Coward!
That word’s gnawed at the base of my skull since morning, a parasite chewing through bone.
I shouldn’t have pulled away from Leilani in the bathroom.
I should’ve given her what she clearly wanted...
I should’ve kissed her, but I pulled back like some half-broken boy who doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.
And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I left the house ten minutes after she walked out of the bathroom.
I wanted to kiss her.
It’s the thing I’ve wanted more than air since I first laid eyes on her. It’s hunger. Obsessive fucking starvation, a constant itch under my skin.
I could’ve tasted that perfect mouth, but I left her disappointed. I walked away from those lips I study any chance I get. Their soft bow when she’s distracted, the way she chewsthem when she’s annoyed. The curve when she smirks at me like she knows I can’t function properly around her and she loves it.
I have no idea how to handle this.Us. My brain keeps screaming: don’t break her.
Don’t hurt her.
Don’t make her regret you.
I hate that voice because when she smiles at me, my chest splits wide open. When she’s close enough that the sweetness of her berry shampoo floods my nose, my pulse stutters. And when she snaps, when she lets the wreckage Anton left behind show, I’m ready to tear the fucker limb from limb.
The closer the FaceTime call, the harder it was not to accidentally trigger her, as if her mind was constantly running through the past, rifling through a deck of unwanted memories.
Broadway and Ryder are having the time of their lives, making fun of the scratches and bruises she imprints on my skin.
She’s tough, I’ll give her that. She’s wild, bright rage. She swings hard, bites deep, and knows exactly when to slot her knee between my legs for highest impact, but beneath the fight, she’s hurting. Not knowing the extent of Anton’s sins keeps my hands tied behind my back.
How do I stop her from bleeding when I can’t see the wounds?
“Even though he never raped me, he did far worse.”
That line loops through my brain. I’ve gone over it a hundred times today alone, trying to make it make sense. I tried guessing, but this game’s rigged against me.
What’s worse than rape?
Torture, maybe, but Leilani bears no scars. No marks that’d confirm physical abuse. I know. I’ve seen her in outfits that leave little to the imagination.
I’m at a loss. Confused. And now I’m in self-loathing mode becauseIwas the reason why disappointment scrunched her features this morning.
She wasright there—so soft, so pretty, so open—and I left her hanging despite wanting nothing more than to feel her lips on mine.
I tell myself it was the right thing to do, that my restraint is fucking admirable. I don’t know where her head is, how far she’s willing to go, whether she’d kiss me because she wants to or because she thinks she owes me something.
And the not knowing drives me feral.
Every second with her feels like some fucked-up exam with no study guide, and I don’t even know what’s being tested.
Me? Her? Us?
Maybe everything.
Maybe nothing at all.
Maybe I’m just paranoid thanks to Broadway’s constanttake it slow,don’t push, let her breathe.
