Page 117 of Broken by my Bully
JesusfuckingChrist.
I pick up the scrap of fabric and carefully hang it up beside her dress again.
But the smell lingers. No blood, no semen. Just…Haven.
My thoughts race faster than my heartbeat.
Silly, silly, Haven.
Waiting in the dark, in the rain, like I’m the only person in the world she trusts. Yet she doesn’t trust me enough to name Kai. We both know that I know it’s him. But I wantherto condemn him.
Why the fuck are you protecting him, Haven?
Makes no sense. None of this.
Unless she’s toying with me, like I’m toying with her. Using me, just like I’m using her.
I snort.
Impossible. This is simply a case of a trauma victim who’s built her walls so high, they block out the sun.
Cool tiles under my bare feet, then warm, plush carpet.
I’ve turned off the fireplace, but the heat remains. In the dark, some of the pebbles still glow like mass-produced coals. I pour myself a whiskey, and perch on the edge of the sofa, but my ass barely hits the seat before I get up again, the coke making me too fidgety to remain still.
I wander through the dark living room, staring at the vague shapes of the books lining my shelves. Their spines bump against my fingertips as I drag my hand over one row, then another.Another.
My second attempt to sit on the couch lasts a few seconds longer than the first. The inside of my mouth is already ragged from the vicious attention of my teeth.
I drain my whisky and pour another, wincing as the alcohol stings my tender skin.
The coke was a bad idea.
Causes thoughts to play on repeat.
Bad thoughts.
Dirty, depraved thoughts that shouldn’t be plaguing my mind.
I sit on the sofa again. Force myself to lean back as I take a deep pull of the whisky. The buzz in my head is mellowing down to a dull roar, the alcohol stifling my obsessive thoughts.
But only for a moment.
One sweet, brief moment.
Then on my feet again, whiskey glass on the table, feet sinking into the thick carpet as I move.
Not to the kitchen. Not to the bookshelf.
My shadow touches the bed before I do. It spills over Haven’s shoulders moments before I pull the sheets down to her feet. It coats her in inky blackness before I turn on the lamp.
Warm amber light floods her features. The soft creases of the hoodie.
Never thought anything in my closet could look this fucking good on a person until she came out of my bedroom wearing my hoodie as a dress. I slip my fingers behind the collar, tugging it away so I can see the marks on her throat.
The salve has barely had any time to work, but the handprints on her throat appear faded in the lamp’s warm light.
I keep pulling at the fabric, baring her shoulder, scanning her skin. A scratch near the top of her arm. Faint, barely visible. I run my thumb over it, trying to estimate if it’s a fresh wound or something older.
