The Last Girl (13 page)

“And the date? That’s when they died?”

I’ve sugarcoated it. But Christian will have none of that. He smiles. “That’s when I killed them, yes.”

I’m glad I’ve put the book in the drawer again. It feels like a malevolent object that could burn my skin if I were to hold it for too long, looking at the names of all those lonely girls before me, because surely they were lonely separated from everything that had made them human, living out the rest of their lives in the dark with their eventual killer.

“Did you mourn them?” I ask.

“Some of them, yes.”

“Toward the end, the dates get a lot farther between.” I’m not sure whether I’m asking a question or making a statement of observation. Christian doesn’t acknowledge it as a question so I don’t push the issue.

“I’ve tried many times to stop taking pets. It’s always hard for me when they die. I was doing well with my self-control until I met you.”

My voice shakes with my next question. “Does that mean I’ll last longer? Or the opposite?”

He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell. I am out of practice.”

I don’t like the idea that I’m such an experiment, such a different case for him. There is no predictable pattern; his six year tracking and obsession could go either way. But even if it would be more likely to lengthen my life under normal circumstances, the fact that he hasn’t had a pet in close to a century makes it even odds I could be like one of the first girls and only last a year.

“Are you finished snooping and pawing through my things?”

There is no anger or irritation in his voice—more like amusement—so I let out a slow breath and nod. I know I had no business touching his things, but his reminder was gentle. Still, it puts me on edge because I’m afraid of the state of maniacal glee he arrived at the house in, and I don’t think drawing more attention to my ill manners is a wonderful idea right now.

He extends a hand. “Come, pet. I’m afraid it’s time to escalate the nature of our relationship. You knew this was coming.”

I still don’t know what’s coming. I just know it will be scary and painful. He’s got that eerie look in his eyes. His fangs have already come out as if in his excitement he can’t contain them within his gums.

He takes me down one flight of stairs to the main floor, and then down another, and I know the type of room I’ll be faced with when we get to the bottom.

I’m a curious sort of girl. I’ve watched a lot of BDSM films. As I said, my body may have been innocent before Christian took me, but my mind was far from it. In my fantasies, I’d explored every possible permutation of the sex act, had masturbated to things I’d never want to try out in real life, but for some reason I couldn’t help thinking about it when I touched myself.

Christian’s dungeon is everything a dungeon should be, even better than the club. I’m ashamed I recognize every object and piece of equipment. This is the culmination of every film I’ve ever watched, as if he peered inside my head and took the best parts and put them together in a room just for my debasement.

I’m suddenly ashamed of my history with films and some of my fantasies because if Christian has been watching me all this time, he knows. He knows the darkest things I’ve thought about while lying in bed with my legs spread and my fingers buried deep inside my pussy. He knows the things I’ve watched and read, and how they’ve excited me. This may have led him to the wrong conclusions about my desires. But I need to make sure that it’s not all a coincidence.

“Christian, I... What do you know about me?”

A riding crop smacks across my ass. Even through my pants, it stings. I wince and bite my lip to stifle a cry.

“I’m sorry, who were you speaking to?”

“Master,” I correct. I’m too caught off guard by the dungeon to think about things like formal address, but I know those excuses won’t fly with the vampire.

“I’ve been in your head for six years. Everything, of course.”

That’s what I was afraid of. The fantasies started soon after Christian and his crew broke into my house. I’ve never linked the two events before. Could he have planted these desires in me? Maybe his very presence so near that night... that taste of absolute power over me combined with unexpected mercy, set me on this collision course with dark perversion.

“I don’t really… I mean… what I fantasize about… it’s just fantasy. I mean, I don’t really want to do it.” Not that my wanting to or not wanting to matters in the grand scheme. Seeing inside my mind all the dirty things I’ve thought has probably been like a carrot bringing him closer to me.

He laughs. If I wasn’t so scared, it would be funny because this is the most hearty and non-evil sounding laugh I’ve ever heard out of him.

“I think you’ll be surprised by what you want. You’re afraid of it, but it doesn’t mean you don’t desire it. Many humans are attracted to scary things. It’s in your nature.”

I don’t bother asking where he’s arrived at this insight into my or any other human being’s
nature
. I’m too afraid of taking him out of this jovial mood he seems to have found himself in.

As he guides me to a bench, the fear that consumes me revolves around his self-control. If he could, I know he would keep me literally forever, but at some point he’ll play too rough and break me beyond repair.

It’s terrifying to think with his blood’s healing ability that he could ever do enough damage that he couldn’t heal it or fix it in time, or that he might be so caught up in his blood lust that it wouldn’t occur to him to repair the damage until it was too late. I’m afraid of the primal haze overtaking him to the point he can’t see me anymore—or the consequences of his actions.

My eyes dart around the room, taking in the various whipping implements. Even a human male would have to moderate his strength to not cause true damage. I feel the reality of my vulnerability at his hands. How much more does he have to hold back with me? How much more
will
he hold back with me?

He pulls me to him and presses his lips to my forehead. “Such busy thoughts twirling around in that head of yours. I wish they were happier.”

This startles me. I think he’s reading my mind, but he’s only reading my face. It’s another one of those odd human things where we seem like a parody of a real couple, a parody trying to take itself seriously, trying to be real.

I want it to be real. It’s only been a few weeks, but part of me wants to be his forever. I know love isn’t supposed to hurt like this or be filled with this much fear. It’s an abusive relationship from start to finish, and Christian’s few redeeming qualities and magnetism can never make up for that. I never thought I was the type of woman who would write love letters to a serial killer in prison, but if my attachment to the vampire is any indication, I seem to fit that profile.

My mind flashes to the tattered list in the drawer upstairs. One hundred. I may seem special for now, but in the big picture I’m not. Someday I’ll be one hundred and one. How long will the list go? How long until I get buried in the names, becoming nothing more than a footnote in his bloody conquests? I don’t want to think about that right now.

I don’t want to think about what will happen when I die. Will I go someplace better or will everything just stop forever for me? All I want to think about right now is Christian’s hands on me, the heady see-saw from fear and pain to arousal and pleasure.

“Undress, pet.”

I wish he could hypnotize me. I wish he could make me into his mindless zombie, feeling pleasure while he doles out pain. I wish there was a place I could hide. But there isn’t. His no-zombie preference is a double-edged sword, both for him and for me.

My fingers are unsteady as they move over the buttons of the corset he’s dressed me in.

“Seduce me.”

To say I’m excited when he gives me these demeaning little commands is an understatement. The curt way with which he delivers his orders somehow heightens everything. It’s exactly as it used to play out in my head. But of course he knows that. He knows everything that pushes my buttons without me having to say a word.

In my fantasies, verbal demands played a large role, the more entitled and demeaning the better. It didn’t even have to be particularly crass, just powerful and self-assured.

Christian is nothing if not self-assured.

I put a sway in my hips and run my hands over my still-covered breasts and then between my legs where I can feel myself heating up even through the leather. I wonder if he will immolate when he touches that heat.

Soon the corset is a memory on the floor, and he smiles as I pinch my nipples into hard points. This act is for his amusement because the slight chill in the dungeon is enough to do that work for me.

My hair has been up in a clip. I turn away from him and release it, letting the hair he loves so much fall from its prison. It reaches mid-back, just at the curve of my waist. The clip joins the corset and I dance for him in only high-heeled boots and red leather pants.

I look at him over my shoulder as he backs a few feet into an overstuffed chair, never taking his eyes from me. He crooks a finger. “Come, Juliette.”

Short, brusque commands, like I’m some dog that can only understand short phrases and single-word sentences. I turn and drop to my hands and knees and crawl to him. I know he loves watching me crawl. It’s possibly one of his favorite things. It’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t have to suggest it. If he says
come
, I arrive on all fours. By this point I’m his little bitch in heat. I’ve almost forgotten he plans to hurt me first, so intent am I on getting him inside me. It’s the single-minded thought that overrides all other thoughts and concerns, to be filled by his fingers, or prick, or some random object shaped just right.

There are so many objects like that. Sometimes I think when men design household utensils, something glitches in their brains, they imagine shoving it up some woman’s pussy, and it affects the final design of the product.

When I reach him, I rub my cheek against the inside of his thigh and chance a look into his eyes. I don’t have to verbalize the question—he knows what this behavior is about. He nods once, an imperial gesture it probably took him over a century to get to just the right level of condescending. It sends another bolt of excitement through me as I undo his pants.

A part of me is delaying the inevitable, trying to placate him and buy myself some mercy. I want to remind him why he wants to keep me alive so he won’t lose control later. I want to suck some of the power right out of him and then look up at him to innocently bat my eyelashes.

He groans and grips the arms of the chair as my tongue swirls over his most sensitive flesh. It’s reverent, an act of worship, as my lips close over him and I take him deep into the back of my throat. Even a vampire is vulnerable here. These are the rare moments where I feel like the one in control. As I suck him, I moan, because I know the little vibrations make him harder, and it excites me to know I can make him want me so much. I’m so into it by now that he’d have to physically throw me across the room to stop me.

His fingers are tangled in my hair. Right now he’s just a man and I’m just a woman, and the power balance isn’t what it appears to the casual observer. Soon enough the tables will be flipped and I’ll be restrained somewhere and he’ll have an implement in his hand. But for the moment, I play his body like it’s my own and he responds by giving me his release.

The taste of power is fleeting. As soon as his orgasm runs its course, he grips my hair and pulls my head back so I’m looking up at him.

“Good slut,” he says.

A bit of his spendings are dripping down my chin. He wipes the liquid up with his thumb, pressing it into my mouth. “Don’t want to waste any,” he says.

If he were a human male, he’d be done for awhile, unable to achieve another erection until he had a rest first. But this isn’t the case with Christian. He’s already hard again, and he directs me to climb on top of him. I struggle out of the pants, leaving the boots on because that’s how he prefers it, then I straddle him.

I don’t bother with the pretense of riding him. Though it may look like I’m in control in this position, nothing could be farther from the truth as he grips my ass and drives into me from below. Tears slip from the corner of my eyes as he takes my virginity yet again and strikes with fangs at my throat. The twin pains pull my attention in opposing directions for a second of pure agony, but the next moment, the drug is going to work, making me horny and compliant, giving me a buzz of pleasure like a constant, humming orgasm.

After he comes, I think we’re done for some reason. I’m so naïve, but we aren’t done yet. He straps me down. The bench is similar to the one in the club, but the undercurrent is different here. It feels so scary I can’t breathe. I tell myself this is nothing new, but I’m not very convincing. No music lulls me into a sense of safety and compliance. There is no stripping my senses to wrap me in a cocoon I can’t escape.

I can see, I can hear, I can speak.

“Master, please, I’m scared.”

“Yes. I know. Your fear tastes as good as your blood.”

A sharp, bright glint flashes in my peripheral vision, and then he lets me see it full on. A knife. Oh God, a knife, large and shiny.

Christian chuckles at my horror.

“And you thought we’d explored everything. I love your innocence, Juliette. No matter what I do to you it still blooms full and bright for me when I push the right button.”

He runs the flat of the blade across my back. “Tell me pet, do you think I’ll cut you?”

“Yes, Master.” I don’t bother lying or pretending uncertainty. I’m not uncertain. I know. He’s a vampire. My blood excites him. If he’s found new and intriguing ways to get it out of me, there is no reason for him to ignore those impulses, especially when he can heal me of nearly anything with his blood.

“Good answer, pet. You’re learning. I knew you were a quick study.”

I’m crying now, harder than I remember crying for awhile. I can’t stop myself even though I know my tears don’t elicit pity. They excite him. They make him more determined to carry out his desires.