“This body is even less appealing than the chubby one.”
Jolie’s nose pointed into the air, but her eyes stayed on the ground, staring at the coins around our toes.
My words hurt her,and I knew they would.
That was why I’d said them.
I enjoyed living in the lie that she meant absolutely fuck all to me, but the truth was, she was everything that made my miserable face smile, even if it was only while I made her heart, eyes, and soul weep.
I looked at her in disgust, like it was all her fault she looked this way. Well, part of me thought it fucking was. If she wasn’t so eager to spread her legs and have them carry her far away from me, she wouldn’t have ended up in that situation.
She could have tried harder to get through to me. . . but she chose to run.
That memory made me evil. I knew why she did it now. I understood, but I still wouldn’t accept it.
With my arm stretched out to guide her, I ordered, “Get into the bathroom, don’t make me drag you.”
The bathroom held the perfect chill, air con blasting away the heat of a sickly hot morning.
Jolie stopped in the center of the room. Her little toes massaging the marble pattern of the cold ceramic tiles. She turned, fronting me as she awaited further instructions.
She no doubt hated wash time with me. Well, she hated me full stop. I could see the vicious emotion swirling in her dark brown eyes. That excited me. She was still alive in there, still fiery and able to feel.
“Are you ready to tell me the truth?” I tested. “You already know how much fun we can have in here.”
“I showed you the money.”
“But you didn’t take it for breakfast. One hundred and fifty-two dollars and however many fucking cents would have gotten you quite a big breakfast.” I shifted around her, moving to the window where the morning sun was tapping for welcome.
“No one spends that on a single breakfast, Jolie. Not even those in desperate need of food, and I’m not saying you’re not fucking starving, because, well, fucking look at you. You look nothing like you used to. . .”
“And whose fault is that!” she snapped, finally, her eyes and their burning rage flicking to me.
Her defiant tone had me growing hard. But I ignored the oncoming throb.
“Yours, my little whore. You are at fault. Who the fuck else would be?” A cocked eyebrow challenged her answer. “You ran.”
“He told me to!”
“And I told you to stop.”
“You were trying to kill me.”
“I should have.”
The force of my glare and the weight of my words lowered her head to the floor; she stared at her toes, bowing to her master.
“Good girl.” My words were kind and sympathetic, my tone the mirror image.
“I really was hungry.,” she dared to speak. A growl from her stomach—this one louder than before—offered backup, demanding I diverted my threatening behavior.
I did the opposite.
“Get out of my shirt. Whores aren’t meant to wear clothes.” I recited the words my father spoke time and time again.
Her mouth opened; her lips moved, but fear was a thief, an accomplice to me, claiming her voice while I stole back her dignity.
Tugging the material, I yanked my tee over her head before she’d even reached for the hem. I caught her flappy ears and shifted her hair from her face with the rapid movement. All her insecurities rushed to the surface of her skin. A million goosebumps trailing close behind.
