Torture (Siren Book 2) Read Free Page A

cheek, soft and comforting. He still smells smoky, an acrid edge that blends with his natural musk. The combination makes me wince. But the awareness of the aversion warms me.
    I'm not a monster. I don't glorify violence, for violence's sake. Not like Calder.
    His hand slides away from mine, gathering me closer. I'm all but in his lap, my fragmented thoughts constellations among clouds. If he had half as much aggression in person as he does toward those he doesn't know, he'd snap my neck right here. But he won't. That's not his manner of harm. So all that's left is... I don't know. It's not horniness—I've seen him horny. This isn't that.
    It's not simply keeping the peace. Somehow, his own ego and sense of equilibrium is tied up in me.
    With that revelation comes a new sense of power, one that makes the sobs come harder. As confusing and difficult as his touch is, amplifying the mire in my head, I can cope with the flood, so long as it keeps him exactly where I want him, feeling only what I want him to feel.
    Only then does it occur to me the other reason that he might feel that way: does he remember me ? Does he remember the second time he had me, skin to skin, no restraints?
    His eyes catch mine, icy blue orbs holding my tear-swollen blue-green ones with barely a thought, freezing me in my tracks. A flush rises in my cheeks as I inspect him for any signs that he's remembering what I look like naked. But there's none of that. No flirtation, or lust.
    I don't know what the hell's there anymore. Maybe a little bit of his old, cocky self coming through. Not what I expected to see. Maybe I'm reading him wrong. Maybe he's manipulating me.
    As the panic and confusion courses through me, I fight to keep it hidden. And maybe it even works—I can't really be sure. Because whatever I might try to glean from any changes in his expression, it's lost  when his lips find mine. My mind goes blank, a cassette tape eating itself.
    The shakes worsen. The last time he kissed me, I let him, because it got him close enough to incapacitate him. What purpose does this serve, letting him do it here? But if I shove him away, will that lead to questions? Is it better to just let the flow carry me, and trust that it'll yield something I can use later?
    His lips are warm on mine, and gentle, so gentle. Not the consuming, ravenous kiss he offered last time. Frankly, the ravenous would be easier to take. If it was simply that he was trying to stake me out as 'his', start a pissing contest with Allen, or ditch his excess hormones, it would be easier to play along.
    No. He kisses me like he wants my happiness. It makes a hysterical laugh build in my throat—my happiness will only come when I've torn him open, and his body's gone cold. When I've forgotten his cock inside me and his skin against mine.
    He pulls back, concerned by the inarticulate hitch my laugh emerged as, and I look away, quickly. It's feeling more and more like I'm losing control. But the combination of sensations, of his soft touches and full lips... it pulls me back into myself, away from some of my hard-won distance. The deathly smell hits me more strongly, almost enough to burn my nostrils, and I can feel the heat on my face again.
    “You're blushing,” he says, his thumb sliding along my cheekbone to wipe a tear away. He absentmindedly brushes my tears off his own face, but refuses to loosen his arm around me.
    I can't think of a damn thing to say, a damn thing to respond. What the fuck are you supposed to say after someone kisses you like that, anyways?
    I deflect with the first thing that comes to mind. “Allen's looking at us.”
    His arm flexes around me; he's noticed it, too. “Yeah. He's been watching you more lately. It makes me nervous.”
    Friction. I can use that. “Why? You don't like him?”
    “I like him just fine, but the other three, they knew each other. And Alex didn't want them to admit it. That—it implies order and cohesion. That there's something