My pulse is pounding like thunder in my ears as he drums his tattooed fingers quietly on the desk.
“That…” My throat is dry, making my voice husky and unsure. “That’s not happening,” I croak. “That’sobviouslynot happening?—”
“I have something for you.” He nods to a folder on the edge of his desk, smiling chillingly. “Go on… Take a look.”
My nerves jangling, I walk over to the desk and take the folder. It falls open in my hands, and when my eyes drop to the first page, my eyes widen.
What the fuck.
What the actual fucking FUCK.
I’m looking at my patient intake papers, forms, and records from Il Refugio, the rehab facility I spent nine months in before moving back to New York.
Black and white evidence of my sordid past.
“Fuck you,” I choke, almost dropping the folder. “You had no right!” I yell loudly, shaking. “These areprivate, motherfucker!”
Bane smiles coldly. “Theywere, yes. And they’ll remain that way.”
I blink at him.
“These are my medical records?—”
“More like a written record of your history as a needle-jabbing heroin addict, aren’t they?”
I freeze, numbness spreading out from my heart down every vein, as he frowns thoughtfully.
“I wonder how many of your friends at the ballet know therealyou? The one who got kicked out of the illustrious Oxford Hills Academy for?—”
“Stop it,” I hiss, shaking. “Just stop it!”
I can’t do this. I can’t spar like this, not the way I’m wired—not with the fucked-up way my brain works. I just fuckingcan’t. Anxiety claws at me, my nerves fraying and splitting. I want to curl in on myself, or melt through the floor.
Seconds tick by. Slowly, it occurs to me that hehasstopped. I take a shaky breath, realizing my arms are wrapped around my body protectively, my nails digging into my arms through thehoodie. I force myself to unclench a little, relaxing as much as I can.
I close my eyes and inhale through my nose.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Fill the space. Just be. You are on your way to recovery.
Slowly, I open my eyes again.
Bane's gaze is still locked on me, but I resist the urge to flinch this time.
“Fine,” I say coolly. “You stole my private medical records. Congrats, you’re a piece of shit. So, what, you’re going to hold them over my head until I fuck you?”
He smiles widely. “Precisely. That wasn’t such a hard concept to grasp, was it?”
“You’re disgusting. A deviant,” I spit. “A fucking freak?—”
“Why don’t you put away the stones, little miss glass house, and turn to the next page in your welcome packet.”
I sneer at him, angrily flipping past my rehab records?—
Jesus H. Christ.
