Page 42 of Ruthless with a Rogue
He blindly reached for his untouched whisky on the floor next to him, fingers wrapping around cool, smooth glass.His stomach twisted.Sometimes he liked the burn.The only thing that made him feel alive when everything went…lifeless.
He lifted his head and rested the drink on his knees, stared vacantly at the varying shades of grey, the lighter grey of the glass, the dark near-black, inky liquid.He brought it to his lips.But other times, other times it made it all so much worse.What would it be tonight?
Derek drew in a sip, the astringent caramel flavor coating his tongue, burning down his throat.And then they rushed in, like a storm wave, rogue, unpredictable, and impossible to defend against.It took him down, immediately pulled him below the surface, just like it would a ship at sea.And underneath, his memories surrounded him, latching on like a creature, tangling around his limbs so that resurfacing would never be an option.
Each one slipped in with rapid succession.His father’s roar, so loud even now, it shook the insides of Derek’s mind.Whore!
The next wave crashed over him.His father, so drunk he could barely stand as Derek peered from behind the wall of an alcove.The maniacal laugh.Those wild eyes, the same vivid green as Derek’s own, found him.Turned sharp with something ugly and dangerous, a loathing so fierce it hit like a physical strike.She’s dead.His father’s lip had curled in some sort of sick delight.Barely three days into their journey.They’re both dead.More laughter.Served the whore right.But then silence had settled.And that had been even more hair-raising than the deranged amusement.If only she had taken you with her.Then you’d all be dead.
The muted thud of glass hitting wood reached him as if from far away.Something smooth and hard met his cheek, pain radiating through his face.His body curled instinctively in on itself, like it had so many times before.The overpowering aroma of sweat, liquor, and piss suffocated him.
It’s your fault.A backhand.She never loved you.It’s why she left.Derek’s head had slammed into the wall before he’d even seen the shove coming.A bruising grip had yanked so hard it’d felt like his arm had been wrenched from his body.Just so his father could land another blow.
And then the last time came surging in, a wave more monstrous than all the rest.Derek had been fifteen and wasn’t quite so small any longer.It was the first time he’d fought back.But it’d been futile.Father had been taller, and at that point a decade of overindulging in food and drink had him at least twice the weight of Derek’s starved frame.A punch to the face, hitting him so hard his neck had snapped audibly.He’d gone down immediately, vision dotting over.Then a boot to the gut.Again.And again.
He’d somehow managed to drag himself to his room later, barely able to breathe.He’d been nothing but a mass of purple-black bruises for weeks after that.And pain.Sharp, dull, throbbing, aching, vomit-inducing.Every kind imaginable.One of his ribs still stood out at an odd angle from that day.
But then he’d been free.
An eerie quiet stole over his study, memories abruptly dissipating.It was jarring, like the silence after a raging storm.Serene, calm waters, except for the lives it’d sucked under its surface, never to be seen again.No one the wiser.No one knew what hid beneath.
Derek drew in a slow breath.It came easier that time.He blinked, the movement heavy, lethargic.Tried to make out where he was.Everything seemed sideways.A smooth, cool, hardness lay beneath his cheek.Against the entire side of his body.He blinked again, the outline of the furniture in his study gradually coming into focus.He was lying on his side on the floor in his study now.
He hated these spells.He fell into complete lack of control—over hisown mind.There was absolutely nothing he could do.Except wait it out, as he’d learned with time.A temporary prisoner to the shadows he always carried with him.
Exhaustion stole over him.He didn’t have the energy to lift to sitting.He’d spend the night here and hope in the morning things weren’t so dark.His lids, too heavy now, slid shut, and everything faded away.The memories.The pain.The shadows.The present.It was such a relief.
Falling away into nothing.
A soft rap echoed through Derek’s head, faint and faraway, at the fringes of his mind.He blinked his eyes open, slow and sluggish.Another rap.His servants knew better than to bother him when he got like this.A tremor shook his frame.Then another.He managed to maneuver to a seated position and wrapped his arms around himself, tried to stave off the shaking.Sometimes after the memories assaulted him, his entire body shook uncontrollably, like the aftershocks of a cannon blast.
A firmer knock rapped against his door.He didn’t even bother lifting his head, just flexed his arms around his shins as his lungs continued their struggle to pull in air.His shadows had been loud tonight, curling around him, feeding off him.They fed off him until there was almost nothing left.Not even despair.He wondered if a day would come when they finished him off.
It will pass.
It was a reminder he repeated like a prayer when he fell into these spells.A litany.He had to.Because he didn’t believe it, but if he said it enough times, he hoped somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind rationality would latch onto it.And he’d make it through.
“My lord…”
Derek barely reacted to the tentative voice of his butler, Winston.
“I apologize for the interruption.You have a visitor.A…woman insists you called for her services.”Winston stumbled over the words.
That somehow pierced through the thick gloom surrounding him.A woman?He hadn’t hired a whore.He didn’t have whores here.Women here.The only people outside his servants who stepped foot in this townhouse were Rafe, Dorothea, or the Rutledges.
“Should I inform her you’ve changed your mind?”Winston asked hesitantly.
“He hasn’t changed his mind,” came a dulcet voice.A familiar voice.
“Miss,” Winston hissed.
But the rest of Winston’s outraged whisper was lost to Derek as he lifted his head and caught sight of a slight hooded figure standing in the doorway next to his butler.He winced; the light, even from the hallway, was painfully bright.He knew that voice, that waiflike frame, even disguised under a hooded cloak.If he had more presence of mind, he’d never let anyone see him like this.That was the problem with the shadows.They sank their fangs in and drank away any semblance of caring.
“It’s fine,” he said woodenly.
Winston’s voice cut off.A pause.“As you wish, my lord.”
The snick of the door sliced through the room, and they were engulfed in darkness.She didn’t move from where she stood a step inside the door.He couldn’t see her, not with his eyes still adjusting back to the dark.But he could tell by the utter lack of sound.
