Call You Mine (Servite Academy)

Chapter Twenty-Five

WYNTER

W arm lips, a tight body, and a hell of a lot of stamina—that’s what home feels like.

“Fuck, baby. The way you kicked her out, hmm, I want to just kiss you from how hot it made me to hear you stand up for me like that.”

Damon’s mouth sucks at the sensitive skin above my collarbone, peppering kisses all around my neck. His huge hands cup my breasts, squeezing gently as he twists my nipples in between his fingers. They’re sensitive, so fucking responsive, especially under the thin layer of my bralette that makes no barrier whatsoever.

I wrap my arms around his neck as he lifts me up into his arms, hoisting me until I wrap my legs around his waist. “Fuck, Princess. You don’t know how bad I wanted you tonight. You were all I could think about all day.” He squeezes my ass. “This ass, fuck, I want to write my name all over it too.”

“Mmm, maybe if you lick it good, I might just let you.”

The growl that leaves his chest reverberates in the entire room. “Don’t fucking say things like that. I’ll flip your ass over right here and fuck your pretty little ass right here in my best friend's bar.”

Damon sets me down on the counter and nudges his way between my thighs. “You think they have cameras?” I ask, suddenly very curious. “Maybe they’re watching us right now, getting all hot…”

He interrupts me, crashing his lips to mine. His tongue pushes into my mouth, needy and hot, forcing its way around as it tangles with my tongue. This kiss is carnal, urgent, like he needs to taste me more than ever. “Never pegged you as an exhibitionist.”

I pull back, looking up into his lust ridden eyes. “Oh, I’m definitely not.”

He kisses me again, tugging my bottom lip between his teeth until he draws blood. “Good, because no one gets to see this pussy but me. No one gets to see what you look like when you come apart from me. Mine, Wynter. Don’t you fucking forget it.”

Reaching down between us, he pushes my skirt up over my ass until it’s bunched up around my waist. In one swift tug, he tears my drenched thong off me, shoving it into his back pocket before pushing my legs open with his. They ache as they’re pushed as far as they can go. Lifting my right leg up, he places my foot on the edge of the bar top, leaving me completely exposed to him.

My pussy is throbbing, the need to have him inside me so fucking powerful. Lowering his head, he blows softly against me. His hot breath mixed with the cool air of the room makes me gasp.

Straightening up, he reaches to his right, grabbing an almost empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the edge of the counter. Popping off the spout we use for an easier, quicker pour, he chugs the liquor left, a little over four ounces.

Lowering the bottle to my pussy, he slowly presses the mouth of the bottle against my skin, rubbing it back and forth along my wetness. I’m dripping wet, so it easily becomes coated in my arousal. A wicked gleam appears in his eyes when he smirks up at me.

On instinct, I spread my legs wider, adjusting myself on the bar so my foot doesn’t slip off.

“You ever been fucked by a bottle, Princess?” he asks as he slowly pushes the tip of the bottle inside me.

I moan, shaking my head, because no why would I, even though at this moment, I sure as fuck am contemplating why not.

Without speaking, he slides the bottle up and down my swollen lips. The cold glass feels amazing against my throbbing clit. He angles the bottle enough to apply the perfect amount of pressure as he pushes it inside me once more.

“Oh, God” I whimper, the sensation too much. “Getting bored with me already, we have to get creative,” I joke, but the look in his eyes says he’s not playing. He pushes the pottle deeper inside me until the entire neck of it disappears.

My legs shake as he moves the bottle in slow, even thrusts. I want to rub my nipples, to bring me closer to my climax, but I’m afraid if I let go of the bar top, I might just fall. His steady movements are fucking torture.

His lips fell on mine as he quickened his pace. He tastes incredible. Sweet and spicy, minty fresh, yet I can taste the light citrusy notes of the whiskey. Suddenly my body goes stiff, bile rising in my throat as the taste of the whiskey coats my mouth.

No, no, no. not now, please not now.

“Come for me baby,” he says in between kisses, but I’m no longer in the mood.

Fuck. It’s coming, and if I don’t get up and move, I’ll be puking all over him instead of coming for him.

I try to restrain myself, but I can’t. “Damon, please stop,” I cry out, and he immediately goes still. Moving back from me, he pulls the bottle out of me, his face morphing into some bewildered expression.

“Wynter, what’s wrong? I’m sorry if I…”

I don’t stay to finish hearing what he has to say. No, I bolt, running as fast as I can manage toward the restroom.

I don’t get the chance to lock the bathroom stall, barely making it inside, before Damon enters right behind me.

I dry heave into the toilet, nothing but yellow bile coming out of me. I haven’t eaten or drank anything since the last time I was in here during my last break of the night. Hell, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast this morning. Nothing stayed in, nothing sounded or smelled appetizing.

I had been fine this last hour, but the taste of the liquor on Damon’s tongue, no, I couldn’t handle that.

“What the fuck is this, Wynter?” Drake shouts, shocking me as he stands over me in the stall. I’d almost forgotten he was here.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and risk a glance up at him.

There’s no sugar coating it. No way around what I’m about to confess. Especially not when my skirt is bunched up around my waist and he’s staring down at me puking in the toilet with my bare ass up in the air.

I fell to my knees, not able to look up at him. “I’m pregnant,” I spout out right before I dry heave once into the toilet once more.

Silence.

No loud gasp, similar to the one I let out I took when I first realized my period was late. Nor the shrill cry left me like when I took the pregnancy tests earlier today. Nothing but deafening silence in the room threatening to swallow me whole after my eerie confession. A confession I am still struggling to believe.

I almost think he didn’t hear me.

Daring to look up at him from my position on the bathroom floor, my white-knuckled grip clutching the toilet bowl for dear life, bile once again rises inside of me from the look on his face. The sheer look of horror that flashes in his eyes.

My sharp nails dig into my palm and draw blood. Blood I now feel dripping down my wrist by the sheer force of my clenched fist.

Nothing.

Hollowness stares back at me through his dark eyes. They are empty, no trace of life, no emotion. Nothing like what I just saw outside as he fucked me on the bar counter.

The palpable tension along with the darkness and the silence in the room overwhelms me, especially since my vision is already fading from the shock of it all—something which has been occurring often when these, what the internet called panic attacks, surface. Blurred vision, sweaty palms, unsteady breathing and a chaotic rhythm to my pulse. A telltale sign I am about to shut down completely.

I still remember the first time it happened. One of the first nights I spent in Enzo’s penthouse—the moment I realized I’d never be set free. I rushed toward the door after he’d exited and found it locked. Panic swarmed me. The thought of not being able to escape too much to bear. I was never claustrophobic, at least I didn’t think I was, and my room in his apartment was not small, but it was the idea of being locked in his prison, which made me nearly succumb to the panic that had flooded inside me.

I ran toward the window in hopes there was another way out, but it was no use. His penthouse was perched on the top floor of one of the highest buildings in the city. The only way out was plummeting to my death, which at the moment I hadn’t yet considered. No, the regret of not jumping out that day came a few years later, and continues to haunt me to this day. Because although the man should be dead, his ghost was still roaming purgatory, eager to enact his revenge on me.

I clutch my eyes shut the moment I see the anger radiating off Damon’s expression as his eyes flicker back and forth between me and my stomach. I’m not showing. Nowhere near that point yet, since according to the pregnancy app I downloaded on my phone two hours ago, I am only about six weeks.

If I weren't so frightened, I’d be laughing at the absurdity of it. Me, pregnant, having a child with Damon Drake. Saying it out loud doesn't make this more real. If anything, it only makes it sound like some sick joke. A joke because of the way I can sense he’s about to react.

I’m not ready for it, though I fear I never will be.

Slowly, I open my eyes, tears I feel I’ve been holding in for days not hours—as I played this exact scenario in my head, trying to gain the courage to say something—make their way out of my eyes, staining my cheeks in smears of black mascara.

His jaw ticks, teeth clenched tight as his breaths turn unsteady. In three, two, one.

“This was not part of the fucking contract, Wynter,” he shouts, rushing out of the room and leaving me hunched over the toilet on my knees.

Well, that was worse than even I expected. I don’t bother rinsing out my mouth, simply wipe the bile from my lips with the back of my hand before I rush out after him and back into the bar's main room.

The contract, of course, he would go back to that stupid contract, just like he always did when things fell out of his control.

“The contract? Really, Damon?” I shout after him, but he ignores me, heading straight to the liquor bottles along the shelf. “I think after all that’s happened, the contract is a joke at this point.”

He chuckles, grabbing a bottle from the shelf and twisting the top off. “And whose fault is that?” he accuses, angering me further, yet still he refuses to look my way.

I tug my skirt down as I walk. “Don’t put this all on me, Damon. I’m not sure if you’re aware of how a baby is made, but it takes two.”

Finally, his eyes meet mine, only at the same time I wish they hadn’t because the look on his face is nothing but malice. “Don’t say that word.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh, it's that or keep crying and I won’t shed another damn tear for a man who’s afraid to say the word baby. “What, baby? You’ve got to be kidding me, right? You think just cause I don’t fucking say it doesn’t mean I’m not carrying your baby inside of me.”

A loud clash sounds against the wall behind me as the glass bottle he just threw shatters against it. God, Jade is going to hate me for making such a mess. I don’t flinch, my mind no longer able to register anything more shocking or frightening than the way he’s looking at me.

He desperately runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ends. “A baby,” he mocks. “You’re pregnant? You have to be fucking kidding me? We’re not even really together. None of this is real. How can you be fucking pregnant?”

His words cut deep into my soul, through every layer I’ve reinforced over the years. My scars, years of patching themselves up, layer upon layer of scar tissue searing shut my open wounds, all at once dissolved by the venom in his words. The spitefulness of his voice, a dagger straight to my heart, embedded so deep it’s found a home.

But what was I expecting, really? Did I even for a second really believe this would play out any differently than it is?

I didn’t want a baby, especially not when I’m still in this toxic situation, not even sure if I’ll be alive in the next twenty-four hours. Or if I’m still married to a monster.

Yet although this couldn’t have come at the worst possible time in my life, deep down, for a fleeting moment when time stood still, I imagined us together. A family, lost in a world far away from here, happy. Hand in hand, frolicking through secret gardens that only existed inside my mind.

“You think we can have a fucking baby together when none of this is what we wanted? It’s not real,” he reminds me yet again.

I think back to the night I allowed him to tattoo the word mine on my body, a body I let him claim as his only for him to tell me it was all fake. Now it’s my turn to break something, and I do, chucking an empty glass at his head. Luckily, he ducks in time, but the look of utter disbelief on his face proves just how unhinged this has become. Glass everywhere, covering every inch of floor around the bar.

“You can stop fucking saying this isn’t real, Damon,” I cry out, letting out all my pent-up emotions regarding our situationship. “Trust me.” I slam my hand against my chest. “I know it’s not fucking real, but it doesn’t change the reality of this. Not the reality of what I feel for you. Damon I…”

“Don’t,” he shouts, his voice so dark and sinister, as he grabs my wrist and tugs my hand away. I’ve never heard him speak to me or anyone in that tone, and the way his eyes darken as his fingers tighten around me painfully scares me. “Don’t fucking say something we both know you don’t mean.”

His knuckles go from white to red as he releases me, my wrist stinging from the force of his grip on me, leaving a red trace behind. “Damon,” I choke on my sobs, my voice coming out in a tremulous stutter. “For me, this is real.”

A wicked, disparaging laugh leaves him. “Of course it isn’t real, Wynter. How can we even consider an actual relationship when I don’t even know who the fuck you are?”

And there it is, the fucking elephant in the room I fooled myself into believing would just disappear. Anger echoes in the sharp tone of his voice. True unfiltered fury radiates from him as he stares at me with a blatant and taunting expression.

It’s unnerving to watch him look at me this way. He’s never looked at me with such brazen hatred and annoyance. Damon’s always been different with me, showed a softer side no one ever knew existed, but this, this right here, is how the volatile Dragon stares at everyone else. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Without warning, he rushes toward me until he has me pushed up against the bar top, his groin pressing against me, letting me feel how hard he is despite all the explosive arguing. “Why was Carrington here asking you about her brother?”

My face pales and I don’t know what to say to him. “I, I don’t know. I told her I haven’t seen him since New York.”

Damon growls, “You’re lying to me, Wynter. Everything about us is a lie. How we got here, whatever the fuck this is,” he shouts, his voice slightly quaking as he points between us. “You won’t tell me what the fuck has you so scared all the damn time? You won’t tell me who it is that’s always messaging you and sending you shit. You won’t fucking tell me why you’re back or who or what you’re running from.”

I’m stunned and silent. It’s not like he’s never voiced his thoughts on the matter. The entire reason it’s taken us this long to get anywhere was because he couldn’t trust me as long as he knew I was keeping things from him. How foolish am I to think just because he gave into the temptation of a physical relationship between us, he’d forgiven everything?

When I don’t respond, he asks once more, pressing harder into me as his palm roughly cups my face. His thumb traces tenderly over my bottom lip, ironic to the way he’s saying he feels and the darkness in his gaze. “Who are you running from, Wynter?”

My lip quivers as I shake my head, unable to say the truth out loud. I close my eyes. “No one.”

Dark laughter blares from deep within his chest. “I’m going to ask you this once more. Who the fuck are you running from, Princess?”

Tears stream down my face, an endless river of sorrow and regret flowing as I’m cornered with no way around the truth. I have to tell him. If I lie yet again, I might lose him. But if I speak the truth, I know I will. Yet there’s no other way this ends any differently for us.

Panic flutters inside me but my anger rages stronger, extinguishing my hysteria. Without thinking twice—I might convince myself otherwise—I mutter the two words I know will mark the end of us.

Inhaling a deep breath, I open my eyes and stare into the deep green pools I’m about to drown in as I seal mine and my unborn baby’s fate.

“My husband,” I tell him before my entire world comes crashing down.