June – POV
The darkness was thicker than sleep.
It bled through my dreams like oil—suffocating, heavy, toxic.
I was back there again. In the dark.
The voices whispered — no, scread — calling a monster, showing blood, the glint of silver, the fork buried in his neck. My adopted father’s eyes wide with disbelief. My hands shaking, red-stained.
Monster...
The word slithered through my mind, voiced by the ones that had lived in my head for years. No... decades? Or had it only been monts? Ti bent strangely when they whispered.
You stabbed him, one hissed. Right in the neck. With a fork.
Another cackled. Such a good little freak. Just like they made you.
Images flashed like lightning behind my eyes. Blood splattering across porcelain floors. My own hands trembling, still gripping cold tal. His gurgles. His pleas.
Then nothing.
Dark again.
Until the whisper turned sharper—You’ll never be clean, Number Twelve.
Never be loved.
I jolted awake with a scream caught in my throat, torn from a place too deep to reach. My chest heaved. The room—quiet, dimly lit, sterile—clenched around like a tomb. I was tangled in sheets I didn’t rember climbing into. The air tasted like steel.
The voices didn’t fade.
They grew louder. Angrier.
Kill. Scream. Bleed.
I clutched my head, curling forward as their accusations beca unbearable. I couldn’t tell which were mories and which were hallucinations anymore.
There was only one truth I could cling to:
I was not safe inside myself.
The door slamd open. I flinched violently, ready to attack—but froze.
Justin.
My Number Nine.
He rushed to my side, hands reaching for like I was breakable porcelain. His eyes scanned —panic, worry, fury, all twisted into one storm.
"June?" he breathed, crouching in front of . "I heard you—talk to . Please."
I couldn’t speak. Not over the screams in my head. Not over the knives of guilt stabbing my ribs from the inside.
He’ll see what you are, the voice sneered. Just like the rest did.
But he didn’t back away.
He touched . Gently. A hand to my cheek, grounding. Real.
And I knew.
I knew what would silence them.
It always worked. The heat. The touch. The skin. It drowned them out. Flushed them away in waves of sothing I didn’t have a na for.
This ti, I wouldn’t run.
He was already here. I didn’t have to search, or beg, or find so stranger in a bathroom stall to quiet the storm.
This was Justin.
This was him.
The one I forgot.
The one I was never supposed to lose.
I reached for him, fingers curling into his shirt, and pulled him close before my own doubt could speak.
I kissed him.
Desperate.
Starved.
He froze for a breath—maybe in shock, maybe in mory—and then he lted into like he’d been waiting years for this. His mouth moved with mine—rough and soft, tender and wild, our lips colliding like crashing thunderclouds.
My Number Nine.
He ca back.
And I wasn’t letting him go.
His mouth was on mine, more urgent this ti, and I let the world fall away—let the voices hiss and fade as the heat replaced them.
His hands found my waist, fingers digging in like he was anchoring us both. I could feel the charge between us — heavy, electric — like we were caught in the middle of a storm we couldn’t outrun.
"June..." he breathed against my skin, voice low and uncertain. "What’s going on?"
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The words would break open. And right now, I didn’t want to feel anything except this.
So I kissed him again — harder this ti. Fierce. Hungry.
He responded in kind, his grip tightening as our bodies moved closer, no space left between us. I felt his heat, the tremble in his breath, the way his chest rose and fell against mine.
My fingers slid up his back, over warm skin and muscle. He let out a low sound in the back of his throat — like a growl laced with restraint. I wanted to tear it all down, strip away the hesitation until there was nothing left but instinct and need.
When he pulled onto his lap, my breath hitched. His hands held like I was sothing precious and dangerous all at once.
"Are you sure?" he asked, searching my eyes. Always him — even in the fire, he gave a way out.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. "I need this," I whispered. "I need you."
That was all it took.
His lips crashed into mine like a match to gasoline — hot, reckless, full of everything we hadn’t said.
I didn’t care about sense, didn’t care about questions or the storm still howling in my chest. I just needed to feel. Needed to drown out the voices with him.
Our hands were everywhere at once — tugging, gripping, pulling at clothes like they were in the way (because they were). I fumbled with the hem of his shirt, desperate to get it off, and he helped, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside like it had offended him.
The second it was gone, I was on him again. Lips, tongue, teeth — claiming him the only way I knew how.
His hands were in my hair, then sliding down my back, pulling closer until I was straddling him on the bed, knees pressing into the mattress, my breath hitching when his lips found the curve of my throat.
"June," he murmured, like my na was sothing sacred and dangerous all at once.
My fingers found the waistband of his sweats, tugging with no patience, no pause. His hands mirrored mine, slipping under my shirt, dragging it up. For a second, our lips broke apart — just long enough to rip it off — then we were back at it again, like the space between us was oxygen and we were both starving.
There was nothing slow or sweet about this. It was fast, frantic, the kind of need that cos after holding back for far too long.
I moaned into his mouth as he laid back against the pillows, his weight pressing into in all the right ways. Every kiss, every touch, was a promise — one neither of us said out loud, but both of us felt.
And in that mont, with clothes half-off and hearts fully undone, nothing else existed. Not the past. Not the voices. Not the fear of losing him again.
Just us — raw, breathless, and burning.
I don’t rember when exactly he opened my shirt — maybe sowhere between his mouth trailing down my neck and my brain turning to fog. But suddenly, it was undone, my bra pushed up, and his mouth latched onto like he needed to breathe. God. I was already gone.
My jeans ca off in a ssy blur, hands fumbling and needy, the room pulsing with heat and urgency. I barely managed to get his pants down; he was still in his briefs, but I could feel how ready he was — thick, hard, pulsing. My own body betrayed , soaked with need, trembling with anticipation.
He didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to. His mouth was back on mine in an instant, devouring, claiming, his fingers tangled in my hair as he kissed like I was the only thing anchoring him to earth.
And maybe I was.
My legs fell open for him without a thought, like muscle mory, like instinct. His hips pressed into mine, grinding slow and deep with just enough friction to make ache. His hard length dragged along my center through the lace, making moan into his mouth.
The tension curled in my gut like fire.
His hands were everywhere — in my hair, on my waist, cupping the back of my thigh, pulling closer, deeper. He moved against again, slow but deliberate, and I gasped. My body arched. My nails dug into his shoulders.
I needed him. All of him. Now.
His voice was a low growl, thick with desire. "Your panties are soaking wet."
The words sent a ripple of heat down my spine. I gasped as his hand moved, purposeful and teasing, brushing against my center with just enough pressure to leave breathless. He didn’t wait—just pushed the fabric aside and slipped his fingers inside .
A sharp cry escaped my lips.
My hands gripped his shoulders as he moved, slow at first, then faster, his touch precise—knowing. Curling his fingers just right, he coaxed a sound from that didn’t even sound human. The world narrowed to that place where his skin t mine, the tension winding tighter with every stroke, every curl.
Then suddenly, he stopped.
I whimpered, frustrated and trembling, the emptiness more maddening than the pleasure had been. My eyes flew open, eting his, dark and burning. He fumbled with his briefs....
And then—he moved.
One smooth, powerful thrust and I was lost. I gasped, my back arching as every inch of him filled , claid . I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. My na, the world, everything else blurred into nothing.
There was only him.
The way he moved inside , like he knew my body better than I did. The way his hands road, firm and possessive. The way he whispered my na like it ant sothing more—like I ant sothing more.
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