I walked out of the bathroom—or tried to. I made it three steps before I hurled his phone at the counter. It bounced off the granite with a loudcrackand clattered to the floor. I didn't check if it broke. I didn't give a fuck.
Fear was draining out of me, being replaced by something hotter. Anger. Pure, molten rage.
"I'm so fucking sick of this shit!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the walls. "I fucking hate you! I hate you! I fucking hate you!"
My vision blurred. Not from tears—from rage. Red flames danced at the edges of my sight and I felt demonic. Feral.I swung my fists in the air, hitting nothing, needing to hit something.
This was cruel. I wasn't a mean person. I didn't deserve this shit. None of this was for me—it was all for him. Some sick game he was playing. Fuck the money. He could keep all of it. This nigga had me trapped like I was in a R. Kelly basement.
I should've run when I had the chance.
"Juicy." His voice was calm behind me. Too calm. "Mane, what the fuck."
I spun around. He was leaning against the doorframe now, white towel pressed to his forehead, blood seeping through the fabric. He looked bored. Unbothered.
That look—that fucking look—made me lose it completely.
I stomped over to him and swung. My fist connected with his mouth with a satisfyingcrack. His head snapped back from the force.
For a moment, everything went still.
Then he lifted his head, slowly, and I saw it—the shift. His eyes went dark. Cold. The bored expression melted into something dangerous.
There was blood on his upper lip. He licked it off.
"Oh fuck," I whispered.
I balled up my fist to swing again—some suicidal part of me couldn't stop—but he was faster. He caught my hand mid-air, his grip like iron. Then he unballed my fist, slowly, deliberately, and bent my fingers backward.
"Owwww!" I screamed, the pain shooting up my wrist and into my arm. "Stop! Romelo, stop!"
He let go and I snatched my hand back, cradling it against my chest. My fingers throbbed.
"Yeah, 'bout as dumb as yo stupid ass is," he snarled. His handsome face was screwed up in anger now, finally showingsome kind of emotion. "The fuck is wrong wit' yo ass, bruh? I don't even hit bitches, but I'm itching to do yo ass in."
"I ain't scared of yo ass," I lied.
I was terrified.
"You shouldn't be," he said, voice dropping low. "That ain't my goal. But I swear that was some stupid ass shit. Keep on fuckin' wit' me and I'ma fold yo ass like an omelet." He touched his mouth, examining the blood on his fingers. "You know how stupid you looked, bruh? Back the fuck up."
He shoved me—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make his point—and brushed past me.
My legs gave out. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the pillow-top mattress dipping under my weight. I watched him through slitted eyes as he walked back into the bathroom, still carrying that blood-soaked towel. He picked his phone up off the floor—the screen was cracked now, spiderwebbed across the front.
"C'mere," he snapped, holding his free hand out. Not asking. Demanding.
I didn't move.
"You ain't got no fuckin' choice 'cause I ain't leaving this house without you." His eyes locked on mine. "Find you some dry clothes to put on."
Dry clothes.Right. Because I'd pissed myself.
Shame burned through me, hotter than the anger. I stood up, stomped past him to the dresser, and yanked open drawers until I found a pair of my leggings and some clean panties. He'd brought my shit here weeks ago—more evidence that this wasn't temporary. That he'd planned this.
I started toward the bathroom to change and shower, but his voice stopped me.
"We ain't got time for you to clean that pissy ass pussy, Synthia."
