Chapter 37
Gaara is frustrated.
She was supposed to be different, better than the others and yet—
Her face is pale and the angry sneer on her lips is more bitter and tired than anything else.
It sets his veins on fire when he thinks of her screams in the little dank, dark room underneath the Kazekage tower and he wonders if they could have given him to her without the seal. She was fiery and defiant and vengeful and Gaara wanted it.
There was a certain allure, a certain feeling of power when he looked at her ratty hair and the way her jagged, dirty fingernails curved into the palms of her hands, her lip bleeding as she stopped herself from running in that office.
But this, this is different.
Her hair is no longer ratty and unwashed, the servants in his room having carted her off to the washrooms, her yowls going unheard.
No, she returned clean and sparkling, her surprisingly pale skin free of dirt and sand, her long hair reaching the small of her back, sleek and smooth and shining.
The girl growls in her throat as they throw her back into the room with him. She whips bottle-green eyes to him and he smiles, the one that makes people run, as he notices the fire that returns to her features.
She stomps up to him, her hands fisted by her sides as she glared, murderous and raging, before swiping out at his collar, lifting him by the fabric of his shirt.
Gaara grins wider as she leans closer.
He feels her puffing breath—so frail and faint for someone like her—on the flesh of his throat and it makes something in him curl.
“Make them stop.” She spits out. “Or I will tear them apart.”
He cocks his head, inspecting the way her flesh gleamed prettily, the pale skin so different from his tan and calloused skin, hardened by the years of weathering sand storms outside and sand shields. Gaara opens his mouth, leaning forward. He lets his tongue curl over the curve of her cheek and she jolts backwards, a surprised glare forming on her face.
“What is wrong with you?” She snarls, shoving him away with a sharp, quick movement he nearly doesn’t catch. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“You are mine. I will touch you when I want.” He sniffs imperially, like he’s seen his father do sometimes.
Something sharp and bitter and murderous flashes in her green eyes and she moves so fast he barely sees it.
He gasps as her nails rake across his face.
Something wet touches his cheek.
“You hit me.” His voice sounds oddly calm despite the rage that simmers inside him.
She made him bleed.