Page 68 of Graves

It takes several seconds for us to realize there isn’t a threat, though. None that we can see, at least. There is just Blake on the bed, thrashing and screaming.

“No! Please! Not again! Please!” she screeches, the very sound shattering a piece of me as the horrors of her past are brought to just a glimmer of light.

Zayden is on her left, slowly trying to wake her up as I tuck my gun back into my waistband and come onto her right.

“Shh, babygirl. It’s okay. I’m right here. You’re just dreaming. It’s just a dream,” I murmur into her ears, causing her eyes to fly open.

She fights back harder than before, kicking, hitting, and shoving us away. Zayden and I instantly step back on instinct, our hands raised as her eyes flit wildly around the room. It seems to take several seconds for her to place exactly where she is and for her to leave whatever fresh hell she was just in and breathe.

Blake blows out a choppy breath as she runs a hand through her sweat-soaked hair, dropping it to her side before she looks up at us. Her skin is as pale as a ghost, forehead dotted with beads of sweat, and fingers left with a tremble that looks like it may never fully disappear.

I’ve seen fear, I’ve seen torture. Though I never relished in it like Zayden, I’ve killed more people than I could ever count. I’ve seen hundreds of people an inch from death in my lifetime, but not a single one of them has ever looked so defeated, so lifeless, so broken as she does right now.

Zayden goes to speak when she holds her hand up to him.

“Out, please,” she says, her voice breaking on that last word.

The sound alone is enough to send a painful pang through my chest, and we both nod as one before filing out of the room. I give her one more glance over my shoulder before stepping out of the room, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s turned away, hugging her knees to her chest and shaking like a leaf.

Once the door is shut, Zayden continues standing there, fists balled at his sides and chest heaving. We have suspected she was hurt by someone in the past. The logical answer was her father, he was obviously an abusive piece of shit with anger issues, but she was so young when they passed that it doesn’t seem like it could be that alone. No doubt her parent’s death was an added trauma that she didn’t need, and something tells me that’s only the tip of the iceberg for our girl. I mean, my girl.

Chapter Thirty-One

BLAKE

The musty air is so thick I can hardly breathe, the damp concrete floor cold, so cold. My naked body shivers against it, but I can’t move. I feel a wetness against my cheek, but I can’t tell if it’s from the floor, my tears, or my blood.

My skin crawls as the feeling from the last touch still remains, like an unremovable mark, no matter how hard I try to wash it off, it will never leave. Forever staining my skin, reminding me of what I have suffered and what I will continue to.

A pair of clammy hands grip my hips, liftingthem into the air as I begin to whimper. No. No. No. No. Not again. No more, no more. I try to muffle my cries as quietly as I can manage. They hit me extra hard when I make noise. When the impact comes, I’m not ready for it, though. The force of the thrust causes an audible tear, and I scream. I feel a glass bottle hit the back of my head before I can even breathe, and blood begins running down the back of my neck because of it.

His jagged fingernails dig into the flesh of my ass as he pounds me into the floor, ripping me more and more with each thrust. My eyes meet him from across the room, a satisfied, lust-filled smile donning his face as he watches his friend destroy me. He already had his turn. He always goes first, and then the others follow. The other two that hurt me tonight are on either side of him, watching in a semblance of awe as their friend strips away what’s left of me. At least for the night. They’ll be back tomorrow night, they always are.

One minute I’ll be sleeping, and the next I’ll have hands on my body, carrying me down to the basement before pinning me to the floor like a pig for slaughter. He always starts by undressing me himself, whispering to me how I’ve been begging for it and tempting him all day while his wife sleeps soundly upstairs with her CPAP machine on, masking my torture and my screams.

He then runs his tongue up and down every inch of me, forcing the slimy feeling to linger with me longer than it should before he begins. Almost every single night this has happened for the last seven years. I’d fight to get away, fight to be free, if only I had anything left worth fighting for.

I wake up drenched in sweat, gasping for a breath I’m unable to catch when I look at my surroundings. Slowly registering where I am, that I’m safe, that I’m free. The sun streaming infrom the window tells me that it’s already morning and I could never be more thankful for that. I haven’t had a dream like that in years. I’ve purposefully avoided any and all reminders possible, and it’s a system that has seemed to work for me. Until last night.

The door is slightly open, and I remember them closing it behind them last night, so obviously they’ve been in here since then, and by they, I mean Zayden. I decide to take a shower before going out there, mainly because I’m uncomfortable but also because I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what I was saying or how I was acting before they woke me up. I know the nightmares used to be really bad. All of my exes used to say so, at least.

I take my time lathering myself, shampooing and conditioning twice, as well as shaving myself from head to toe. None of it really matters, though, because once I’m dried and dressed, the knotted feeling in my stomach only amplifies with every step I take out of the bedroom.

They are both standing at the kitchen island, seemingly talking in hushed tones. It’s almost like they feel me before they see me, because before I even say a word or make a noise, their heads look up at me in perfect unison.

“Do you guys ever sleep?” I joke, noticing how it falls flat.

“No,” they respond together.

I give them a tight smile and nod before Dominic pushes away from the counter and comes to me. I flinch as he towers over me, something I thought I had gotten over, at least with him. Clearly, last night was a setback in many areas.

He frowns at that, smoothly dropping to his knees before me as he looks up at me.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. “I’m okay, you don’t have to kneel,” I say as I reach for him, attempting to pull him up.

“I want to,” he insists steadily. The assurance in his words makes my heart skip a beat, and I think I fall in love with him a little more right then and there.

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