I walk out, leaving her alone with the memory of my guilt.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall, the cool plaster scraping my back. I can still feel the phantom of her throat under my hand, the way her pulse hammered against my thumb.
I was made to destroy things. My hands don't know how to be gentle.
I make my way to the guest room, flop onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling until the blackness behind my eyes feels safe again.
Sleep doesn't come.
It rarely does.
I find her in the kitchen at six, curled up on a barstool with one leg tucked beneath her and a mug of coffee cradled in both hands. Sunlight streams through the window, making her look softer, almost innocent, like the girl I met before the world turned her skin to armor and I taught her to hate. She's wearing nothing but a threadbare hoodie and a pair of boyshorts.
She's been waiting for me.
She doesn't say anything at first, just stares at me, her knuckles white on the mug. I don't want to talk. I want to avoid this entire conversation. I want to walk out the door and pretend I didn't almost break her neck in my sleep last night.
But I can feel her gaze dragging me in like a riptide, so I stand there in the doorway and let it drown me.
She finally speaks, her voice soft and careful. "Are you okay?"
The laugh that slips out is so harsh it actually makes her wince. I pour myself a mug, pretending it takes great concentration to measure out the right amount of sugar, pretending my hands don't shake. "You're the one with bruises around your throat. Why the fuck are you asking if I'm okay?"
She swings her legs down and props her elbows on the counter, her chin in her hands. "Because you look like you haven't slept in a year."
I grit my teeth and stare at her, the echo of her pulse still ghosting my thumb from last night. "It's not your problem," I say.
"Yeah, too late for that," she snorts.
I take a sip, scalding my tongue just to feel something that isn't shame. "You ever hear of boundaries, Brielle?"
She grins, but there's an edge to it, like she's ready to crack, too. "I'll Google the term later."
I almost smile, but it dies before it fully forms.
She slides off the stool and saunters across the kitchen, standing in front of me, close enough that her scent cuts through the smell of coffee and cold sweat. She sets her mug on the counter and looks up, her green eyes wide and bottomless.
"I'm not mad at you," she says, almost whispering.
I wish she were. I'd rather have her screaming, fighting, and threatening to burn down the fucking city than face this quiet, impossible kindness. I can't stand it.
"You didn't hurt me, Asher."
"Shut the fuck up, Brielle." I slam the mug on the counter, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"No. We need to talk about it."
"No, you need to get on your knees."
"What?" She blinks up at me.
I step closer, crowding her against the fridge. "You heard me, princess. On your knees. Now."
Her mouth works, maybe to protest, maybe to ask why, but I don't give her the chance. I grip her hair hard enough to sting, and push her down until she's kneeling on the kitchen tile.
I fish my cock out, already half hard, and stroke it in front of her face. "Since you insist on using that fucking mouth, you'll use it for what I want. Open."
She does, her lips parting obediently, her tongue glistening. I push into her mouth, watching her eyes the whole time. There'snothing soft in this, nothing gentle. I'm using her to erase the ache in my chest, to drown out last night's shame, to remind her that I don't deserve kindness, not from her.
