Page 101 of Crushing Clover

It hurt, but I didn’t have enough breath to beg him to stop. He fucked me into the couch until it felt like I’d fused to the cushions, the upholstered piping hard and unforgiving against my bare ass. My heart hammered in my ears and tears escaped my eyes, humiliating me even though he couldn’t see them. I was used to being used roughly, but this felt different. It was personal. It felt a lot more like hate.

This was going to be my life…possibly until he ended it. Memories swamped in of the men at the resort hurting me so bad I’d been in the infirmary for ages. If Saint hurt me that badly, would he even get me medical help?

Even though my body had been primed for action, now it only felt abused and disrespected. A few more furious thrusts and he emptied into me, his body hunched with the force of his release. I felt like I’d been brutalized, not fucked. This hadn’t been about pleasure—not even for him.

He pulled out, and every delicate part of me stung. I rolled onto my side, facing the room, too afraid to leave my ass exposed in case he got any ideas about doing the same to that part of me next. He levered himself up from the couch with his grip on the cushion over my face, pushing it harder against my cheekbone and jaw. My already streaming eyes watered with pain.

“It’s your fault I did this,” he snarled. He ripped the pillow away from my face and whipped it across the room. “Things could have been good between us forever, but you had to have everything your way.”

He ran his hands through his hair, and I watched as he fastened his jeans and started to pace. “I don’t even think I can explain how much I hate you. You used us to get a leg up, and as soon as you got the chance you ditched us. I hope you’re fucking happy with your little family and your eternal quest for external validation.”

He glanced my way, a frown transforming his features from wrathful to something different.

I was too dazed to read his expression, but I didn’t much care. I was curled in a ball, my arms caging my face, and my knees drawn up to protect my stomach. Hot, fat tears plopped onto the velvet under my cheek. I was dripping at the other end, too, but there wasn’t much I could do about that until he left the room. He released a sound of aggravation and unlocked the door. I couldn’t tell if he looked back at me as he left, but he shut the door behind him with an irritated slam.

Why was he so angry?

What was he talking about, my happy family?

Was I treating the house like it was mine too much? Was I paying too much attention to the other guys? My brain scrambled through different possibilities, but I was too rattled to make sense of what had happened.

Stupid girl.

I’d thought things between us were getting better.

There was no guessing what had set him off, and I was too tired and sad to try.

*

Much later, Rush came into the office, his customary container of ice water in hand. He scanned the room before coming to me. “Did Saint come in here?”

I was sitting on the couch, legs curled up to one side so I could keep my blood to myself. My underwear were ruined, and therewas no other way to keep the tissues I’d pilfered from the desk where they needed to be.

“He left a while ago,” I managed to say evenly.

He nodded and took a sip of his drink, seeming lost in thought.

“Did something happen?” I asked carefully.

“He went on break and never came back.” He came closer. Even though this was Rush, I couldn’t help but recoil slightly. He noticed and frowned. “Did he say anything to you?”

“I didn’t understand it. Something about how I should be happy that I’m getting everything I always wanted.” I did my best to deliver the sentence with some neutrality, but my voice wasn’t behaving itself.

Abruptly, Rush put his water down on the desk, not seeming to care when it sloshed over the edge and soaked some paperwork that was piled there. Their bookkeeper, Spring, came by occasionally to collect things, but she hadn’t been by yet this week. Sometimes, she even stopped to chat with me about books, and to moon after Rush’s cousin, Randal the sous chef.

“Clover, did he come in here and hurt you?”

“No,” I tried to say, but it came out so quietly I wasn’t sure if he heard me.

He dropped to his knees in front of where I sat and took my chin in his hand, turning my head and wiping at the dried blood under my nose.

“Fuck.”

He pulled me into his arms. I’d held things together until then, but his gentleness was my undoing. My shoulders shook as I tried to fight down the swamp of tears that started to fall.

“He’s really mad at me,” I whispered. “Really, really mad.”

“But why?”

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