Page 172 of Did They Break You

“You scared of me? Right now? Being out here alone with me?” His eyes search mine. “Where no one would hear you scream? Where no one would know if I did something bad to you, baby?”

I hold my breath, my mind spinning, nervous energy coursing through me.I should be.There’s a voice in my head telling me that.I should be scared of him.

“Answer me, Remi.” He steps closer, his body hard and flush with mine as he stares down at me and I tilt my head up to meet his gaze. “Are you fucking scared?”

I try to think about it. About stumbling into the backyard. Cortland and Storm at my back, Brinklin and Chase in front of me.

Cortland’s arm had linked through mine. I wasn’t scared of him. I wasn’t nervous.He was safe.

Then we were deep in the woods, flirting and joking, and he suddenly grabbed me, hauled me against that tree. I still wasn’t scared. Not at first. And then…

“Yes,” I answer him, but I’m not sure I mean it.

He dips his head, his brow against mine as his fingers splay against my hip. “You’re lying, baby. You know I’ll keep you safe. With Storm? With me? You didn’t feel safe?”

I relish in his hands on me. I want to lick him. I want to taste him. I want tobitehim. But we can’t keep numbing our pain with anger.

I know that. But for now, I don’t want to give this up. I don’t know what to say, though, so I keep quiet, listening to the pounding in my chest.

“You know we’ll protect you,” he answers for me. He angles his head, his lips grazing mine. “You know I’ll look out for you.” He grabs my wrist, pins my arm to the truck, bending my elbow back. “Even from yourself.” He glances at where I cut myself. “I’ll keep you safe. So why are you still scared?”

I swallow. “That night,” I manage to say, “sometimes it… it keeps playing in my head.” I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know how to say that yeah, sometimes, like with Storm, like with Cort in the truck, all the other times we’ve had sex, I’m okay. Everything is fine.

But sometimes, I’m back there again.

And the same man that puts me back together is the one that ripped me apart. I don’t know how to talk about that. How to get him to understand that I’m not always scared, but sometimes, thinking of him then,I’m terrified. And angry.

He groans in frustration, and I feel his lip ring against my bottom lip as his fingers trail up my side, along my ribs.

“Get it out of your fucked-up head,” he tells me, his fingers going higher, slipping under the cup of my bralette. “Bytalking to me.”

I gasp, and I can feel his smile against my mouth.

“Say the words, Remi. Tell me why you’re scared. You wanna talk about this,let’s fucking talk about it.”

I close my eyes as he circles my nipple with his finger, my hands coming to his torso, my fingers closing around the soft fabric of his shirt, knuckles grazing the hard muscle of his body. “You hurt?—”

“I didn’t hurt you,” he corrects me, his voice stern as he tugs at my nipple and I gasp, lurching forward, holding his shirt tighter. He flicks his tongue out, licking the seam of my lips. “I didn’t hurt you, baby,don’t fucking lie.”

His entire palm comes over my breast, squeezing me. “Tell me the truth,” he says. “Tell me what I really did to you that night.” He grips me tighter.

I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to think about it. About the blood. About that night. About him.Them.What theyreallydid. But I can see his gray eyes so clearly in my head, even though it was dark out there. But he was staring at me, holding me with his gaze while his friends used me. He was keeping me sane. I looked at him like he was my salvation. The numbness was taking over then, my own mind trying to protect me. Keep me safe.

But he tethered me.

A crime.That’s what he did to me. That thought bursts through this strange romanticized version of what happened, and I want to say the word, but it’s such a hard thing to say.

He grabs my breast, hard, making me flinch as I blink my eyes open.

“This hurt?” His voice is a growl.

Tears well up behind my eyes, my fight gone for the night, and my hands ache from holding his shirt in my fists so hard, my grip tight. “Yes,” I whisper.

He does it again, gripping my breast hard enough to make me gasp. “Is that what I did to you?”

I shake my head, a tear falling down my face. “No.”

“No?” he questions, taunting me as he lets up his grip, running his flat palm against my breast, soothing where he hurt me.

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