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Sark watches her and his anger burns.
She moves around the apartment, clearing her kitchen after her supper. He watched her eat alone, quietly. She does everything with a natural grace, fluid. She has managed to give herself routine.
He hates that.
It’s all new. Everything else had burned down. Including her, supposedly. The couch she’s now sitting on, the clothes she’s lounging in, the glass from which she sips wine slowly, the book she reads. It’s new, and yet it’s familiar, routine for her. She lost it all, but came back and slipped herself right back into life, even though it had all been destroyed. She’s able to act like nothing has changed in her life. No outward sign that life is different.
He hates her.
Sydney fucking Bristow.
He won’t kill her. No, that’s too easy. She thinks she has pain from losing two years and a worthless boyfriend. She knows nothing of pain.
He watches now, more intently, because she is moving, getting up off the couch and turning out the lights in the main room. Then light streams from her bedroom window and he moves in the bushes and catches sight of her again. She turns on the shower, then proceeds to strip off her clothes, because she doesn’t know that anyone is watching, and so she’s uninhibited. He smiles cruelly. She’s naked. She’s attractive; he could call her beautiful. He watches her and under different circumstances he would be completely aroused. Good. That will make it easier.
She knows nothing of real pain. But he wants to make sure she will.
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Sydney lets the water wash away the last of the soap before she shuts off the tap. She’s tired, but the shower felt good. A way to relax before she falls asleep. If she can fall asleep.
She hates every moment of her life. She’s come back to her world that continued to turn without her in it. Everything has changed now and she can’t stand it anymore.
And yet she keeps living it. Keep the old routine like nothing changed and eventually life makes sense again.
She reaches for her towel and dries off quickly before stepping from the shower. She stands in front of the mirror and looks at her naked body, hiding her inner arms from view while she studies herself. It’s all the same, apparently. Two years have passed and she is the same. Maybe that’s why she can fit herself back into her life so nicely.
She blinks at the tears in her eyes and bows her head, clenching them shut. The heat from the steam makes her feel a tad light-headed and she turns on the sink and rubs cold water on her face until she feels a bit better. She takes a deep breath before she raises her head.
She barely has time to register Sark’s face in her mirror before he has her slammed up against the counter. She yells in pain and makes to fight back, but freezes when he presses the barrel of his gun under her chin. His body is pressed against her back and his left arm is snaked around her waist to keep her in place. She stares at him in the mirror, sees the fury as their eyes meet in reflection.
“What do you want, Sark?” she can’t keep the tremor out of her voice. Whether it’s from anger or fear, she hasn’t quite decided.
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The ice in her eyes surprises him momentarily. It’s a familiar look; it should be. He’s the one who perfected it. No emotions betrayed at all in any look.
He wonders briefly if she learned it from him. He also wonders how. Sydney Bristow has never been one to hide her emotions well. Her eyes always betrayed whatever her face didn’t.
“Are you scared, Sydney?” he murmurs the words into her ears, tauntingly gentle.
She blinks. “Of death? No.” She laughs suddenly, a bitter sound that echoes in the small room. “Is that what you’re here for? To kill me? You’re wasting your time.”
He bares his teeth at her. “I’m not going to kill you, Sydney. There are other ways to break a person.” He punctuates his words with a thrust of his hips and she bites her lip in pain, but her tight smile is still there.
He’s angry because he wants her to beg and cry in front of him and she’s laughing. Fine. The hand that has been wrapped around her waist moves and traces the soft skin, all around her torso, until it’s wedged between their bodies. He uses his knees to spread her legs a bit farther apart and slides his hand between her thighs to touch her at her most sensitive spot.
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Her laugh is bitter again. “You’re here to fuck me?” She watches his features contort in the mirror and suddenly she’s not laughing.
His hands are rough as he thrusts his fingers deep into her and she lets out a cry of pain. His fingers scrape her inner walls and tears prickle in her eyes.
“Most fucks are consensual, Sydney. Are you saying that you want me?” His voice is harsh in her ear and he bites down on her shoulder until he draws blood.
“No,” she pants. She sees him smile twistedly at her in the mirror and a pang of fear goes shooting through her. No.
“Then I wouldn’t call this a fuck. Rest assured though, I will be getting off tonight.”
Her eyes widen and she feels afraid.
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When she realizes his intent, she begins to struggle again, but he’s fast, holding her down roughly with his body as the gun presses hard into her neck. He feels her relax slightly when he removes his hand, but he barely gives her time to breathe as he undoes his pants, brings out his penis and strokes it against her skin.
She closes her eyes, but he doesn’t miss the pleading look in them. “I won’t do it if you ask me nicely,” his voice is dripping with sugar and danger.
“I won’t deign to beg for you,” she manages to bite out, but the tears are evident behind her anger.
He’s swift as he pushes himself into her. She tightens instinctively around him, but he gives her no time to adjust before he begins to pound into her violently. She screams at the painful invasion, her body fighting his as best she can. He brings his hand up to cover her mouth and she bites him hard, drawing blood. This earns her another violent thrust into the counter and he threads his hand in her hair to yank her head back painfully. She wriggles, pushes herself back to try to force him out, but he has the advantage and the strength and he keeps her pinned to the counter.
His shirt buttons rub against her naked back, leaving harsh marks on the sensitive skin. She tries to kick at him and he jabs his foot into the hollow at the back of her knee, causing her to fall slightly forward and bash herself against her counter hard. Tears are flowing freely down her face, but her eyes have iced over again, nothing betrayed to him. The anger he feels shoots through his body as he slams into her as hard as he can and finally ejaculates with a grunt.
He freezes as he lets himself spill into her, and is stunned when he feels her inner muscles clench hard around him. She screams “FUCK!” as her body gives over to orgasm and he feels her shudder around him. He laughs harshly as he finally steps back from her body and adjusts himself back into his clothes, letting her body fall to the floor.
“Good night, Sydney,” he smiles darkly, and leaves.
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She lies on the cold floor and gulps in breath. Her lungs feel like they’ve been ripped apart and she can’t stop the harsh shuddering sobs that rack her body.
She hates him because he’s done the one thing that the months of knives and razor blades have failed to do.
He made her feel.
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He drives his car dangerously fast, swerving through traffic, all the pent-up rage coming out in loud expletives. He takes a long pull from the bottle on the seat next to him then, inexplicably, smashes it against the dashboard. Glass flies everywhere but he ignores it for now.
“Who?” he wonders aloud, his voice shaking with anger. Who was the one to break Sydney Bristow before he got the chance?