“Shhh, Bell,” whispers through my mind, but I simply whine at Winter’s words.
“Don’t do that,” I groan. “I already feel crazy.”
She hums under her breath, but shuts her eyes tightly as her body continues to shiver. I feel the same icy chill she does because of our feedback loop from the bond, yet there’s nothing I can do to help her. Sometimes, I can push memories of heat toward her.
That’s not going to cut it now. Everything feels too big, hurts too much, and now there are alphas who come in and out of the room to check on us.
I know they’re supposed to be mine. I do. I just don’t know what the fuck to do about it. The only person I feel any connection to is Cassidy, and I can’t explain that.
I initially didn’t want to go to her when Winter and I were carried into that room back at the center. We were going to refuse for as long as possible. The drugs forced us to do things we didn’t want to do, and then my asshole was sore when we were thrown back into the cage for reasons I couldn’t remember.
The days where Bret would parade us around seem so far away. I’d almost rather have sex with Winter on command, but even that was only until Bret could find the highest bidders for our forced heat.
Either way you slice it, rape is rape. I’d continually tell Winter to focus on me, pretend it was just us, but I know our performances weren’t consensual at Slick Dreams either.
Now, every time I close my eyes, the memories overwhelm me, making it difficult not to hate myself.
Mrs. Beshmal at The Hug Project was a grade A bitch, caning my feet whenever I encouraged Winter not to do what she said. That’s why I can’t walk, and Winter was simply too weak to. I’ll go through that as many times over as necessary so I won’t have to watch Winter cry as alphas knot her against her will under the influence of those drugs.
Whimpering as my eyes close and I fall into a fitful sleep, I remember every group sex activity where I was told I’d be separated and sold if I didn’t play the willing fuck toy. Yet, I still managed to spit in the face of my handlers, because I’d be damned if I’d make it easy for them.
Inevitably, the drugs made Winter and I want to be touched and fucked, and that’s what drowns me in shame. We couldn’t resist. Mrs. Beshmal called me a whore every time I was back in the cage with Winter.
Names aren’t something I’m concerned with. Things kept getting worse until they took Winter alone into the “private” rooms, and she came back in a state of shock and misery.
Together, we can conquer the world, but alone? I fucking hate not being with her. Worse yet, Ifeltwhat she went through, and Winter knew it while I held her as she cried.
The day we met Cassidy, I was done. Winter and I were going to goad our owner into selling us by refusing to work.
Winter couldn’t resist Cassidy, and I’m glad for it. As scary as it is to be in a new place, at least rape is off the table. God, what is my fucking life?
“You’re okay,” Cassidy whispers, pressing a cold wash rag to my forehead.
Moaning, I pull myself from the haze of shitty sleep and reality and blink up at her.
“You’re so strong,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry it hurts so much.”
“It’s not the worst thing,” I reply without thought.
It feels as if I’m dying, but it’s better than The Hug Project, Slick Dreams, and Clara. God, why do such awful people exist in the world?
“Just because it’s not the worst thing to happen, doesn’t lessen how it feels now,” she says. “Riley says it may be a couple more days of withdrawal. After that, you’ll be terrible to live with, and cranky. Can we fast forward to when you’re adorable gremlins who hate everything?”
My lips twitch in amusement, and I try to remember the last time I was allowed to just be grumpy without punishment, finding I can’t.
Months of bad shit happening have a way of overwriting the good or even normal.
“That would be nice,” I murmur.
“Does anything else hurt?” she asks.
I can feel Winter asleep beside me, her deep breaths calming.
“My feet are a little torn up,” I confess. “They’ll heal. Is Mrs. Beshmal dead?”
“As a doornail,” Abbott says from the doorway. “When you’re better, would you like to help us kill everyone else who’s ever hurt you?”
“Like a list?” I ask, kind of amused by the idea of a Murder List.
