42. The Warden

THE WARDEN

A va was more beautiful than I remembered, more than my memory could ever do justice.

The weight of it all—the lost time, the regret, the longing—hung around me, so thick I could almost reach out and touch it.

I felt something in me crack, that iron grip I’d held over my heart splintering as I stood there, staring at her like she was something out of a dream.

I hadn’t let myself hope, hadn’t let myself feel in so long, but seeing her again right in front of me like this… knowing that she was finally mine … God, I couldn’t stop it.

I was completely undone.

I watched as Ava fell asleep, her pretty eyes fluttering shut, her head lolling forward at last.

She was so fucking beautiful. Even in this wretched place with her legs crooked like a broken doll’s on the filthy mattress, her hair tangled with leaves and dirt and matted against her moist brow.

The glare of the exposed lightbulb made her skin look pale. But her lips were strawberry red, parted just slightly, the delicate cupid’s bow above the pouty lower lip just begging for me to lick it, her breath coming in quiet exhalations.

They looked exactly as I remembered them from when I used to watch her sleeping.

The temptation to touch her then just like now had always been a torment, the agony of holding myself back like needles under my fingernails.

I pulled off a glove and tucked a strand of her soft dark hair behind her ear, a tremor traveling down my spine at that simple touch.

The first time I’d touched her in years .

All this time that I’d been watching.

Waiting.

Planning.

And now she was mine .

I ran my finger along her cheek, the softness of her skin stunning me, then down the side of her neck.

Her pulse wasn’t strong, but it was steady.

There was bruising around her neck from that asshole’s hands. I traced the purple skin with trembling fingers before my hand curled into a fist.

These marks would fade.

Ava’s deeper marks, her deeper trauma, would take more care to heal.

Cormac Foley.

Fucking errand boy.

I regretted not drawing out his death, making it more painful .

If he wasn’t dead already, I’d bruise him. A hundred bruises for every single mark he’d left on her.

My dark imagination relished in the fantasy of cutting off his fingers, one by one, and stuffing his holes full of them.

That’d teach him to touch Ava.

No one touched Ava.

Except for me .

Or perhaps I’d string his fingers onto a necklace and make him wear it.

I shoved those thoughts aside.

He wasn’t the one I was here for. He wasn’t the one for whom I had a plan.

But I had time to send one last message.

I slipped a small knife from its holster at my ankle. I flipped it in the air as I stalked toward Cormac’s corpse.

I had bigger knives. But this smaller knife would give me the finesse my larger butcher knives wouldn’t.

I kneeled beside Cormac’s corpse, his eye open and blank, his mouth frozen in a final silent scream.

Someone had beat me to his first eye.

But the second was all mine.

Warm blood trickled over my fingers as I carved it from its socket, my blade sawing through the taut tendons like butter and pulling out the squishy globe.

I admired the horror-filled eye in my palm like a ghoulish Halloween prop.

At least he’d been alone and afraid in the end, even if it was a quick end.

Rigor mortis hadn’t yet taken hold of his slightly parted jaw. Shame. I would have liked to snap the bones in two .

I shoved his eye into his mouth and then wedged it deeper into his throat. He would never lay eyes on Ava’s body ever again. Never touch her again.

No one ever would again, but me.

And when they found him, they’d think twice before touching what was mine again.

I wiped my bloodied hands on his shirt and stood.

I turned back to Ava— my Ava.

The moment I saw her again, the world around me stopped.

I tried to keep my composure, the control I’d spent years mastering, but it slipped.

Just for a heartbeat.

In that moment, nothing else existed. Not this cellar, not Cormac or the ever-growing darkness that threatened us.

Ava was all I could see, and for a brief, reckless second, I let myself feel everything I’d buried for so long.

My chest tightened, the air catching in my lungs as if I’d forgotten how to breathe.

Overwhelming heat rushed through me, tightening my muscles, making my hands tremble despite myself. I clenched my fists, trying to steady the flood of emotions, but it was useless.

I stumbled as I walked back to her, my thighs feeling weak. I dropped to my knees before her.

Only then did I pull out my knife again, still dirty with Cormac’s blood, and cut away the last knot tying her in place.

Her hand slipped free.

I caught her with my free arm before she fell and gently lowered her onto the mattress so I could tuck away my knife.

The tatters of her top fell about her waist, her full and shapely breasts on display, the color of fresh cream. Her nipples looked so much like red berries that my mouth watered.

I relished in the softness of her skin as I ran my fingers over the swell of one breast.

Blood surged into my cock and I pressed painfully against my zipper, begging for release, for friction between her breasts, her thighs, her lips.

Begging to be allowed to claim her.

Not here. Not like this.

Self-control was everything .

I was an expert at depriving myself of what I needed. I’d perfected controlling myself.

But I feared the days to come. Feared I wasn’t strong enough to hold myself back the way I had to.

The basement was silent, the woods outside still. But this would not last.

I knew of at least one other person who would be on their way to steal what was mine. What had always rightfully been mine.

I would not allow him, or anyone else, to interfere.

I didn’t have time to enjoy Ava here.

And I would not take pleasure from Ava in such a filthy place. She deserved silk sheets and satin lingerie, roses and candles.

Once I got her back to our home, we’d have all the time in the world .

I swept her into my arms and cradled her tightly against my chest, head tucked in against my collarbone.

Carrying her like a babe, I crossed toward the stairs, stepping over Cormac’s corpse, unbothered by tracking blood up the steps on my boots.

I carried Ava into the pouring rain outside the cellar to my waiting car. Water ran down her skin, washing away dirt and blood.

Whatever the rain didn’t get, I would.

I was going to cleanse her.

Cleanse her right down into her soul.

I slid her into my passenger seat and buckled her in, my arm brushing against her breasts. I hadn’t meant to at first. It had been an accident. But the slight friction of my forearm against her made her nipple harden.

I brushed my arm along both her breasts as I withdrew it.

Both nipples tightened, her breasts seeming to arc toward me as she breathed in.

My cock swelled to painful.

My responsive girl. Even when she was sleeping.

I couldn’t wait to have her laid out before me, to play her body like an orchestra. To watch her respond to my hands, to watch the waves of pleasure rush through her like she was my sea and I was her God.

Patience .

I got a blanket out of my trunk and folded it around her, brushing her hair back off her face so she looked like a sleeping passenger, my tired girlfriend.

I forced myself to withdraw from the passenger side and shut the door .

I glanced around the trees, listening for the sound of an approaching car as I walked around to the driver’s side.

I got in and locked all the doors, before pulling a small towel from the console and wiping the blood off my face and hands.

It wouldn’t do to be pulled over.

I started the car, pulling away from the crumbling building.

If I had more time, I’d have burned the cursed building down.

I didn’t care if they knew who had taken their prize. Who had killed one of their soldiers.

Both the Sochai and I had too many secrets.

They’d get rid of the evidence for me.

As I drove us through the woods, I glanced over at Ava, sleeping peacefully beside me, a feeling of rightness swelling inside my chest.

My Ava.

Finally.

How many years I’ve waited for this. For you.

How many hours had I planned our reunion.

I brushed her hair from her face, my fingers trembling at the softness of her skin, a swell of emotion rising up in me. It was almost too much.

I had had nothing but time the last few years, time to craft my responses, time to control my emotions, time to think.

Ava would hate me for what I had planned. She would hate me for everything I must do to her.

One day she’d realize I was only doing this because I loved her. I was the only one who truly loved her .

Then she would understand why it had to hurt. Why she had to feel the pain.

She’d come to love it. Need it. Crave it.

Then she would truly be mine .

Continue reading the Lovely Broken Doll trilogy in Book 2, Catching Pretty.

Out 5 Feb