35. Rae

We usecash to move across the country. Eventually, we end up at a motel a few miles away from the family theme parks in Kissimmee, Florida. The irony isn't lost on me—being in such a popular family vacation spot with my father—but neither of us has any interest in roller coasters or meeting cartoon characters. Our thrills lie in the darkness.

A knife rests on the nightstand next to me. It's the same one he used to kill my hookup. The same one we both held as we killed my look-alike. It's a good luck charm that helped me embrace my true self.

The television chatters through commercials. I sit cross-legged on one of the queen beds, eating a sandwich from a grocery store. Crave slouches in the motel chair. His eyes scrutinize me.

His widow's peak. His dark eyes. His lips pursed.

Since the day I showed up at his rental house asking for help with Ned's body, it's been strange. At first, I thought it was just me getting used to the idea that Officer Gaines and Crave were the same person. Now, I know it's more than that. There's something bubbling up inside of him, and with each breath, it increases in power.

He turns off the television. The room falls silent.

I wrap up the rest of my sandwich. "What?" I ask.

"You're always going to be weaker than me," he says.

His voice is low and measured, like he's waiting for me to react to his words. Another test.

I'm done with games.

I roll my eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You're a stupid, weak little girl." He points to the knife resting on the nightstand. "Can you even use that without my help?"

I grit my teeth. "You know I can."

He shakes his head. "You poisoned Ned. You needed me to help you stab that girl. You didn't kill her yourself."

"So?"

"You can't hurt anyone, can you?"

"I did," I snap. "You watched me do it."

"You let the poison do the work with Ned. You forced me to stab that girl."

My lips pull back. "That's like saying the match burned the house when I'm the one who lit the fire."

"You're weak," he says. "Helpless. So fucking small, it's pathetic."

My vision turns red. What is he getting at?

I ball my fists. "Are you trying to piss me off?"

"You'll never make it without me."

Both of us are quiet then. I can blow off most of it, but those last words cut through me like a jagged piece of glass.

I wasn't a whole person. I wasn't my real self. Not until Crave came into my life.

"Get up," he says. He moves toward me. "It's time we end this, you little bitch."

I grab the knife, ready to defend myself. I'll kill him if I have to.

"The fuck is your problem?" I shout.

"You're so fucking easy," he laughs. "So fucking easy, it's embarrassing, baby. Watching you fall for me like that. So ready to let your daddy take care of you."

He swings his open palm forward, ready to choke me. I open myself to let him choke me.

But something tells me this isn't about sex.

Something tells me to resist him.

I raise the knife, jutting it forward. I scream.

He blocks the shot, the knife piercing his pointer and middle finger. Cutting through the flesh and bone.

One finger falls. The other hangs by the last thread of skin.

My jaw drops.

He howls.

The knife isn't supposed to be that sharp.

How is it that sharp?

How—

"Fuck!" Crave yells.

I drop the knife. Blood gushes onto the ground, spilling out of his fingers. My body buzzes.

"I'm sorry," I say. I grab the pillow next to me, holding it to his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I?—"

He nods toward the shopping bags. "Get the curling iron."

"What?"

"Get the fucking curling iron!" he shouts. "The curling iron. Turn it to the hottest setting."

I tear through the shopping bag. Find the appliance. Plug it in. A red light flashes on the black handle, the gold metal gleaming above it.

After a minute, it turns green. Four hundred and twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

"Bring it to me," he says.

I unplug it and carry it over. He lifts his hand, staring at me. I press it to the mound of flesh, wrapping the metal around the wound. His skin sizzles, the wound searing closed. I do the same thing to the other finger. He curses. Bones stick out of each nub.

We'll have to go to a doctor one day. For now, it works.

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"I'm not," he says.

Crave's brown eyes focus on me, irritation clouding his gaze. His upper lip twitches, daring me to defy him.

This—taunting me, getting me to hurt him—wasn't an accident. He wanted me to hurt him.

"Why?" I ask.

He glances at the mirror, our bodies halved in the dim reflection. Two murderers, bound together by so much more than blood.

"It was boring," he murmurs. "Always being in control."

My eyelids flutter, processing those words. "But you like power," I say.

"I still have power," he says. "I want more than that with you though."

My heart clenches in my chest. There is—and always will be—a power struggle between us. We're hot-tempered, fixated on the thrill of violence, unable to see human life as valuable. Still, we see each other. Accept each other. We fall into our rhythm, and we embrace our truest selves.

"You'll never be able to hold a weapon with your dominant hand again," I say.

Crave doesn't say a word, and his lack of an answer tells me it's exactly what he wanted. He wanted to have a disadvantage when it comes to me, so that we would have an equal fight.

I push his shoulders back until he's lying on the bed. I pull down his pants and boxers, his cock shriveled and limp against his thigh. I remove the rings and metal bars until his cock is nothing more than a calloused and scarred shaft. Bumpy. Naked. The way it was when he forced me to eat his ass.

I take all of him in my mouth, sucking him in. Biting the base. His cock pulses inside of me, excitement brewing as the pain ruminates through his body. He groans, loud and clear, transferring his power to me. I increase my movement, using one hand to hold his chest down and using the other to fondle his hairy balls. And when he comes, I pull my mouth to the tip and squeeze the base of his shaft as hard as I can, milking him of his cum.

His seed lathers my tongue. I keep it in my mouth.

I crawl over his body. He narrows his eyes, and I grab his chin, pinching him until he opens his mouth.

I let my spit and his cum drip onto his tongue. It paints his pink muscle in streaks of bubbly white. I smirk down at him. Like this—the way we are now, where I accept myself for who I am, with him by my side—I have more power than I've ever had.

He swallows it, his eyes fixed on mine. Warmth flushes my skin, arousal licking across my pussy until I can't hold back anymore.

I press my lips to his, tasting his tongue.

I'll never have what other people have. Comfort. Safety. Love. But I will have this. And this—whatever this is—is more than that. A connection deeper than selflessness. A relationship that isn't built on the promises of equality.

No—what we have is physical equality and a commitment where we both know that we'll live, breathe, and die together, because we can't stand to let the other person go. It's not about respecting each other. It's about owning each other.

I went looking for my father. To find his truth and shove it in my mother's face. To prove her wrong. To show my mother that I am good too, just like he was. We were simply misunderstood.

Instead, I found Crave, a man who forced me to acknowledge my darker side, who accepted me for who I am. A man who forced me to permanently wound him so that there would be something more than his physical strength keeping me by his side. I found a person so evil, so fucking selfish, that he'd never let me go.

And he found me.