Page 64 of Broken by my Bully
Grant student Haven, the pluckiest gal ever to crawl out of Riverside’s gutters…
…or the girl who learned too young that love always leaves bruises.
Bastian
The double shot of bourbon in Haven’s cocoa is starting to do its job. I can see it in the way her shoulders have relaxed, the way her guard has dropped just enough for me to catch glimpses of the vulnerable girl beneath all that brittle defiance.
She meets my gaze, chin lifted, like we’re equals.
Fucking adorable.
Drinking the booze I poured her without hesitation. Curling up on my couch like she’s safe.
Haven is a bird with a broken wing, and I’m the cat watching as she flaps uselessly on the ground to get away.
She has no idea how young she looks curled up like that. Nineteen years old, but the vulnerability in her eyes makes her seem even younger. The decade and a half between us should bother me.
It doesn’t.
It just makes my cock harder.
I study the faint bruise on her jaw, imagining the hand that put it there. So sloppy, emotional. Someone wanted to hurt her but couldn’t commit to causing any real damage.
The thought should disgust me. Should make me want to protecther, call the authorities, be the upstanding professor she needs. The good man she thinks I am.
But all I can think is what an amateur he is.
When I mark her, she’ll wear my bruises like jewelry.
I want to reach out and trace that bruise with my thumb. Want to press against it until she winces, until she remembers exactly how it felt when someone else’s hands were on her.
And then replace that memory…with something far more disturbing.
I take a slow sip of my spiked cocoa, letting the bourbon burn away what little’s left of my patience.
“You know, Haven,” I say, letting my voice drop to that tone that makes students lean in so they won’t miss the nugget of wisdom I’m about to drop. “There’s no shame in finding pain pleasurable.”
She tenses, prey recognizing a shift in her predator’s demeanor.
“Why would you think—” But she cuts off when I make a point of staring at her jaw. Her laugh is forced, uneasy. “I told you, I tripped.”
I ignore the pathetic lie. “The body can’t distinguish between intense pleasure and intense pain. Both flood the nervous system with the same electrical impulses.”
Her breathing changes, becomes shallow. Glassy blue eyes dart to the door, calculating escape routes, weighing her options. But she’s already made the mistake of getting comfortable in my territory, of letting the bourbon lower her defenses.
“It’s the mind that assigns meaning. During my research, I’ve found that those who’ve experienced early trauma often seek to recreate those patterns. They mistake familiarity for desire, violence for passion.”
Her breathing hitches.
Good girl.
She’s starting to understand.
“Often their decision to embrace or resist, to break the wheel or continue the cycle, is so biased it’s laughable.”
My gentle approach isn’t working fast enough. She’s too good at deflection. Too practiced at hiding her secrets.
Time to stop playing the concerned professor.
