<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'">Dingy couches in basement quadplex rooms, the backseats of pickup crew cabs, unmade beds with boards that squeaked underneath weight, countertops in foreign kitchens, too-tight tiled showers that became claustrophobic once the steam set in- these were the places she had been stripped and left vulnerable in the face of prying eyes that liked it better with the lights on. Poor sentimental girl got wrapped up in the honeyed pillow talk and the hands much stronger than she and had never found the right moment to slip out. Naive, weak thing, predestined to fall into the traps of boys who bothered to pay a couple seconds of attention to her. She had tried her luck with more than one shadow and always came out disheveled and disheartened. Reno, innocence vying for holding hands and pinky swears, always finding herself giving in to requests that sickened her stomach. Naive, weak thing.<br/>
<br/>
First dates played out in routine like a scratched CD caught in a loop. Sweet nothings that she swallowed up like candy, hopeless heart mindlessly convinced that <i>this one </i>would be <i>the one</i>. But all paths lead back to <i>his place</i>. <i>His way. </i>Fingers walking up goosebump thighs, lips nestled against the crook in her neck, breath and house stinking of whatever bad habits this particular boy chose to indulge in. And Reno, poor Reno, sitting tensely, fear coursing through her in quick pulsations and choking back any retort she might've wanted to give. And as he inevitably suckered his way underneath her clothes she would regret having ever put on that skirt, too short, and that makeup, too much of a tease. When the night grew long and she was far too deep in the trap to weasel her way out, her meager and nervous requests to <i>turn off the light, please, </i>were met with cruel laughter. As if she were joking. And her cheeks would redden and her teeth would gnaw as they so often did and inevitably the lights would stay on, piercing white LEDs searing into her soul, her eyes incapable of closing, stuck wide open, witness to the sorry fucking picture of a girl too small too pathetic too trusting too weak too sad in the mirrors that seemed to follow her every fucking place she was bent till she snapped. <br/>
<br/>
It was all she could think about as Volk set his own trap.<br/>
<br/>
The wall felt jagged and harsh against her shoulder blades, the hardwood floors cold beneath her bare feet. Volk was a deep exhale of frost, clinging to her, a raincloud. Bastard was on his knees but he was still in control.<br/>
<br/>
<i>It didn't feel like this</i>. Like what? She wasn't sure what she was supposed to be feeling. Were they feeling the same thing? No. Reno's skull still swam with death and headstones and abandonment. Volk's was churning with ways he could get her to feel what <i>he </i>thought she should be feeling. <br/>
<br/>
Reno had gotten so used to feeling numb that when the shivers crept through her she felt them as needles. Hair standing on end, breath trapped in her diaphragm, whirs circling her into faintness. <i>Breathe, babygirl, you can't pass out- he'll set you on fire and eat your ashes, babygirl he thrives off of this.</i><br/>
<br/>
Hem eased up her legs, sequins scraping at skin. Volk's nails passing over the indents that had been left by thigh-high stockings. Nausea. Nausea. Nausea-<br/>
<br/>
<i>"Volk</i>-" <br/>
<br/>
Cold air kissing exposed bits. Not kissing. Biting. Each inch that he traversed a fucking bite, her shivers worsening, convulsing, convulsing, convulsing-<br/>
<br/>
"<i>Volk, please-"</i><br/>
<br/>
What was she supposed to be feeling? Most of her was going to pass out.<br/>
<br/>
Is this how he treated alley cat girls? Gentle caresses masking ravenous intentions? Reno's head spun. They were too old for this. They were too defunct for this. Spinning, spinning, spinning.<br/>
<br/>
This was no small-town boy with sweet-tooth cravings for girls with daddy issues. This was no washed-up barfly with a handsome sideways grin. This was no near-stranger who abused her phone number. This was no loser kid who thought he might impress her with a condom in his wallet. This was no Burning Bear man with no intention of telling her how many of her had been there before. This was Volk. This was a brother and a nightmare and a wolf.<br/>
<br/>
Lace veil around Volk's face, black like his leather. Wet exhales against her stomach. <i>What the fuck was he thinking? </i><br/>
<br/>
Reno's lip ruptured. Gave in to the canine blade. Crimson driplets replacing the manufactured gloss, gleaming stripes down her chin. She met it with the back of her hand. Red girl Reno, a bad horror film, all gore and no plot. She wasn't sure which hurt worse, the sores or the frailty of her flesh open to Volk and the <i>fucking lights. </i> <br/>
<br/>
"I said- <i>I said- </i>you shouldn't.. you shouldn't touch me-" words muttering through cherry blood, teeth slathered in pink. "<i>Please</i>."<br/>
<br/>
Scarlet smeared fingers gripped Volk's shoulder, tight, ends digging into the hide. She had been so unresponsive before, arms lying listless at her sides. There was some force in her grasp, wrists quivering and veins like webwork texture just beneath the opalescent film. <br/>
<br/>
"I'm serious- you <i>can't</i>- we're not kids anymore-" <br/>
<br/>
She hoped that big brother bravado, that infamous stubbornness, wouldn't strike him now. <br/>
<br/>
<i>What would dad say? </i>She wanted to ask, but instead she bit her tongue. <i>Oh, </i>she was good at that. </span>