Punishing Penelope by Nicolina Martin

Author:Nicolina Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nicolina Martin

Chapter Eight

Peter

* * *

You’re all mine now.

You’re mine, too.

I once promised her my heart. When my soul was still uncorrupted. When I thought the world was black and white. When I believed the tingling joy in my chest would last forever and not a few fucking weeks.

In my darkest moments, I’ve blamed Savannah Wilder for destroying my life. Why the hell did she have to step out of the car? Why did she have to be so stupid and nosy? Why didn’t she do what she was told?

Her death ruined everything. It irrevocably tore our world apart.

However, the blame bounces between all of us involved that night. It multiplies, grows, festers, and becomes guilt. Guilt eats your insides until you’re all but hollowed out—a shell filled with nothing but restless energy and a need for something to happen, something that will take you out of your misery.

“Lesson? What lesson? Peter! Let me go! What are you doing?”

Laughing, I wrestle a panicking Penelope onto the couch and bundled her up in no time. Her pants, gasps, and hitching whimpers are music to my ears.

This takes me out of my misery.

Fuck, I want her to suffer.

Fuck, I want her.

The world goes still.

I did not think that.

Subconsciously, maybe I still want the Penelope I remember, but the sick, twisted sensationalist reporter she’s become?

I’d rather fuck a meat grinder.

“Be still,” I growl. Grabbing her arms in a vice grip, I pull her up, then march her through the room toward my bedroom. I don’t have a plan, but I’m good at doling out pain, both to the willing and the unwilling, so I’m sure she’ll get my message loud and clear.

She squirms and protests every step of the way. I feel her deep inhalation and know what’s coming. My hand covers her mouth, catching her scream, then I yank her with me the last few steps and shove her against the wall next to the bed.

Catching her wide-open eyes, filled with terror, I lean in and put my mouth to her ear.

“I always knew you were a screamer, Wilder, but if you wake my neighbors, the pain I have planned for you will be nothing compared to what you’ll receive if you make someone take notice. Get it?” I shake her for emphasis. Her whimpers hitch in her throat, then she nods.

“Okay? I’ll remove my hand, and you will not scream.”

“Please, don’t hurt me!” I hear her frantic plea, even though it’s muted against my palm. She stares at the bed, then back at me, and I know what she’s begging me not to do. Don’t rape me. What I don’t know is why she isn’t vocalizing her fear. Does she secretly want me as much as I want her?

I don’t know how to resist when I finally have her at my mercy, all to myself when the air between us is charged with arousal, thick and heady. Or am I projecting? Is she just too proud to beg? I imagine she is.

Holding her

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