His words swirl around my head, too much, too fast, too many feelings threatening to escape.
He’s lying.
He has to be.
This is some sort of sick joke and sooner or later, he’ll get tired of fucking with me. Then he’ll call the cops and I’ll go to jail and this will all be over.
My eyes flick to the mirror and my reflection…
Fuck, I hate it so much.
The roughly cut hair, the dark circles beneath my eyes, the hollow cheeks, the scar near my right ear.
Not enough for him. Not enough for anyone.
Stop.Forcing myself to breathe slowly in and out, I shore up the ice around my heart, my thoughts, and glance at the toilet.
I’m here.
Might as well use it.
Might as well embrace the humiliation, the lack of power.
And hell, I’ll probably be in jail in a couple of hours, so I might as well go to the bathroom in semi-privacy, right?
I unbutton my slacks, push them down, allowing them to pool onto the floor.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him jerk. “What are you doing?”
“Using the bathroom,” I mutter and turn, moving to the toilet.
He inhales again and it’s only then I realize I’ve made a critical error.
My legs are bare and the backs of them…
“What the fuck happened to you?”
His voice is close, too close and I jump.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, darting away from him.
“Baby,” he rasps, dropping to his knees, hand lifting, fingers mere inches from my bare legs. I scooch back.
He can’t touch me.
Hecan’t.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice like gravel.
My gaze slips to his, and I know it’s a mistake, know I should be slamming the lid on this, should be exploiting this so I can get away.
But the horror in his brown eyes…it pins me in place.
Sends a hairline fracture through my icy cold shields.
I can’t have that.
Ican’thave it.
