No. This never would’ve happened if you’d just left me alone.
That’s what I want to say. But instead, I swallow it down, because I know he sent that “mugger” after me in the hospital parking lot.
Do I have proof? No. But it was a little too convenient that he was the officer called to the scene.
He’s not just a narcissist—he’s got a hero complex, too.
It’s not hard to put two and two together. I’m not stupid, even if he implies all the time I am.
“Why wouldn’t it have happened, Michael?” I try to keep the petulance out of my voice.
His sigh is heavy with irritation as he closes the short distance between us. I don’t want him touching me, but he’s proven over and over that what I want doesn’t matter.
He grips my chin roughly, forcing my gaze to his. “Because I’d have been there to pick you up from work. Like I always do.”
I try to turn my head, but his hand holds me in place. So instead, I look past him into the apartment. “Sure.”
His nails dig into my cheeks, sharp enough to sting. My hands fly up instinctively to push him away.
“We do this every couple of weeks, babe. It’s getting old.”
When I shove, he lets me—for a second—before coming right back, rougher than before. His hand clamps around my throat, pinning me to the door. I swing my fists, but he doesn’t budge.
When he finally lets go after ‘asserting his dominance’, I grab at my own throat, coughing.
“I wasn’t that rough. Stop being my dramatic princess.”
I don’t know which word I hate more—princess or babe.
Or maybe it’s simpler than that. I just hate him.
But what can I do?
I can’t call the cops. Even if one of them would help me, what are the odds I’d get a good one? There are advocacy hotlines, but he’d find out before anyone could actually reach me.
I could call Dad.
Maybe run to Keoni…
But they’d probably judge me. They’d see me the way Michaeldoes—weak. A man broken down into exactly what he’s made me.
A sudden grip on the back of my neck snaps me from my spiraling thoughts. Then his mouth’s against mine. I claw at his shirt, trying to shove him back, but he overpowers me easily, his tongue forcing its way in.
“Stop!” I slam my elbow against his throat, desperate to push him off. “No, Mike! Stop!”
He tries again, and this time, I bite down hard on his lip. He grunts, stumbling back a step.
The smile he gives me—angry, amused—sends a shiver of pure terror down my spine.
“Ayden, you’re testing my patience. Let’s just fuck this out of our system. You’ll get over it in the morning.”
He advances on me again and I throw my hands up. “I don’t want to. Don’t fucking touch me. We need space!”
The laugh he produces has my mind prepping to separate itself from my body for protection from what’s going to come. “We’re together, Ayden. I can touch what’s mine.”
“This is me stating: I don’t give you consent.”
He tuts. “You’re my boyfriend. That’s consent, babe.”
