Hanna’s scent was too vivid in my memory, my demons screaming her name.
“Asshole,” I muttered and grabbed my spare chair, dragging it in front of the bank of screens and shoving Lynn’s—my—chair over to make room.
“Says the walking, talking rectum,” she snarled weakly. She had as much fire as she had weakness, and I knew these next fewdays would be a battle to see which would win. Would she give up and let herself fade away? Would she fight to cling to life?
Hanna’s face flashed behind my eyes, and I stiffened, gritting my teeth.
“Here,” I said, plugging in my spare controller and catching myself at the last minute before I could throw it at her. I placed it in her lap with more care. “What shit do you like to play?”
“Anything.” She shrugged. “After being in that barn for weeks, fucking Mario Kart sounds good.”
I snorted. Picked up the heavy scathing attitude in her voice, and decided to have some fun with her. Besides, she needed that fire. Apathy would kill her.
“I wasn’t fucking serious,” she grumbled when I whirred up my Switch, the game on the central screen of my set-up. Her glare heated the side of my face, settling my smirk deeper into my cheeks. At least until I drew another breath and that almost-dead scent hit my lungs, awakening all my demons. “Cobra, come on. Choose another game.”
I probably should have been gentler with her, kinder,nicer,but I wasn’t nice, and neither was she. So I gave her the same antagonistic little smile I would give any of the Knights as I exchanged her controller and asked, “Would you like to be Princess Peach?”
“I’d like to rip your eyebrows off and shove them down your throat,” she hissed, breathing fast, eyes bulging. None of that rage was for me, but that didn’t stop it rubbing me the wrong way.
“I already ate,” I retorted. “And your idea of food needs work, asshole. I know you were captive for weeks, but seriously.”
She brought her hand down on my shoulder hard enough to make me grunt, that splint a weapon in its own right.
“Easy,” I warned. “I might look big, strong, and scary but deep down I’m a delicate flower who bruises easily.”
I watched the rage contort her face before it faltered, and a slow, wicked smile stretched across her features. She wasn’t bruised to shit anymore, but the yellow and green remnants remained around her eyes, her jaw, and her nose where it had broken the night we rescued everyone at the barn. It was weird as shit to look at this woman who was broken and traumatised and constantly fucking glaring at me, and realise she was hot. Long, dark hair ragged on the edges, soft features in an oval face, a straight, severe nose, and eyes like brown sea glass. Yeah, shit, she was hot.
And that was none of my business. I didn’t fuck rescues. Couldn’t. My needs were too dark, my demons too close to the surface. I had no interest in retraumatising someone.
“You bruise easily,” she said slowly, that smirk warming her husky voice. “You could say… you bruise like a peach.”
I rolled my eyes. This asshole. “You think I’m not man enough to play as Princess Peach?”
“Your whole thing is being threatening and dangerous on sight. You’d never damage that reputation with anything pink.”
“What do you wanna bet?”
She went as still as stone. “I don’t have money. If this is some sleazy attempt to get me to bet my body—”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I spat. “I don’t want to fuck you.”
“You’re the only one in the city apparently,” she muttered, and silence fell for a second before blood roared in my ears. How many had forced themselves upon her? Did she even know the number?
I dragged a hand over my jaw, my stomach roiling. I could smell that barn—dominance and satisfaction and terror layered over slick and piss and cum. Scents so familiar I knew them with a single breath. I ground my teeth, mentally taking a barbed-wire wrapped bat to my demons, beating them until they slunk, whimpering, back into the recesses of my mind.
“Let’s just play,” I snapped.
And yeah, I played as Peach because I was pissed all the way off and that pink as fuck princess made me want to laugh every time I saw her as my character.
7
Lynn
Iput my grand plans to stab Cobra in every available space on his body on hold because I actuallylikedthe bastard. He was combative and a fucking smart-mouth, and henevershut the fuck up, but with every game, it became easier to breathe, to feel the limbs attached to my torso, to feel my toes, my fingers, my heart pumping. I still had enough drugs floating around my body that the pain was minimal, and if there was some discomfort inside me, it was easier to ignore it when Cobra threw a tantrum after losing to me three races in a row.
“This is bullshit,” he erupted, a vein pulsing on his forehead. “How do you keep winning?”
I snorted, helping myself to a slice of the pizza he’d heated up, coincidentally after my stomach rumbled. Neither of us acknowledged it; I handled kindness about as well as he handledbeingkind. “Sheer talent. Years spent honing my expertise. Amastery of Mario Kart that would stun even its creators. Take your pick.”
