Page 50 of Safe Word

I rubbed away the hot rivulets streaming over my face.

Scarlett was the only tether I had. If I couldn’t bury what he’d left in me, I could bleed it out through dominance. Through discipline.

Through her.

I slammed my fist against the shower wall, the pain grounding me for just a moment. Blood flowed from the split skin on my knuckles.

It felt good. Real.

Pain was honest.

I struck the tile again – harder this time – knuckles already slick, the crack of bone echoing louder than the water.

The sting burned up my arm enough to distract from the boy in the superhero jacket. Sharp enough to silence my mother’s scream, just for a second.

I braced both hands on the wall, chest heaving. My head hung low as the water washed away the blood – but not the memory.

Never the fucking memory.

How did one crawl out of their own skin? How did one peel it back until the boy underneath blinked back to life again – the one who used to think love didn’t leave bruises?

But the truth was much harder than a wish – all that was left was a man who only knew how to take control by giving pain. And on the day he couldn’t…

He gave it to himself.

Later that night, I found myself restless.

The phone was already droning between my shoulder and jaw as I wiped blood from my hands – still aching for more than pain. Not just the sting – the spill, the proof.

One ring. Two.

Then Vinnie’s voice crackled through, rough and low. ‘Cain?’

‘Is there still a slot open for tonight?’ I asked, skipping the pleasantries. My pulse was already bracing for impact.

A pause. Then a sigh that carried too much understanding. ‘You know you can’t just show up. Places like that need notice.’

I said nothing. The beast in me was pacing irritably inside me and I couldn’t focus.

Obsidian wasn’t just a fantasy lounge; its underground level was a fighting ring where monsters like me could shed the unbearable weight of their daytime masks.

‘Look,’ he added, tone softening, ‘I get it. But you don’t need to fuck yourself up tonight. Go work on that book. You can do without a swollen knuckle or a broken rib for one week.’

I hung up without answering.

Like a junkie without a fix, my eyes darted around my fucking penthouse, swathed in darkness. I hadn’t even bothered to turn on the lights. Which was fine – monsters thrived in the dark.

The quiet that followed was drowning me.

Pouring some brandy into the cut-glass tumbler, I glanced at my phone. The reminder for Scarlett’s session pulsed like a warning light.

Tomorrow.

One more attempt to hold my psyche together before I fell apart completely.

Patience used to be a polished virtue of mine. Refined over the years – like my knife. Now?

One woman – and it dulled to rust.