Fuck this.
Declan’s relentless voice pellets my back as I shove open the front door and stumble outside.
Rain slams into me, soaking through my shirt in seconds.Good.Maybe it’ll wash the filth off me.Maybe it’ll strip away the dirt ground into my bones.
I hit the sidewalk at a run, eyes locked on the distant harbor lights.I need the yacht.The safety of the island.I need to get the hell out of here before I turn the town square into a psych ward circus.
Grinding my teeth, I force myself faster, faster as rain plasters my hair to my face.My lungs burn.My hands tremble, and the voice in my head spits one word.
Stupid.
Stupid to let Jag manipulate me.Stupid to desire him like a twisted fucking sicko.Stupid to let another man use my body like a dumping ground for their toxic fluids and waste.
Such a sweet little boy.
My legs lock up, and I stagger, one step short of the docks, chest heaving, vision tunneling.
So small and tight.
My knees give out.The ground rushes up, and I’m back in the hills.The same loop.Same panic.
You take your daddy’s dick so good.
I’m eight years old again, curled up on my bed, shivering under thin blankets, skin too small for my body, and breath raging with fear as Denver’s shadow fills the doorway.
I see you, Son.I’ll never stop wanting you.
His hand clamps over my mouth.His weight crushes me.And that sickening part of him, it jabs and tears and invades, andoh, hateful God,it hurts.I hear his huskyGood boyon repeat and feel his calloused fingers in places they should never touch.
The shame burns hot, and I curl in tighter, trying to disappear, trying to dissolve.The world fractures.My chest cracks open.Nothing exists but him and his hurt and his hurt and his hurt and his hurt and…
I’m back.
Back in Sitka, crouched under the pier, hunched against the concrete embankment where it meets the water.My arms wrap around my knees, my forehead pressed to my soaked trousers.Rain drips through the cracks above me.My body shakes, from the cold, from the memory, from the haunting pain.
How long have I been here?Minutes?Hours?No one noticed me.No one stopped.
I drag in a breath, shallow and searing, but it’s air.I’m here.Not in the hills.My fingers flex against my pants, proving I exist.I didn’t die.I’m not a child.The pain is old pain.I escaped.
Swiping rain and tears from my face, I swallow down the acid in my throat and push to my feet.
I fucking hate this.Hiding under the dock like a sewer rat.Falling apart where anyone can watch me sob.Pathetic.Broken.I need the island, just until I can patch myself back together and be normal.
As if I know how to be normal.
The pier thrums with bodies, umbrellas stabbing the air, and boots slapping against wet wood.I cut through them too fast, head down, tunnel vision on the yacht.Just a few more steps.Just a few—
A shoulder collides with mine, and a man’s hand clamps on my arm to steady me.
I detonate.
White-hot panic knifes through my stomach, flays away skin and muscle, and exposes the child trapped inside my rib cage.Denver’s hand cinches around my arm.My throat rips open, and a raw, ear-splitting wail spills out before I register that I’m screaming.
I careen sideways, knees cracking against the boards, palms scraping slick planks.People crowd in, hands reaching, voices clanging, too close, too many.
Don’t touch me.Don’t fucking touch me.
Another hand grazes my shoulder, and I lose it, thrashing and kicking and biting at the air.
