Page 107 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
Stop.
Stop it.
I’m feeling hurt right now, that’s all—and sometimes when I’m hurting, it’s like I want to injure myself more, like I want to rip my own existence up and grind the pieces of it into the ground, because it’s easier to press on my own bruises and peel off my own skin than it is to turn my wounds into words.
But I try now. It’s what my therapist would say to do. It’s what Rebecca herself would say to do.
“I really want to go,” I say, feeling stupid and awkward and needy. “It’s important to me.”
Rebecca stares down at me, her dark eyes studying my face. She so rarely misses anything, but I hope she does now, because I don’t want her to see what a beastly, clingy mess I am inside. I hope all she sees is a pretty submissive eager to have lots of kinky fun.
And maybe she does, because her face softens. “Of course, pet. I do need to work later than usual, but I can meet you there to save time, yeah?”
My shoulders drop in relief. “Yeah.”
“Come here,” she says.
I move toward her on my knees, and in a graceful move, she bends to take my hand and pull me to my feet.
“Bex, no, you’re going to get wet—”
I’m in her arms anyway, and she’s nipping at my jaw, which from her is a caress of purest affection. She keeps me pressed against her, soaking through her jumpsuit, as she says, “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. I’ll do my best to make it.”
I drop my head onto her shoulder, wishing I were stronger and better. Wishing I didn’t need her approval and her public validation so much. “Okay.”
She starts to pull away but then goes rigid. “What,” she asks, in a tight and furious tone, “is this?”
Confused, I straighten up to see her glaring at me, and before I can ask what she means, she turns me around so I’m facing the back of the shower.
A finger traces a line of inflamed skin and I wince a little. “They have to use gaffer tape sometimes instead of a bra depending on what I’m wearing,” I explain. “It irritates my skin a little.”
“And this?” Her finger stops at a spot above my hip, tapping a cluster of aching pinpricks.
“They had to pin a dress to make it fit.” I flush a little, remembering it. The dress had been a flouncy retro number with a crinoline under the skirt, and it had taken me actually yelping aloud for the stylist to realize she wasn’t stabbing the pins into a thick hunk of dress and crinoline, but into my flesh.
“And this here? It looks like someone clamped your back.”
“A dress clip.”
“And your feet?”
I look down, to where bruises have started to come up around my toes and where raw red skin has started to bleed on the backs of my heels.
“The heels weren’t my size.”
They were too small, so they’d slathered Vaseline on my feet and shoved them on, pair after pair.
Rebecca turns me around. Her hands are kind, but there’s nothing gentle in her face when I see it. “I can’t believe Kendra would let this happen to you,” she says with fury in her voice. “I can’t believe any of them would just let this happen.”
“It’s normal,” I try to reassure her. “It’s so normal. And I don’t mind the pain, I never have.”
“Maybe not,” she says with a scowl. “But that doesn’t make this okay, even for a masochist.”
I lap up her concern, her protectiveness, even as defensiveness hums through me. “It’s part of the job. If I don’t put up with it, then there’re a hundred other girls who will, just waiting to take my place.”
“But none of those other girls are mine. You are.”
I practically melt at hearing her say I’m hers. “I know.”
