His Voice Alone

Chapter 24

Leia’s POV

The dorm is quiet. Chloe’s gone for the weekend, and for once, I don’t bother filling the silence with fake distractions. No music or podcasts, no noise to drown anything out.

I sit on the edge of my bed, legs tucked up tight, journal open in my lap, pen poised above the page. There’s no filter this time, no pretty phrasing to make it sound less like the truth.

I want everything he does to me.

I stare at the sentence, the ink bleeding into the paper. Then I write it again, harder this time. The word “everything” carves straight through my fingers and into my chest. It doesn’t feel like confession, it feels like confirmation.

Later, I move to the mirror. My feet are bare on the cool floor. My shirt is pushed up over my ribs, and the collar around my neck is still locked in place.

Matte black leather fits snug to my skin like it grew there. My fingers trace the edge of the buckle, slow and steady, then lower, brushing over the brand on my hip.

It’s still tender and raw, a permanent mark with one word burned into flesh.

His. I whisper it to my reflection.

The sound barely makes it past my lips, but it lands anyway. My gaze drifts down to the bruise on the inside of my thigh. The skin there is darker, blooming purple and red, fingerprint-shaped.

He left them there, not metaphorically, but real and etched into me.

I dropped the shirt, letting it fall to the floor without thinking. I hook one leg up onto the edge of my desk, spreading myself wide open to the mirror.

The girl looking back at me is wide-eyed, mouth parted, body already trembling. I watch my hand trail down my stomach and dip between my legs.

I’m soaked, slick with need, and with memory. My fingers glide through it, parting my folds, circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my breath catch in my throat.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I keep my eyes locked on the mirror, on the collar rising and falling with each breath I drag in. My hips start to move, slow and steady, grinding against my hand.

I bite down on my lip, not for control, just to feel something sharper.

“His,” I whisper again. Then once more. “His. His.”

It doesn’t sound like surrender anymore, it sounds like devotion. My fingers move lower, slipping inside. I start shallow, then curl deeper, angling until I hit the spot that lights everything up.

My thighs shake, and my spine arches. The wet sounds echo in the empty room, obscene and honest. And then it hits me, not just arousal. Not just submission, a memory.

I was nine. Ezra was ten. The group home was always loud, always cold, always too much and not enough at the same time.

That night, one of the foster men came home drunk. I’d wet the bed, too scared to get up, frozen in place with shame eating through my stomach.

He stormed in, his voice slurred, breath sour, curses spilling out like venom.

“Filthy little bitch,” he growled. “Think you can ruin my furniture?”

His hand wrapped around my wrist, yanking me upright. His grip hurt. I wanted to apologize, but no sound came out. I just looked up, choking on panic.

Ezra stood in the doorway, he didn’t say anything. He never did, he just watched with that blank stare that didn’t belong to a kid. Then the man raised his hand, and Ezra moved. He didn’t lunge, rather, exploded.

Nails, teeth, elbows, everything sharp and furious. The man screamed when Ezra bit down on his hand.

“Get off me, you little psycho!”

I screamed too, that’s when the man threw him. Ezra hit the wall hard. Sirens came next, blood, then the police. No one got the story right, Ezra didn’t speak.

Not to the cops, not to the social worker, and not to the therapist who labeled him “selectively mute.” But later, when we were locked in the storage room and I couldn’t stop crying into his shirt, he said one thing.

“Leia.” Just once, just for me. He never spoke to anyone else again.

The orgasm crashes over me like that memory, fast, brutal, unstoppable. My thighs clamp, fingers frozen inside me, body convulsing. My head drops back.

I’m gasping, crying, unable to stop any of it. It’s not the pain, and not guilt. It’s the kind of grief that only love leaves behind, the kind of ruin you ask for. When I finally catch my breath, I grab my phone.

My fingers are still wet, and I don’t clean them off. I hit the messages, my fingers numb.

“Do it again,” I typed. “Do whatever you want. Just don’t ever stop speaking. For me. Only me.”

And I sent it. Then I close my eyes, fingers brushing the collar tight against my throat, and I smile.