Little Lamb

19 ❦ sweet nectar

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Fuck me with those pretty eyes.
I wanted him to,
I wanted him to look at me like that. To see the hunger in his gaze, to feel it burn through me. Please, I begged silently, just give in and fuck me.

The faint, crooked smile on his face vanished as he turned away. "I'll be gone for a while. If you need anything, just knock on the door. One of my men is outside."

No. Don't go. Please, don't go.

I furrowed my brows. "Where are you going?"

He shook his head, as if reluctant to answer. I felt a pang of offense. Was he tired of me?

He grabbed his keys and a box from the desk, then walked out of the office, leaving me alone.

I stared at the door, frustration building inside me. Why hadn't I tried harder to persuade him? I could have said more, done more to make him stay. But deep down, I knew he wouldn't. He never would.

The room was so cold, with only a faint, dim light filtering through the tiny window. The night was closing in, casting long shadows against the walls. I kept pacing, trying to distract myself, even attempted to read the book Riggs had given me. But I couldn't get into it, it wasn't my genre, and my mind was elsewhere.

I wandered over to his desk, running my fingers along the surface before sinking into his chair, the same chair he sat in every day. It felt surprisingly comfortable, still warm, as if he had just been there.

I could almost picture him sitting across from me, eyes fixed on mine. From this angle, it felt strange, almost intimate. But I liked it, maybe more than I should.

My fingers traced the cold, metal handles of the desk. I leaned back, the chair creaking slightly under my weight as I squeezed my legs together, a flicker of excitement coursing through me. But then I stopped myself, shaking my head. Not in his chair. Not now.

I let out a slow breath, trying to steady myself, but something caught my eye in the cluttered, half open drawer. Curious, I pulled it open further and noticed something shiny glinting in the dim light. It was a broken piece of a blade, still sharp but missing its handle.

I carefully picked it up, feeling the cold metal against my warm fingertips. Did Riggs know it was here? Even broken, it could still do damage. I ran my thumb along the edge, testing it, until I felt a sharp sting.

"Ow." I winced as a thin line of blood welled up on my fingertip, the bright red against my skin. It had been days since I'd seen my own blood, not since the bullet wound had started to heal. But there was something oddly satisfying about it, watching the blood bead up and slowly trickle down.

I knew it was wrong to think that, but I couldn't help it. I just needed to feel something,
anything, even if it was just a small cut.

I let the blade trace along my arm, but hesitated. Too noticeable. Anyone could see it there. My mind raced as I pulled down my leggings, exposing the skin of my inner thigh.

The old scars were still there, faint but unmistakable, reminders of a time I had promised myself I'd never return to. But here I was.

I picked a spot just above the old marks, a fresh patch of skin untouched by previous pain. I pressed the blade against it, cutting slowly, just enough to feel it, but not too deep.

But then, without warning, my leg jerked, slipping from where it was perched. The blade plunged into my skin, slicing deeper than I intended.

Blood, crimson red. A sharp gasp escaped my lips as it began to seep out, trickling down my leg in warm streams. I stared in shock, my breath catching in my throat.