CHAPTER 112: OPEN WIDE ( LUTHER’S POV )

I scrub and I scrub, yet I can’t seem to erase the traces of my lust and idiocy off my skin.

Even if I were to shed my skin like an anaconda, every corner of this house reeks of my debauchery. While the enablers were separated:

One is using the line between life and death like a f-cking trampoline

The other cooking fettuccine in the kitchen while listening to Britney Spears.

And me, the final part of the equation scrubbing my skin off like that would help at anything else than an everything shower.

But how am I supposed to get out?

I can’t face Tom. The guilt eats me out harder than Emiliano did and not even half as pleasurable.

As for Emiliano—

What is he even doing here?

Acting like nothing happened as well.

You know what?

I should get out!

Yeah, I should just walk to him and use the hot pan and pull a Rapunzel.

Yeah!

What if he gets mad?

What if he stops treating Tom?

What if he injects me with something again and I end up on the surgical table again?

What if he puts me under a chemical coma so I don’t cause him trouble again?

I can’t breathe.

The air seems to solidify in my throat, depriving my lungs of any form of oxygen.

I’m gonna die.

No.

I’m gonna live without being able to do anything. I will live as a doll. As Emiliano’s doll.

My chest keeps rising, desperate after just a mouthful of air. My hands can seem to move. As if they were paralysed.

I can’t turn off the shower.

"Puppy? Are you ok in there?"

He’s here.

He’s here to kill me.

I can’t move.

I can’t run.

I’ll die.

Tom will die.

Everyone will die.

I can’t breathe.

Please.

Please.

The water keeps hitting me in the face as the knocking intensify. I can smell him. Burned wood, pepper, vanilla.

My chest hurts so badly.

I think I’m having a heart attack.

The scent makes me nauseous. Dizzy. Everything is blurred.

I think I heard the door open, but I can’t see anything. The smells intensify.

Did he come for me?

Does he have a syringe? Is he gonna stab me with it again?

I’m scared.

"Puppy, what are you doing? The dinner is getting cold."

Suddenly the idiotic smile on his face makes everything... better.

I can finally breathe.

Look at him. Smiling over pasta. With tomato sauce hanging by the corner of his mouth.

It’s fine.

He’ll treat Tom.

And I’ll escape after.

It’s fine.

I just need to play into his fantasy for now.

"Look at your skin... Why did you scratch so hard?"

"To erase your touch."

He stopped his hands from feeling the depth of my scratches to avert his worried gaze to me. He looked— offended?

"Luther, I know we... I f-cked up. Twice. But can you not do this? Please, it could get infected..."

His eyes filled with tears and an anxious gaze sparked in me something more raw than the surviving instinct. Rage.

Wild, unfiltered rage.

"No! You don’t get to apologize! You don’t get to diminish what you did to me! I-I trusted you—"

"Why? Why did you trust me?"

I couldn’t do more than press my lips into each other. Truth stacked in my throat, puncturing it painfully.

He continued. His gaze darkened with an unreadable density.

"You knew who I was. What I want from you. You were surrounded by pieces of corpses from fools who made the mistake of having faith in me. So why? Why did you trust me when you knew all that?"

His thumb traced my collarbone. Slowly. His touch burned my skin, leaving behind a torturous sensation of guilt.

Despite the coldness that entered the room from the door left open, I felt like I was melting under his derogatory touch.

"What do you wanna hear, Sanchez? That I love you? That your plan worked and now I both fear and desire you? Fine. So what? Want a medal with that?"

His eyes widened in surprise as his mouth curved into the same smile a toddler would have upon receiving a toy.

"You love me?"

His grip became rather strong, leaving white marks as the pressure of his thumb digged into my arms.

His breath became unsteady and I couldn’t help but shiver. And I wish it were from the coldness of the room.

This idiot, this maniac, this utterly insane guy who kidnapped me, starved me, used me as a resource for his evil Mojo Jojo plan was standing in front of me exhilarated from a hateful love confession.

With tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth.

With no shirt and a stupid oversized apron that made him seem like he was wearing a dress.

He blabbered with a shaky voice:

"You like me. You love me.You love me back!"

"It’s Stockholm Syndrome."

"You love me back."

"I hate you as well. I hoped you were dead from that glass wound."

"You treated my wound. You induced me into a rut to help me not be in pain.Because you love me! You love me, Luther! My wife loves me back!"

I could feel his heartbeat onto my chest as he pulled me into a tight awkward hug. It was not ideal for anyone. His apron got wet and I was hugging the man that just gave me a heart attack totally naked.

Yet, he didn’t even seem to notice.

He just kept mumbling:

"You love me. You love me!"

I couldn’t stand his touch anymore.

Not when my focus should be on saving Tom and escaping him.

My voice cracked under the weight of my words as the joy disappeared leaving behind just tension and the overwhelming invasion of his pheromones.

"I slept with Killian."

The time stopped, but I couldn’t:

"An entire night at the hotel. After he saved me from you. He confessed his love. I-I couldn’t say the same. Because I love you. But I used him. I used his body all night long. Until the morning came. Until I couldn’t come undone anymore."

"I know."

I gulped. He was not angry.

Just— sad.

This felt even worse than his child-like euphoria.

"I’ve seen the marks, puppy. I know."

"Are you not angry? Aren’t you gonna threaten me? Put me in a coma so I won’t act out again?"

I didn’t realize I was crying until he started to wipe my tears away slowly. The warmth of his palm against my face felt comforting. Dangerously so.

"Puppy... it’s ok. We’re ok. We’ll get over it together. As a family."

"We are not a family."

My loud words echoed against the marbled walls of the bathroom. The yelling was senseless, stripped of any rationality. It was a pointless ranting stating facts that should be true.

Are true.

But not from my perspective. Or from his.

"We are nothing. How much longer do you want to play house? I am not your wife. You are nothing for me except the twisted madman who manipulated me into loving him!"

His arms got limp.

He turned his back to me as his shoulder slumped down, trembling in what seemed to be either a laughter or a silent cry.

Whichever it was, his voice didn’t betray the emotion.

Emiliano just dryly said leaving the room, uncharacteristically uninterested in my reaction.

"Dress up for dinner. Clean up your act. Tom’s life depends on how fun you make my little game of playing house. Don’t forget that! Another corpse on my hit list means nothing to me."

The coldness of the shower finally hit me.

Alone.

So lonely.

Why did I get so angry with him?

Why did I yell?

I could have used his affection, his dumbed-up state. So why did I get so emotional?

"Emiliano!"

My mouth moved to call his name, but nothing came out.

So tired.

I am so tired of it all.

Should I just leave?...

Tom...

Fine.

Want a wife?

Have a wife.

I’m a good actor.

I’ll play along.

And at the end, I’ll win the game.

And I’ll stop this senseless love I have for you.

It’s a blur of thoughts of actions from exiting the shower to getting down to dinner.

Emiliano was plating our food up, slightly pouting.

"Hope you made dessert too."

His brow arched, yet his gaze remained fixated on the plate.

Playing hard to get?

Good.

I’m in the mood to be annoying tonight.

I grabbed a fork and deepened it in the beautiful arrangement of the food, spoiling the beautiful pancetta flakes he designed as flowers on the top.

He grunted annoyed, yet still not looking at me. His eyes fixated on the ruined plate as I got comfortable, jumping on the counter in front of him, leaning in with my legs wide open.

I twirled my fork just enough to ruin all his hard work. Then pointed it to his mouth, gently tapping on his mouth.

"Open wide for me, baby."