Page 122 of Shattered In Darkness

My fingers slip. I gasp, my vision is dizzy. Still, I glare at him, channeling every ounce of venom and hate.

He crouches and grabs my hair before dragging me up like I weigh nothing and shoving me against the chair, face-first. My cheek burns; tears spring to my eyes. He yanks my legs apart. Cold air on bare thighs. His fingers force their way between. He wants to humiliate.

“You belong to me,” Marcus whispers, lips brushing my ear. “Your body. Your thoughts. Even your filthy daydreams. Brody’s shadow lives in you, so I’ll rip it out.”

He shoves two fingers deeper, grinding into nerves that sting with pain, not pleasure. “Pathetic. You’re not even wet.” He curls his hand, so violent I bite my lip to keep from crying out.

I shake my head, nails digging into the arm of the chair. “You can’t⁠—”

He slaps my ass. “What? Tell me again how that animal makes you feel. How you ache for him while I bury you alive?”

I am not present. I am running, far, far away. I picture Brody. His hands, his mouth, the safety he never gave me but I pretend, just this once. I am not in this room. My hips jerk, desperate to end it.

It makes Marcus furious. “You fucking bitch. Even now, you think you have a choice. You dream of him, don’t you? You touch yourself at night and whimper his name.”

His grip is iron. Each thrust punishes me for every slight, every tiny rebellion. He twists relentlessly, forcing my body to flicker with unwanted sparks.

“Come for me,” Marcus demands. “Right now, or I’ll go and gut him myself.”

Tears slide down my face. I clamp my eyes shut, dig for anything left in me that can survive this.

Brody. I think of him. Not the boy I lost, but the boy who stared at me like I was the only living thing in his world. I picture his hands, larger than life, clutching me, keeping me tethered so I don’t blow away.

I do it. My body betrays me, a hot wave surges through my hips, and my legs tremble. I cry out, a feral-sounding noise, because Marcus forces it out of me.

He feels the finish. Grins, victorious, like he just won a war. “See? Doesn’t matter who you think about. In the end, your body obeys.” He wipes his hand on my thigh and lets me fall forward, crumpled and shaking. He stands over me. “Behave, or Brody gets worse. Next time, I’ll bring pictures. Maybe I’ll let you watch.”

“Go ahead. You’ll never kill what’s in me.”

He turns, already bored.

I press my bruised chest, heave in a ragged breath. I count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. He can break my face. Break my bones. He can ruin my body, again and again. He will never own my hate.

I stay on the ground, watch the ceiling bulb stutter, and imagine snow, and Brody, and freedom so cold it burns.

I will outlast. I will. I will. I promise myself, with every beat of my fucked-up heart.

I will.

40

BRODY

I don’t know how long I’ve been in this room. Minutes. Hours. The flickering bulb overhead gives nothing but shadow and sickness-yellow.

My arms are strung behind the metal chair, wrists cuffed hard enough to grind flesh.

Footsteps echo outside the steel door. My body tenses. The door groans open, hinges shrieking. I flinch, but keep my eyes up. Marcus enters, flanked by two of his men; Cal, the silent wall, and another brute with hands like shovels. They drag something between them. Someone.

Lola stumbles, wrists bound in front of her with black cord, ankles hobbled enough to make her shuffle. There’s blood on her cheek and the collar of her shirt is torn half off her shoulder. She won’t look at me; her eyes are fixed somewhere inside herself, hollow as a kicked-in door.

Marcus’s hand fists her hair, yanking her head up. “Look who came to join the party.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, then cracks them open, searching for me. When she sees me—tied, battered, helpless—her face crumples. Shame, terror, something deeper. Something that makes me want to kill the world.

Marcus shoves her forward. She lands on her knees, inches from where I’m bolted to the floor. He stands behind her, hands on her shoulders, smiling like a snake.

“Family reunion,” he croons. “Don’t you two look sweet? Like matching trash.”