Page 31 of Forged in Rain

He traces his way down my back, and I do shiver this time, only to pause when he says softly, “Fuck.”

Glancing at the mirror, I spy what he sees and bow my head because my welts from John’s belt, although healed, remain red lines across my back. I’ve avoided looking until now because I don’t want the reminder. Now, I see that although in no way as severe, my skin looks much like Bastion’s.

I can only hope that many of these will fade. Otherwise, the evidence will be there forever.

Stepping away from him, I wrap my arms around my middle, the familiar shame of what John did to me wrapping around me like a dark cloud.

Cyn steps forward and wraps his arms around me, his hands covering mine as he asks in the crook of my neck, “What else did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” I whisper, swallowing heavily.

“Rain,” he says, and I sigh.

“Why do you care?” I ask warily, turning in his embrace. “I’m the enemy, remember?”

Dropping his arms, he steps back and smiles coldly, but I see the desperate light behind his eyes. “Why won’t you just tell me?”

“Because I’m not exactly proud of it,” I mutter.

Cocking his head to the side, he brushes his finger over my lip and says softly, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not, but . . .”

“But . . .?

“I don’t want to see what you think of me,” I say quietly.

“What I think of you?” he says gruffly, wrapping his arm gently around me and pulling me close.

My eyes widen when I feel his erection, and I whimper at the heat building in my core. His mouth curls up in a dirty smile, and he rasps, “I want to fuck you, beauty. That’s what I think.”

“Oh,” I moan, trying to remember why this is a bad idea, but I’ve got nothing as he bucks into me, and his dick brushes against the seam of my jeans.

“Tell me,” he says against my lips, licking the bottom one with a smirk.

“What?” Closing my eyes, I grip his bicep when my legs grow weak.

“What did he do, beauty?”

“Who?”

“John.”

Stepping back, I frown and drop my hands before wrapping my arms around my torso once more. “Why?”

“Why? Because I want to know,” he growls.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Why?” I demand, slapping his chest.

“Because I’m going to kill the fucker,” he bellows.

“He’s already dead,” I scream back.

“Tell me, did he rape you?”

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