This was 3.5 ⭐️ for me. Not to shabby tbh.
🖤🖤🖤🖤My favorite quotes are the following:
Damien
They say obsession is a drug. I wouldn’t know. I never needed narcotics, never indulged in anything that could cloud my judgment. Weak men use substances to escape their reality. I have always welcomed the darkness, the pain, the hunt.
But this?
This is unlike anything I have ever known.
It’s worse than any addiction, deeper than any craving. It’s in my blood now, pumping through me every second of the day. It poisons me in the most exquisite fucking way.
Her.
Amelia.
My angel.
"You underestimate me, angel," I say. "Hurt me?" I shake my head. "You don’t have it in you."
If looks could kill, my little flower would have successfully killed me.
"Call the police?" I continue. "You don’t even have a phone. And every shop on this street is closed. No one to help you. Run? You don’t want to run, Amelia." I drink in the scent of her fear, her skin, her everything. "You want answers."
And I’m going to give them to her.
She stares at me like I’m something out of a nightmare. Maybe I am.
"What’s your name?"
"Damien. Damien Reed."
"And you," I mumble, "are Amelia Ward. Soon to be Amelia Reed."
"You’re insane."
I watch her like a puzzle I’ve already solved. "You say that like it changes anything."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Protecting you?" I ask. "Making sure no one lays a finger on you? Spoiling you the way you deserve?"
I see the conflict in her eyes. There’s a part of her that wants to understand.
"Couldn’t you just approach me like a normal person?"
A normal person.
"Why would I hide myself from you, Amelia? This is how our life is always going to be."
"If someone hurts you," I continue, my voice dropping lower, "I’ll bring you a piece of them. So you’ll know I avenged you." I smile. I hope it comes across as comforting, but I know it terrifies her too. "If we argue? If you tell me to sleep somewhere else? I’ll crawl under your bed and stay there until you want me back in it. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not. I won’t lie to you."
My little flower is a narcotic. My little flower is a drug. My little flower is my high, everything I could ever need or want.
I breathe, sleep, and eat this girl. She's carved into my bones, woven into my blood. If someone cut me open, her name would pour out. She's the only person in this godforsaken world I've ever opened up to; and the only one I ever will.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll tell her everything. Just like she’ll tell me all of her secrets. There will be nothing between us. We are one.
I’m giving her time to understand this. To let the truth seep into her skin, to let it settle into her soul. But it’s getting harder.
Harder to pretend I don’t notice the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.
Harder to act like I don’t see the heat creeping up her neck when I lean in too close.
Harder not to pin her down and show her exactly how her man can worship her; how he can make her feel like the goddess she is.
I want to kneel at her feet, lap at her essence, and thank her for letting my filthy hands touch her pure skin. I want to ruin her so completely that when she closes her eyes, the only thing she sees is me.
I want her moaning my name in prayer, whispering it like it’s the only salvation she has left.
But for now, I wait.
She nods, her hand squeezing mine in return as if to comfort me.
“That man was cruel. He trained me to be a killer. If I missed a hit, if I hesitated—” I pause, jaw clenching. “I went to bed hungry. Or beaten. Sometimes both.”
Her eyes flood with tears.
I hate it.
I love it.
Her pain, her empathy, it’s a sickness in my veins. Something I crave. Something I never knew I needed until she came along and showed me what it was like to be completely enamored by a person.
Her fingers tremble before she lifts them to my face. Soft. Careful. Reverent. She traces the scar across my cheek, and I nearly stop breathing.
“Is that how you got this?” she whispers.
“It was when I refused a hit.”
“What happened?”
“I killed him,” I say. “And I escaped.”
She blanches. Fear.
No. Please, no.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I beg. “I would never hurt you. Never.”
Her eyes dart across my face, searching for truth.
“I worship you,” I whisper. “I would burn the world for you. Do you understand?”
She nods slowly, but it’s not enough.
I see the way her gaze flickers back to my scar.
“It disgusts you?” I murmur, and it kills me how raw my voice sounds.
“What?”
“I promise I’ll treat you so well, you won’t even notice the scar is there anymore. No man with perfect skin would ever treat you the way I treat you.”
That thing on my face is gnarly. It’s scared kids I’ve walked past on numerous occasions. I never cared. But the thought that it disgusts her makes me feel sick.
Is that why she won’t kiss me?
“I like it,” she whispers.
A slow, wicked grin spreads across my lips.
“You like it,” I echo.
She presses her lips together, refusing to repeat herself.
“Then you like me,” I tease.
For the first time, she doesn’t deny it.
My obsession. The bane of my existence. My reason for breathing, for existing… for living.
She’s straddling my thighs, marking me with her mouth. Each hickey sears through my skin and straight into my fucking soul. My little flower, staking her claim, pressing her lips into my flesh like she’s carving herself into me. And she is. She already has. She’s in my blood, in my bones, in every breath I take.
Have I died? Is this heaven? Or is it some cruel hallucination—where I finally have what I want, but in the end, it’s just an illusion?
Because nothing has ever felt better than this.
But something festers beneath the pleasure. Something dark. Possessive. I love seeing her riled up, jealous, her touch desperate and needy. But I fucking hate that she had any reason to feel this way. She should never doubt where I belong. Who I belong to.
Her. Only her.
I’ve failed if she even had a second of insecurity.
She’s staring at my lips like she wants to devour me, the same way I want to devour her.
I trace the swollen curve of her bottom lip. “I bet you’ve been wondering, haven’t you?” I rasp. “Why I tasted every delicious inch of you but not these lips.”
“Don’t ruin the moment,” she whispers.
I let out a dark laugh. “I wanted you to choose, little flower. I wanted you to decide if you wanted to kiss a beast of a man.” My thumb brushes her cheek. “I know my scar isn’t exactly—”
Something shifts in her expression. Something haunted. Broken. And fuck, I want to rip my own tongue out for whatever I said that made her look like that. Before I can say anything else, she crashes her lips into mine.
It’s forceful, almost clumsy, her lips just pressing to mine, unmoving. She doesn’t know how to kiss. It reminds me that I’m the first man to have this, to have her, in every way.
I take control, tilting my head, coaxing her lips open with mine, slowing her down, teaching her. My hands fist in her hair, keeping her where I need her. Her hands shake as they press against my chest, and I groan into her mouth, fucking obsessed with the way she melts for me.
When she pulls away, my breath is ragged, my restraint shredded.
And then she does something that destroys me.
She presses her lips to my scar. Kissing it.
My body locks up. My pulse stops. My whole world tilts sideways. The instinct to push her off, to turn away, is overwhelming. I’ve never been insecure about this scar, never gave a damn what anyone thought about it. But with her? With the most beautiful woman I’ve ever fucking seen?
I feel exposed. Raw. Like she deserves something better. Too bad for her. I’m the only man she’ll ever have.
I cradle her face in my hands. “You’re so sweet,” I whisper, breathing her in. “My little flower is so sweet.”
And she is. Too damn sweet for the likes of me. Too soft, too pure, and I should feel guilt for wanting to stain her with my touch; but I don’t.
I place her in the passenger seat, watching the way she pouts. “If you keep touching me like that, I won’t be able to control myself anymore,” I murmur. “And I’m not taking your virginity in a car.”
I unbuckle my belt, letting it fall to the floor. My fingers move to the buttons of my shirt. The fabric slips from my shoulders. She stares, her eyes roaming over every ugly mark.
I catch her tear before it falls.
“Don’t cry for me, little flower.”
Her small hands trail over my skin, mapping each scar. That man spared nothing to teach me to be “perfect.” Cigarettes, knives, belts—he marked me every time I said no or missed a hit. I want to hide.
But it’s her.
My Amelia.
And she doesn’t look away.
She whispers, “I’m glad you killed him.”
Something dark coils in my gut. The words shouldn’t affect me like this. But they do. They make my cock throb, sending heat pulsing through me.
Because she understands. Because she could crook her finger and I’d fall to my fucking knees. Because this woman, pure as snow, is glad I killed a man. Just because he hurt me.
She’s innocence. I’m rot. And somehow, we fit.
I leave before the fire spreads enough to trap me and make my way to the car, parked far enough to avoid the worst of it. Still, the heat licks at my back. The fire will spread, fast.
I slide into the driver’s seat, ready to get Amelia out of here.
But before I can start the engine, her bloodied hand rests on mine.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
I understand.
She wants to watch. Just a little longer.
So I let her.
She isn’t just mine, she is me. Cut her, and I bleed. Hurt her, and I become death itself. My love isn’t gentle. It’s all-consuming. If she cries, I will carve out the tongues that spoke against her. If she bleeds, I will drown the world in the blood of those who hurt her. There is no limit. No end. Only fire. Only ruin. Only the bodies I would stack at her feet just to keep her safe.
I would burn everything. Everyone. Until there is nothing left but her and me in the ashes.
Together, we witness the last embers of this wretched place die.
Together, we end it all.
He lowers himself further, pressing his lips to my feet again. I twitch at the contact, the blisters tender, but he doesn’t stop. He kisses over every burn, every raw spot, and the heat of his mouth sears me more than the fire ever could.
He presses a kiss to my shin. My knee. My thigh.
My ribs, the bruises there.
My stomach, the ugly green and blue of it.
Every single inch of skin they marked, he reclaims.
I bite down on my lip, eyes stinging. “My skin won’t be smooth anymore,” I mumble. “Would you mind?”
His fingers grip my jaw, tilting my head back roughly, forcing my eyes to stay on his. His pupils are blown wide, his expression unreadable. His lips hover over mine, close enough that I feel the heat of his breath.
“Mind?” His voice is lethal, low and sharp. He thumbs over the dried blood on my cheek. “Your body is mine. Your scars are mine. Every single mark they left on you belongs to me now. You are beautiful, and you will always be beautiful.” He kisses down my neck, over the angry red skin my mother left behind. “And if you ever say something like that again, I swear I’ll make you look at yourself in every mirror until you see what I see.”
I believe him, and my insecurity dies the second it came up.
🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤