp into his chest, sobbing, smearing his shirt with snot. He holds me but that lasts for seconds before I feel his hand gripping my hair.
I’m straddling him right now. My knees bent on either side of his thighs, my face to his, my eyes on his, my breath fanning him. Us on a metallic chair.
He fists my hair with one hand pulling me away from his chest.
And it’s then that I notice fresh blood smarting his lips. He’s hurt, is he going to choke me again?
“Ask me, little stalker. Whatever questions you have for me, ask me before I take what’s mine.”
“H—how?”
Do you have your memories? Do you remember me?
“Simple, your pussy weeps for me the way my dick does when you are near and it has barely gotten hard for anyone in the last two years. Yesternight, you were begging to be fucked and these… these pretty tears you have for me right now confirm what we already know. You. Are. Mine.”
I don’t get a word out because his hand and that gun I loathe appears in front of my face and right in front of my mouth.
I look at him and he barks an order.
“Open up.”
And I shamelessly open my mouth, letting the cold barrel of the gun hit my tongue and the tangy taste of silver accost my taste buds.
“Suck.”
I suck. Greedily. Hastily. Wishing it was him instead.
He pushes the gun even deeper and my pussy clenches wishing for the real thing, knowing it has been too long since she got any action.
I buck my hips against his pants and every time the fabric of his pants hits my clit, I moan around the gun and Christian smirks encouraging me.
I should be asking myself where my bra and panties are and why I have his shirt on.
I should be asking a lot of questions right now but desire and the need I have for this man for two whole freaking years engulfs and takes my sanity away.
I should be ashamed. I’m not.
He doesn’t make me feel ashamed.
I should be frustrated when he takes away the gun from my mouth leaving me yearning for more.
But I am not.
Not when we hold eyes and the gun disappears between us.
Not when I feel the cold metallic exterior of the gun touching my throbbing clit and rocking every nerve ending in me.
Not when I hold his shoulders as he teases the gun near my entrance making sure he reads every tiny expression that creeps up my face.
“One week with you and all I ever want to do is sink into this tight heat and remember what nirvana tastes like. A single glance at these eyes and I knew they were going to be the death of me. Fucking blue. I hate blue but gotta admit it’s my favorite color since you came here, little stalker. Those eyes, that mole on your jaw, that ant-shaped birthmark on the base of your spine, these lips, that ass, this cunt. They are mine. We are going to fuck. No, to put it mildly, my dick is going to take what I’ve been waiting for for two years without knowing and afterward, we can talk about why I know things about you that I shouldn’t be able to. I know you yap when you are nervous, I know you don’t like cussing in front of toddlers and I know… I know just how much seeing me hurt hurts you.”
He pushes the barrel of the gun inside me in one single thrust then leaning in to bite my earlobe, he orders, “Cry for me, sunshine.”
Then he goes ahead and pulls the trigger.
I don’t cry.
I scream for him instead.