Page 28 of Riot's Thorn
“I like the way you feel.”
Is he joking? “What about what I want? Have you stopped to think this might be uncomfortable for me?”
“Yes. I just don’t care,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I can’t sleep like this.” I huff and shift my body, making it seem as though I can’t get comfortable with his body curled around mine when it’s the only time I’ve felt safe since Dad was shot. Which is ridiculous since he’s the one who has me in danger, but his heavy arm continues to pin me in place.
“Stop moving.”
“Why? So you can fall asleep while I lie here miserable?”
“No. All your squirming is making me hard again.”
I’m suddenly perfectly comfortable, not moving a muscle because I might be all kinds of messed up after the events of the last couple of days, but I’m not so messed up that I want to tempt the monster between his legs.
A penis like that isn’t for virgins. It’s for more experienced vaginas. Vaginas that have seen some stuff. What I need is a training penis. Something unassuming and shy.
“Goodnight, Little Thorn.”
“Goodnight, asshole.”
I wake up with my cheek smooshed against something hard.Dang it! I did it again.
Lifting my head off Riot’s chest, I find him in the same position as yesterday: one hand under his head, the other wrapped around me, staring at the ceiling. At least I didn’t drool on him this time, but I can’t give myself too much credit because my leg is thrown over his, straddling his thick thigh.
“Mornin’.”
I push him off and jump out of the bed, disgusted with myself. “I need to use the bathroom.”
After doing my business, I was pleasantly surprised to see him out of the bedroom. I close the door and quickly finish unpacking the backpack he brought me. It wasn’t nice of Riot to break into my apartment and bring me some of my things, since he’s the reason I’m in this mess, but I’m grateful anyway. He even brought me my favorite pair of Chucks.
Coincidentally, he packed my favorite shirt, and I hold it to my chest. It’s nothing special, just an oversized blue tee with “Aloha” printed on it, but I got it when a few of my friends and I took our senior trip to Hawaii. I’ve worn it hundreds of times since, so it’s soft and comfortable, something I wear when I’m feeling down.
Since that’s exactly how I’m feeling, I swap my pajamas for the T-shirt and a pair of leggings. I still can’t believe he went through my bedroom. It’s a violation of my privacy at best and a crime at worst. If he doesn’t let me go soon, I wonder what will happen to my room. Will my roommates take what they want and donate the rest, since there’s no family to come forward?
There are still so many things I want from home, Mom’s wedding ring at the top of the list. I wonder if he’d break in again for me, maybe take me next time, because what will happen to my things? I don’t have any family to pack them up and keep them, and I’m not close enough to my roommates that they’d feel any sense of obligation to do it. They’ll probably keep what they want and toss the rest.
God, this is so stupid. I’d almost understand him keeping me here if he was raping and abusing me. That would be horrifying, but it would make sense. But this? This is weird. It’s as if he wants me to be his girlfriend.
I leave the bedroom and follow my nose to the living area. Something smells amazing, and since I skipped lunch and dinner yesterday, I’m starving and not strong enough to go on a hunger strike. I love food too much.
“Here,” Riot says, dropping a plate onto the coffee table. It’s piled high with eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes. A proper breakfast is my weakness, so I sit and dive in.
“Thanks.” I bite into the bacon that’s cooked perfectly—crispy on the ends but soft in the middle.
I’m not surprised when he doesn’t respond and tucks himself into his corner with his own breakfast. The two rats come out of nowhere, racing to be the first to get some food. The corners of Riot’s lips tip up the slightest amount, and his eyes soften. I wish I didn’t find it endearing. Here’s this big, tough guy who murders for sport, but when he’s not doing that, he’s spending time with two rats who seem to be his only friends.
“What are their names?” I ask in spite of myself. Riot is such an enigma, but maybe if I can crack his code, I can talk him into letting me go.
He scratches the top of the white one’s head. “This is Ben, and this one is Amy.”
“How long have you had them?”
“The average lifespan of a rat is five years. Ben and Amy are four, so they’ll die soon.” There’s not a drop of sadness in his tone despite how much he clearly loves them.
“How sad.”
He glances up at me, clearly surprised by my sympathy. “Why are you afraid of them?”
