Page 65 of Fractured Loyalties
I say nothing. My hands are buried in the blanket, but I make fists, my knuckles pressing bone white against the cotton.
He leans closer and drops his voice to a hushed whisper. “I know you haven’t been sleeping.” He taps the mattress with his index finger. “You know, when I was your age, I had trouble sleeping, too. But it was never like this. It was because I had needs that were being unmet.”
I watch the movement of his hands, the gentle flex and curl of his fingers, as if he’s testing the air.
He waits for me to say something. When I don’t, he sighs, and all the pleasant pretense falls away.
“I’m going to be frank with you, Ivy. I don’t have the patience for games tonight. I’m tired.” His eyes flick to the closet, then back to me. “You’re an adult now. You understand what this family requires. I think you know that your little performance with Roman—” he pauses, letting the word fester, “was not an accident.”
I feel the bile rising, thick and burning, but I force myself to stay perfectly still.
“I’ve watched the video,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Multiple times, in fact.” He shakes his head, as if the very idea istragic. “It’s… wasteful, isn’t it? To throw yourself at a boy who’ll never amount to anything, when you could have everything you want…if you’re smart.”
What I want is to scream. I want to reach through the blanket and claw at his eyes until he stops looking at me like that, his gaze predatory and dark.
He inches closer. “Did you know,” he says, his tone conversational, “that in a past life I paid good money for things like you? Girls like you, who were ruined and wanting.” He shrugs, as if the story is nothing. “Now I have you in my own house, but you’re being wasted on a moron.”
“You’re disgusting,” I say, my voice cracking on the way out.
He laughs again, the sound vibrating through the bed and up into my spine. “Roman never understood that love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” he says. “He could have had the world, if he’d just learned to say thank you.” He leans in so close I can see the stubble on his chin, and the tiny beads of sweat at his hairline. “But you, Ivy…you’re a brilliant little thing. You know how this works. You’ll say thank you when I’m done with you.”
His hand lands on my ankle, and it’s heavy and cold. I flinch, but he tightens his grip, squeezing just enough to warn me.
“My father used to say, if you want something, take it. If it’s yours, it won’t run. If it isn’t, you break it until it fits. That’s where Roman learned it, although he didn’t understand the beauty of owning more than one thing. He wanted you and just you.Pathetic.”
I try to pull my foot away, but his nails are digging into my skin.
“Let go of me.”
He ignores the words, his eyes locked on the shape of my calf under the blanket. “You could be so much more than a Woods,” he murmurs, almost tender. “You could be a legend. Do youknow how much money your tape made in the first hour? I could make thousands more with you, if you’re willing.”
I thrash, finally, twisting to the side, but he holds me fast. I try to kick, but his hand slides up, pinning my shin to the mattress.
He smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m not like Roman. I can be gentle…if you’re good.”
I suddenly realize that he isn’t even seeing me as a person. I am just an investment, a body to be leveraged, a bank account to be filled.
He lets go of my leg, and the relief is instant, but then his hand is on my thigh, pressing through the blanket. His grip is stronger than I would have expected. It’s clear he’s used to violence and to getting what he wants through force. The blanket is the only thing between his skin and mine.
“I can give you whatever you want,” he whispers. “A car, your own apartment, and even an Ivy League school. But you have to be good for me and whoever I take you to, pretty Ivy, just like your mother. She thought I loved her, but you…You will know the truth.”
He waits for me to respond, but I can’t. Every cell in my body is panicking, and my lungs feel tight. I don’t know if I want to fight or run, and my muscles are so tense I can barely move.
He inches higher, his hand now on my upper thigh.
“That’s better,” he says, his voice molten, “You’re a quick study, Ivy. You’ll make me proud.” His hand slips beneath the edge of the blanket, searching for bare skin.
That’s when I snap.
I bring my knee up hard, catching his hand between my thigh and my ribcage. He grunts, not from pain, but from surprise. He starts to say something, but I rake my nails across his face, digging in as deeply as I can. I feel the skin give and the wet heat of blood under my fingertips.
He jerks away and staggers off the bed, one hand pressed to his cheek. He looks at the blood smeared across his palm and then back at me. His lips part, and for a split second, he seems almost impressed.
“You’ve got more fight in you than I thought,” he seethes, voice suddenly very cold.
He grabs my ankle again, this time with both hands, and pulls me down the bed. I claw at the covers, at the headboard, at anything I can reach, but he’s too strong. My body slides down, my knees scraping the sheets, until my hips are at the edge of the mattress.
He holds me there for a moment, panting.
