Page 2 of Vallaverse: Twist
It should be him. He should be the one sprawled across the ruined bed. He should be the one purring with the feeling of being utterly filled to the brim with my release. He should be—
A sharp gasp shoves its way into my perception.
I look down to find her wincing as my fingers dig ruthlessly into her hips. I release her immediately, pushing myself away from her and off the foot of the bed.
“Are you hurt?” I say, my voice barely above a thick growl.
She shakes her head, but that isn't enough of an answer. If she were alright, there would be words.
“Tell me,” I urge.
“I… it doesn't matter. It's alright.”
It does matter, she's just afraid to complain. I get it. Complaining in these types of places often gets you much worse treatment than what you were complaining about in the first place.
“Tell me,” I repeat, taking a step away from the bed.
She takes a timid, shaking breath. “You said you hated me. During.”
Oh. I probably did. And I probably said much worse than that. But it isn't because of her. It's because ofhim.
“I don't hate you,” I assure her, going to the small dresser where I left my clothes folded and neatly stacked.
“Then why—”
“Just bad memories, and I got carried away. I apologize. Are you hurt? Tell me the truth.”
She shakes her head. “No. Just a little scared.”
She's too soft to be here. I'll never understand what leads an Omega to register with these places, but some of them aren't suited for it. This one isn't.
And neither am I. Not anymore, anyway. I can't put another Omega or myself at risk again. If I can't chemically depress myruts, I will physically restrain myself when I have them. I'm not putting myself through this ever again.
I pull on my clothes quickly, not looking at her the whole time. Shame has finally succeeded in making me feel like a monster; I don't deserve to look at her. My righteous pride has made a fool of me enough times that I have learned to just apologize, get out of the situation as quickly as possible, and tip well.
I'm not sure how much money I pile on the dresser, but it's surely enough to cover my house fee, any incidentals, and her rent for a month.
“I'm sorry,” I say, and turn for the door. I twist the knob and push it open a crack before I take a breath and turn back to her.
I don't meet her gaze, my eyes stay planted firmly on the corner of the bed. I register the unfocused shape of her body in my periphery, but I keep focusing on the way the sheet is barely clinging to the corner of the mattress. “You shouldn't be here,” I tell her. “I'm sorry for hurting you. And for scaring you.” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and pull out a contact card. “Call my office. I'll help you get set up in your own place. But you shouldn't be here.”
Then I turn and stalk out of the room and down the halls and stairs until I'm out the front door.
The sunrise is blinding the city when I emerge onto the dirty sidewalk from the warm, moody lighting of the rut house. I turn my face up to the sky as I blink against the harsh glare of the sunlight. The sunlight won't wash away my disgust with myself, but it will burn away any lingering fog from my rut so I can properly damn myself without the distraction of any residual hormonal fugue.
Never again.
My feet start moving on their own toward the parking garage where I left my car.
I won't allow it. Nothing is worth the horrible feelings weighing me down right now.
I reach my car without seeing anything along the way and calmly get behind the wheel.
Never again.
I start the car and start the drive out of the city, again without really taking note of anything I pass as I weave through the streets and avenues until the traffic lights turn to signs that become fewer and farther apart. I drive this path so often that I could probably take the drive blindfolded.
Now, there's an idea. Wrapping this car around a good, sturdy tree would definitely end this dangerous cycle. The likelihood that long-term happiness will ever find me is slim enough that I don't feel like much would be lost if I didn't hit the brake pedal when I go around the next curve. It could all be over then. He could go on living his life however he pleases, and I wouldn't be around to torture myself with the knowledge of it.
