His Voice Alone

Chapter 8

Leia’s POV

Sleep? That's cute. I lie in bed listening to sounds I can't identify, but my brain has decided everything is a potential threat.

I keep the curtains shut tight. Check the locks obsessively, like the door might spontaneously unlock itself out of spite.

Still, I feel him. Watching. Always fucking watching.

Studying with Tyler tonight was supposed to be simple. And it was, which is probably why my brain couldn't handle it.

He's easy to talk to in that uncomplicated way that makes you remember what normal conversations feel like. Polite without being fake, funny without trying too hard.

His laugh is quiet, genuine, and he doesn't look at me like I'm some kind of puzzle he's trying to solve.

He just listens. Novel concept, right?

When we said goodbye outside the library, he smiled and told me to text him when I got home safe. Sweet. Normal. The kind of thing healthy people do in functional relationships.

Halfway across campus, my phone buzzes. One message, no words, just a photo that makes my entire world tilt sideways.

It's a printed photo sitting on what I'm pretty sure is my pillow. It shows me and Tyler at the café, looking like a perfectly normal college couple having perfectly normal coffee.

Except for the thick red X slashed across Tyler's face like a target.

My stomach drops through approximately seventeen layers of earth's crust.

That's when I hear them. Footsteps.

Not the clumsy, hurried shuffle of a student heading back to their dorm after a late study session. These are deliberate, measured, patient.

Predatory.

I move without thinking. My breath burns in my chest as the footsteps get closer, matching my pace like some kind of fucked-up dance. I dart between buildings and cut through a narrow alley I've never used before.

The walls press in from both sides, dark brick streaked with god knows what, and my heartbeat is loud enough to power a small city.

Dead end. I turn around, and he's there.

Ezra. Like he materialized out of the shadows. Black clothes, baseball cap pulled low over his blonde curls, but those eyes are unmistakable—dark and intense and completely unhinged.

His hands move sharp and furious: "Why were you laughing with him?"

I press back against the bricks, rough stone catching on my jacket. "It... it was just coffee..."

He lunges forward, and his hand grabs my jaw, forcing my face up.

His grip is rough enough to leave marks, and I gasp but don't fight because apparently my survival instincts are as broken as everything else about me.

"You don't smile at anyone but me."

It's not a request. It's a command delivered in that low voice that does things to my pussy and nervous system I definitely shouldn't be feeling right now.

Then his mouth is on mine—hard, punishing, all teeth and tongue and the kind of possession that should terrify me. Instead, I moan, and shame crawls over my skin like insects.

He pulls back just enough to raise his phone, screen lighting up both our faces in the dim alley.

It's a live feed. My dorm room. My bed. Me, restless under the sheets, touching myself, thinking I was alone. Me, asleep and exposed and completely vulnerable.

The choked sound that escapes me doesn't sound human.

Ezra drops the phone like it's contaminated, and it cracks against the concrete. Then he stomps on it—really commits to the destruction, grinding it into digital confetti with his heel.

His hand moves to my throat, and apparently my brain has decided this is the perfect time to completely abandon ship.

He tilts my chin up, lips brushing my lips like a promise and a threat rolled into one.

"I've watched you for years, firefly," he breathes, and his voice is rough enough to scrape skin. "In your bedroom. When you shower. How you touch yourself in the dark."

The gasp that escapes me sounds pathetic even to my own ears. "Y-you—"

"Oh, you like being watched." His voice drops to that frequency that does illegal things to my nervous system. "You want me to see, need it. Because you're mine."

He says it again, slower this time, each word deliberate as a nail being hammered home. "Mine, Leia. Always. Only. Mine."

Then his mouth is at my neck, and he bites—actually fucking bites me like I'm something he wants to devour—and I cry out because the pain is sharp and immediate before it melts into heat that spreads through my entire body like wildfire.

My hips lift toward his without permission from my brain, which has apparently clocked out for the evening. I'm shaking, completely coming apart, and he hasn't even really started yet.

His hand slides under my shirt, grabs my breast with zero finesse and one hundred percent ownership. No gentle exploration, no tentative touching—just pure, undiluted claim.

"You think you're so sweet?" he hisses against my ear, words spilling out like concentrated sin. "I know you moan my name in your sleep, how it forms on your lips. When you fuck yourself with those pretty fingers of yours like they're mine."

His hand drops lower, slipping past my waistband with the confidence of someone who's never been told ‘no’ in his entire life.

When his cold fingers push into me, I sob—not from pain, but from how quickly he dismantles every defense I thought I had.

Ezra moves rough and fast, fingers thrusting while his hips press me harder against the brick wall. I'm panting, pinned, with absolutely nowhere to go even if my body wanted to run, which it categorically does not.

And through it all, he talks. Forces words out of me like he's extracting confessions.

"Tell me what you are."

I don't answer because I still have approximately one functioning brain cell left, and it's staging a final rebellion.

His fingers slow, then stop completely. The absence of movement is somehow worse than the intensity.

"Say it," he growls, teeth scraping against the bite mark that's probably going to be visible for days. "Or I'll make you scream it so loud the whole campus hears you beg."

Tears sting my eyes, but it's not fear that finally opens my mouth.

"Yours," I whisper.

Ezra’s smile is pure satisfaction—like someone who's just found exactly what they've been hunting for their entire life.

His fingers move again, thrusting harder now, deeper. My head slams back against the brick as a sob wrenches from my chest.

It’s too much. Not enough. Perfect. Devastating.

My body clutches around his fingers like it’s been starved for them. My pride is a shredded ruin, discarded in the dirty space between these buildings.

He hooks his fingers just right, curling into me with practiced precision, and I see stars behind my eyes.

“I should make you come like this,” he snarls, hips grinding against me as if his cock isn’t already painfully hard beneath his jeans. “Stuff you full in the dark like the filthy thing you are. You want that, Leia? Want me to bend you over the wall and fuck you like it’s the only language you understand?”

A whimper escapes me, raw and involuntary.

His smile turns cruel. “God, you do want it. You’d let me destroy you right here, wouldn’t you?”

Ezra leans in close, his breath brushing the shell of my ear.

“You’ll think about this every night,” he murmurs. “When you’re alone, in that pathetic little dorm bed. When your fingers aren’t enough. You’ll hear my voice. Wonder how low you’d crawl just to get more.”

His fingers move faster, merciless now. I’m panting into his shoulder, biting it through the fabric of his shirt to stop myself from screaming. The brick scrapes my back. My thighs tremble. My body’s right there.

And then—he stops. Completely.

Withdraws his hand. Cold air rushes in where heat once ruled, and I make a pathetic sound—half sob, half growl.

My eyes flash open. “Why—”

He cuts me off with a finger under my chin, tilting my face up so I’m forced to look at him. His hand still glistens with me.

“You don’t get to come tonight, firefly” he says, voice calm, almost gentle. “Need to earn it.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. My legs feel hollow, I’m dizzy with want, ruined with denial.

Then he brings his fingers to my mouth. “Open.”

I do and he presses them past my lips, into my mouth, and I taste myself on his skin—salt and sin and humiliation.

My tongue moves without being told, cleaning him off like it’s something sacred. He watches me, eyes dark, lips parted like he might come just from the sight of it.

Then he steps back. Just like that.

The cold air wraps around me. I’m still trembling. My pussy is all slick and aching. My hands gripping the brick wall like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

He turns and walks away without another word, leaving me in that dead end alley—used, untouched, and completely shattered.