Page 77 of Dark Therapy

She was different.She made it hard to breathe.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” I muttered breathlessly, as I sank my dick into her hole over and over again, feeling my release getting closer. “I tried to forget you, tried toburyyou under all this other shit. But you just—fuck. You make me lose my mind. I can’t let you go. Can’t get rid of you. And it pisses me off.”

I leaned closer, burying my cock evendeeperinside her ass, watching her, hearing her loud moans. She was beautiful, even like this—especiallylike this.

“I don’t know if I want to break you or make you better,” I admitted, my thrusts getting rougher, faster. “Maybe both. Maybe I just want toburnevery fucking inch of you so you know you’re mine.”

God—the rawness of it made something in me itch, ahungerthat I couldn’t quite scratch. I needed—Fuck.

I growled as an angry wave of pleasure hit my body, igniting every dormant nerve in it. I pulled my dick out of her hole, pushing it inside my pants, seeing as myseedstarted leaking out of her. It was anintoxicatingsight.

The room was dead silent, except for our ragged breathing. I stared at her bound form, every muscle in her body tense. My fingers started working the straps loose, the restraints came off, one by one, and the second she was free, she rolled away, collapsing onto the cold floor. Her breaths were shaky, her chest rising and falling, and when I caught a glimpse of her face, there it was—wet streaks on her cheeks.

Tears.

Fuck.

I stayed there for a moment, on my knees, staring, trying to make sense of theachecrawling up my throat. It was wrong. This was wrong.I was wrong. But even that thought pissed me off. I wasn’t supposed tofeelthis—this suffocating mess ofguiltmixed with rage.

I lay down beside her, close enough that our faces were just inches apart, our breaths mingling in the cold, stale air of the room. Her honey-colored eyes were glassy, unfocused, red at the edges. She looked at me like she didn’t know if she should hate me or beg me to stop.

“You look broken, doctor,” I muttered, my voice low, almost hoarse. “And I should be fucking happy about that. Isn’t that the point? To tear you apart until there’snothingleft? That’s what Iwanted, right?”

Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t fucking have to. Her silence screamed louder than any words.

Ihatedher for making me feel this way—hated her for the fucking tears, the fragility, the way she lay there like she’d given up, and most of all, I hated myself for wanting to put her back together.

I clenched my fists against the urge to touch her face, to wipe those tears away. Instead, I just stayed there, my eyes locked on hers, the twisted mess inside me building and building.

“Why the fuck do you have to be like this?” I growled, my voice cracking. “Why the fuck do Icare? Why thefuckcan’t I just leave you alone?”

Her breath hitched, and I wanted toscream, to tear the whole fucking room apart, to do something to stop this feeling—this fuckingweaknesseating me alive.

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping into something darker, meaner, trying to reclaim whatever shred of control I had left.

“I coulddestroyyou, Amelia,” I whispered. “I couldruinyou, leave you here in pieces, and walk away without a second thought.”

But I didn’t move. Icouldn’t. And the part of me that hated seeing her like this? That part was winning.

I turned onto my back, the cold floor pressing against me, my chest heaving like I’d just run a fucking marathon. The ceiling stared back at me, cracked and peeling, as if it could split open and swallow me whole.I wished it would.

I couldfeelher eyes on me. I didn’t look, didn’t need to. I could feel the weight of her stare like a chain around my neck, pulling me under. The silence between us was fuckingdeafening.

And then it started. Words spilling out of me before I could stop them, before I even knew what the hell I was saying.

“You think I was always likethis?” I muttered, my voice rough, raw. “You think I woke up one day and decided to be this fucked-up excuse for a person?”

I laughed—bitter, sharp, and hollow. It echoed in the room like a goddamn death rattle.

“My old man… he made sure of it. Thatbastard. He didn’t just beat the shit out of me when I was a kid. No. That would’ve been too fucking easy.”

My jaw clenched, the memories clawing their way out, refusing to stay buried.

“He used to take me to these places. Dirty, dark fucking places, with peoplescreaming,beggingfor their lives. And he’d look at me, like it was a goddamn father-son bonding moment, and he’d say,‘Come on, Damien. Be a man. Help your old man out.’”

I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. The images wereburnedthere, permanent, likescarson the inside of my skull.

“He made me hold them down, Millie. I was just a fuckingkid. I didn’t even know what I was doing half the time. But he’d laugh—this fuckingsick,twistedlaugh—when I did it right. When I made themscream.”