He shouldered the duffel bags easily, heaving them up without having to let go of my arm.
"You going to run?" he asked, knife still flush against my arm.
"No." What was the point? He grinned at me, pressing his lips to my temple and slipping the knife into his bag. He laced his fingers with mine, swinging my hand playfully as we emerged into the light of the parking lot.
"Where's the receptionist?"
"Get in the car, alright Violet?" He smiled tightly, dropping the bags into the backseat and walking round to my side to open the door for me. My face flushed at the gesture and I caught his hand as he withdrew, just the lightest brush of fingertips on his ruined knuckles, but it was important because I'd done it alone. I sat down; sealing my fate and watching him jog round to his side through the front window. He sat down, heavily, car bouncing up and down with the drop of his weight.
"Do you wanna listen to the radio?" He asked, glancing at me. I nodded, because I just needed something to fill the silence that didn't involve talking to him. The radio crackled to life, playing some screechy vocal through the speakers. I winced, smiling a little as I noticed Tate do the same next to me. We were the same in so many ways.
"It's only going to be bad for a little while, you know." I switched off the radio at the sound of his voice, more interested in talking to him than listening to it.
"Is it going to hurt?" I wasn't scared.
"Yes. I won't lie to you Violet. Punishments hurt. But after, you won't ever want to disobey me again." I swallowed thickly around the lump in my throat because I knew he meant it. The next motel was worse than the last, but I guess it was cheaper and I was in no state to complain. He locked me into the car when he went to book a room.
"All set," he leaned his head into the car and pulled the bags from the back. I rose stiffly from my seat and out the door to follow him to our room. The air was thick with tension and anticipation, accentuated by the stale, stagnant air in the room. Tate dropped the bags to the side and slipped his sneakers off. He sighed, looking me up and down where I stood frozen by the door.
"Well, Mrs. Langdon… what to do with you now?" There was something a little off in his eyes, and the use of the term Mrs. made me realize he wasn't himself anymore. He'd lost the plot again, slipping between reality and fantasy so quickly it was hard to keep track, or to think that he would ever be whole again. If he was in the first place. I didn't dare to move, barely breathing, terrified of provoking him in a way he didn't want me to. I thought I might have to wait for an eternity to gain some response from him. He glanced up at me through his hair, eyes lust-blown and curious as he shuffled forward toward me. I held my breath, believing implicitly that he could strangle me right here and now if he wanted to. He slipped a hand up around my throat and higher, grazing calloused fingers along my jaw and thumbing my lower lip, making it jut out.
"You're so beautiful. I almost wish I didn't have to punish something so pretty," he was musing to himself, but I felt hope flare up in me.
"The- then don't! I am with you Tate. I don't want to hurt. I don't want you to make me hurt," he closed his eyes, a finger vertical across my lips to hush me.
"It's too late for that." His voice was sad, and I wanted to scream at him for being such a fucking psychopath. Why couldn't I just be stronger? I should kill him. I'm sure I could bring him to his knees with a few careful words, and then just hit him, hard. The thought of ruining something so beautiful made me sick, but that wasn't why I didn't fight back, not really. I completely lacked a sense of self-preservation.
"Okay," I whispered, unable to bring myself to say anything more. He smiled, radiant in his triumph, and slipped his hand into mine. He tugged me away from the door and through the room, leading me to the bathroom. I knew it already, but he clarified anyway, "we can't afford to stain the carpets," and I flushed in fear at the confirmation. He sat me down on the toilet seat, and turned to close the door behind us.
"Please," I tried once more, the fight gone from me.
He sighed, eyes darkening, body beginning to visibly tense as he prepared himself for the task he felt necessary.
"I won't be able to do it right if you keep looking at me like that." He quirked an eyebrow and I had the absurd compulsion to apologize, but I held my tongue because even I wasn't so twisted and broken as to let him control me that much… yet. He took a few slow steps towards me, stopping short of his legs bumping my knees.
"Strip." It was a command, heavy with implication, as he'd pulled a short, sharp-bladed knife from his back pocket with his right hand whilst his left rested on the buckle of his belt. This was mixed signaling under normal circumstances, sex and violence, but perhaps to him it was the same thing. Perhaps it was the same to me, too, because I found myself squeezing my thighs together in a desperate attempt to create some needed friction. But I stood, ignoring the defiance I felt at the idea of obeying an order like some kind of pet, standing in front of him and keeping eye contact for as long as I could before my dress had to come off and covered my eyes. I felt his fingers on the exposed flesh immediately, though I couldn't see him until the dress had dropped to the floor behind me. He was close, and he'd crouched, hunching his back to embrace me with his face against my exposed chest. I kept my hands by my sides, resisting the urge to hold his face to me. I would deny him that one comfort.
"I don't want you to be scarred." The confession was a mumble against my skin, vibrations from his lips making me shiver.
"I just want to be pretty for you." Half lie. His head shot up and he was towering over me again, fingers digging into my shoulders.
"You are the most beautiful creature on the planet." His eyes were hard, forceful, and I believed him. "You could be covered in scars," his eyes melted again, like the night sky on a warm evening, "all kinds of scars," he laced his words with a double meaning, reminding me that we were not so different before all this began, "and you would continue to be the most beautiful woman I will ever know." He kissed my lips once, lightly, before slipping down my body again, paying careful attention to brushing his fingers or lips across my skin on the way. When he was kneeling before me, his eyes dropped from mine to stare at the cotton of my underwear. He leaned forward and placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the fabric and I bit my lip to cease the whimper from erupting. He hooked his forefingers into the top of my underwear and dragged slowly down my thighs, letting go at the knees so they could drop soundlessly to the tiles below. I squirmed under his stare, unused to being scrutinized in a way that felt like an examination.
"You really are pretty everywhere," he mumbled, a faint smile splaying his lips. I closed my eyes, trying to hold on to the tenderness of the moment, which made the pain all the more searing when that short, sharp-bladed knife licked a line into my thigh. The cut was deep enough to bleed, but not so deep that he'd done any real damage. I inhaled sharply and grit my teeth, refusing to cry and become the helpless, wounded animal he wanted me to be. I glanced down in time to see his tongue dart from his mouth and lick a slow, salty trail up the length of the cut. He was close enough to brush against my clit with his curls. My legs were shaky now, because of the pain and the pleasure and the blood-loss and the shock. I watched him drag the blade slowly over my side, the line wobbling as it bumped over each of my ribs. He licked along that, too, and the next and the next. He stood in front of me and kissed my jawline, peppering up and down the length of it on the right hand side.
"But I just can't bring myself to ruin your face." I closed my eyes, expecting a slash across my cheeks that would forever mar my features, but it never came.
Almost impatiently, I opened my eyes to see what the hell he had planned next, but he wasn't in the room. I hadn't heard the door open and close behind him, but that probably had a lot to do with the roaring of the pulse in my ears, a warning from my heart and my brain that they were going to abandon ship pretty soon. Maybe he'd freaked out again and left me? Not that I had the strength to escape… not that I could survive another punishment. Before my woozy mind had enough time to comprehend my situation he was back, smiling apologetically as though he were late to a meeting or some other bullshit scenario. But he had a camera.
"Oh," I heard myself say it, but that was as far as my protesting went before he was propping me into positions and cataloguing my wounds, each wind, click and flash told me he'd taken 17 pictures to remind us both what my punishment meant. He sat me on the toilet seat again, slowly, which was a good thing because I couldn't stand up anymore. He sat down in front of me and ran a hand up my thigh; parallel to the cut he'd left.
"Does it hurt?" It didn't, anymore, which probably wasn't anything to celebrate. I nodded anyway, hoping that's what he wanted. "Want some endorphins?" Before I could force my brain to come up with some smart-ass remark his tongue was lapping at my folds and his teeth were grazing my clit and my head dropped back as I slumped against the toilet, colliding with the wall. He licked down to my entrance, delving his tongue into me, fucking me with it in a way I'd never imagined could feel this good. His fingers crawled up to join his tongue, replacing it and pushing in and out of me whilst his tongue went back to my clit, bringing me quickly to a climax. I managed a tiny whimper as I came, too weak to vocalize how good I was really feeling. He knelt in front of me, raising himself up to a couple of feet below me. I flinched back, afraid of more pain and punishment, and his eyes filled with tears.
"Violet? Violet, listen to me. I don't want you to be afraid of me. Not now, not ever, okay?" His voice and his eyes were so sincere that if it had been any other time, any other place, I'd have believed him. But it wasn't, and he was still holding that knife. I glanced down towards it and he followed my eyes, sucking in a breath when he realized. I thought he might drop it, as a way of telling me the punishment was over, but instead he raised it and I closed my eyes, feeling him uncurl the fist I'd balled my hand into and… place the knife in my palm. Not into, but in, resting in it. I curled my fingers around the handle, opening my eyes and looking down at it in confusion. Tate sat back on his heels and bowed his head.
"Violet, I'll never hurt you like that again. But I need you. I need you to not be scared of me, and to trust me, if you can. So, here." He looked up, eyes wide and childlike. "I know I won't be able to live without you, even if you're here but not really here. If you can't be with me now, if you don't love me and won't love me, then kill me. I don't wanna be without you, ever." He tilted his head to the side, exposing the pale, strong expanse of his neck. And I could do it. Right now, I could just stab him in the neck. I'd get off on self-defense, probably not even a criminal record the minute they see what he did to me. I could go home, where my parents would dote on me and remind me how much they love me, daily. For a few months, maybe a year. Then everyone would forget, I would no longer be the novelty, wonder survivor, and I would be alone. Tate loved me, and was devoted to me 100%. He was a fucked up, psycho head-case, but he loved me. I probably sound like one of those sad, fat chicks that marry guys on death row, but it's not like that. It's not, it's not. I pressed the knife against his throat, forcing his head up. I added a little pressure, enough to draw a tiny bead of blood from an impact point on his Adam's apple. He smiled.
"I love you, Violet," he whispered, closing his eyes. Maybe I could have done it, had it not been for his final, reaffirming confession and that too-peaceful smile on his face. He was willing and ready to face death, so long as it was at my hands. He didn't own me, he was never trying to. He was grappling with the fact that I owned HIM and didn't seem to want him. I tossed the blade into the sink beside me and it clattered against the porcelain. He opened his eyes, shock and confusion the overwhelming emotions on his face.
"I love you, Tate." It was all the explanation either of us needed, and he wriggled happily between my legs and nuzzled his face into my stomach. "I need medical attention." I added and he pulled away, face all serious as he helped me up and staggered the few steps to the bathtub. He lifted me into it because I was too weak to lift my legs, and turned on the shower.
"We gotta wash the blood off now, and then I'll bandage you up, and we can go to bed, okay? Won't that be nice?" I nodded, letting myself fall against his clothed chest as he rinsed me with warm water, not caring that he was sitting in a tub, fully clothed.
I felt him press kisses into the back of my neck as he held me, and I felt him stroke his fingers against my skin as he wrapped gauze and tape across each cut, and I heard him sigh my name in his sleep as he shuffled towards me subconsciously, and I knew I'd made the right, fucked up decision when I chose not to kill him. I'd made my bed, I thought to myself as I tangled my legs against Tate's bare ones, might as well sleep in it.