Page 31 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Shit.

A shiver takes over my skin. Anger, hot and violent flashes through me and against my will. I’m shaking now, feeling my cheeks heat and eyes prick with tears.

“You…” I gasp. “I…” I stare at him, dumbfounded. I roll my hands into each other. “I didn’t murder him. H-he was trying to force himself on me and I reacted, I tried to protect myself…”

“So, you cracked him over the head with a bottle and slammed him in a bureau right?” he interrupts me, his tone teasing.

The corners of his mouth curl upwards, but I can see a flicker of something darker in his eyes. My fists clench at my sides, the mix of guilt, shame, and embarrassment boiling inside me. “It was self-defense!”

I suck in a breath, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “You think I wanted to get assaulted? I didn’t plan what happened to him… It just happened.”

“If it just happened, why haven’t you turned yourself in?” His grin fades, replaced with a cold intensity.

I freeze, the accusation hitting me hard. My breath catches, my throat tightens and for a second, I’m speechless. The weight of his words presses down on me, suffocating the fucking life out of me.

“You think it’s that simple?” The words leave me in a whisper. “You think I can just waltz into a police station and say ‘Hey, I killed someone, but it was self-defense, so no big deal?’”

Thatcher leans in closer, his gaze stays locked on mine, and I can’t tell if the glint in his eyes is amusement or malice. “No, you can’t, because your life would be ruined, not only by the scandal but by that fucker’s parents.”

A chill runs through me, sharper than the bite of the wind. The truth…the inescapable reality I have been trying to ignore…that’s it.

He smirks again, like he’s enjoying watching me squirm under the weight of it all. “You know they won’t care about your side of the story,” he continues, his voice soft but cutting. “To them, you’ll always be the girl who killed their son, no matter what he did to you.” He straightens up, running a hand through his tousled hair. “So, what now, Dove? You gonna keep following me or actually say something useful?”

I glare at him, fury simmering just beneath my skin, but there’s something else too–a sinking feeling in my gut. He’s right. Everything he’s saying…it’s the truth I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. And he knows it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I whisper, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. “I was defending myself.”

If I say it to myself enough times, maybe it’ll justify the horrific crime I’ve committed. But my words sound hollow. Deep down inside, I don’t believe them.

Thatcher raises a light eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Yeah? And now you’re stuck with this mess. Following me around isn’t going to make it disappear.”

He steps closer, his presence suffocating, his gaze sharp and calculating. I suddenly want to run far away from here, from him, from this situation.

“So, what’s your grand plan, Dove? Want me to keep quiet, is that it? You here to beg or something?”

The question stings, and I feel my hands clench into fists. “I’m not begging you for anything,” I snap, my voice laced with frustration. “I just want to know why you haven’t gone to the cops yet. What do you want from me?”

Thatcher pauses for a moment, his smirk fading as he studies me more closely. His eyes narrow slightly, and for the first time, I see something shift in his expression—something unreadable.

“What do I want?” he murmurs, his voice low.

His words hang in the air, sharp and suffocating. My pulse hammers in my ears, my breath shaky as I stare at him waiting for the other shoe to drop. I came here for answers, but now I’m not sure I want them anymore.

“You want to know why I haven’t gone to the cops yet?” Thatcher’s eyes darken, a dangerous glint in them. “It’s simple, really. I want something.” His voice is low, cutting through the cold air with a dangerous edge. “I’ll keep your secret…for a price.”

“What fucking price?” I manage to ask, astounded. My throat is tight with dread.

He leans against his car again, crossing his arms casually. His smirk returns, but this time it feels colder, crueler. “You. I want you.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. “W-what?” I stammer, taking a step back, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You heard me,” he shrugs, like he’s offering a casual business deal and not spewing absolute nonsense. “You want me to keep quiet about the party? Then you’re mine. You’ll be my property. You’ll do what I say, when I say it.”

Terror washes over me, images of what he wants flood my mind.

“You’re insane,” I breathe, shaking my head and backing away as the reality of his words sink in. “You’re bat shit crazy if you think I’ll ever agree to that.”

He steps closer, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction.

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