Page 83 of Crushed Vow
The words hit like a slap—sharp, cold, brutal.
Laughter followed. Low. Leering. Loud enough for the world to hear.
Two guys—maybe in their twenties, had stopped a few feet away. One of them leaned against a concrete pillar, the other chewing gum like he owned the whole fucking city. Their eyes weren’t on my face.
They were on my chest.
Or what was left of it.
“Another chestless bitch,” one of them muttered with a smirk. “Bet she gets changed in the dark.”
My heart stopped.
Their laughter exploded, cruel and unrelenting, as if they had just discovered the joke of the century—and I was the punchline.
“She should just wear a shirt that says: ‘damaged goods.’ Would save everyone the surprise.”
Something twisted in my stomach. My arms folded across my chest on instinct. Like I could hide. Like I could protect myself from eyes like knives.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t turn.
I just looked toward Cassian.
He was still leaning against the far pillar. Still watching.
His expression?
Blank. Cold. Unmoved.
The wind picked up, teasing the ends of my hair. But I was suddenly boiling inside. Humiliation and fury and sorrow choking me all at once.
“God, look at her—built like a twelve-year-old boy.” One of them sneered, stepping closer. His breath reeked of something sour. “I could grope her right here, and it wouldn’t even count. Nothing to grab.”
His hand twitched toward me.
A sick flicker of fingers—like he was testing the air between us, daring to bridge the space.
I recoiled, my whole body flinching like I’d been slapped.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” I shouted, voice cracking from the back of my throat.
But they just laughed harder, louder.
“If I had a chest like that, I’d lock myself in a fucking basement,” the second one mocked, practically wheezing.
I wrapped my arms across my chest. My breathing hitched. People turned to look—and then looked away. Like I wasn’t worth the mess. Like I was nothing.
And still, Cassian didn’t move.
He just stood there. Watching. Silent.
Like he was part of it.
And that—that—was what broke me.
Not the boys. Not the stares. Not the way my body had become public property for the amusement of strangers.
