Destroyed(68)

“Oh, hell,” he groaned. “I’m going to come. I can’t—I wanted. Fuck.”

He sounded like a wolf intent on shredding his prey alive as hot jets of wetness filled me. His thrusts turned feral as if he wanted to split me in two, delivering as much of himself as he could.

When the last band of his release left him, he slouched back into the chair. His cock twitched inside and I wanted nothing more than to lay back and have him wrap his large strong arms around me.

We didn’t move. The only sound was our breaths panting in the stuffy heat of the greenhouse.

After a minute, Fox patted me on the back, murmuring, “Thank you.”

I struggled not to laugh. Such a formal touch and verse. Nothing like what we’d just done. We’d just owned each other in a fit of f*cking, and he’d already withdrawn.

There was no afterglow or tender-hearted cuddling.

Instead of being hurt, I smiled.

However strange our interlude had ended, he’d been an eager lover and hadn’t tried to kill me.

Progress.





Two days later, I reclined on Fox’s bed watching television.

The episode displayed a sexy sun-bronzed man arguing with a pretty redhead. The undeniable tension on screen amped up my own need until my core grew wet. Being around a male like Fox without being allowed to touch was a daily agony of unrequited pleasure.

He hadn’t come near me since the greenhouse, and we hadn’t spoken a word about it. That night when I went home to Clara, she’d had a coughing fit, and it was all I could do to not break down and scream at every entity for making her sick.

Every day I suffered more and more guilt. Guilt for living another life away from her. Guilt for finding small smidgens of happiness thanks to Fox. I felt like a traitor and a bitch.

Clara grew sicker despite the new pills I made her take every morning and the exorbitantly expensive trail drug in her inhaler.

Fox stalked toward me, wiping his face with a black towel, panting and sweaty from his session in the gym down the hall.

Not only did he drive his broken body to failure by endless fights and working long hours, he also worked out religiously every morning when he woke. Wearing the same black trousers and long sleeved shirt, he came back drenched in sweat.

“I’ll just have a shower, then we’ll head out. We haven’t left Obsidian since we met, and I need to run a few errands. I’d like you to come.”

Not waiting for my reply, he disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. I waited for the shower to turn on, imagining Fox naked and wet.

My tummy fluttered with the thought. Pushing Clara from my mind, compartmentalizing my two lives, I scampered off the bed and tiptoed toward the bathroom.

What if he catches you?

With my heart in my throat, I turned the handle. I expected it not to turn—after all, Fox was so private I figured he would’ve locked it—but it unlatched.

I stopped breathing as I cracked open the door and peered inside.

Fox stood trembling and tense in the centre of the shower while hot water hissed and fizzled on his skin. He stood side profile, hiding his back and chest—the two areas I most wanted to see. With one hand, he held a razor and pressed the blade hard against his inner thigh.

His eyebrows drew together, knitting tightly as a small trickle of blood erupted from the wound and sluiced down his leg with boiling water.

I wanted to run in and stop him, but he cut himself again—one more perfect line. Tossing the razor to the side, he switched the water from scalding to freezing and tension siphoned from his muscles down the drain.

Resting his forehead against black tiles, he groaned with every sadness and f*cked-up emotion inside.

I couldn’t watch any longer.

Closing the door, I drifted back to the bed in a daze. I felt as if he’d dragged the blade down my heart instead of his leg.

You’re so stupid, Zel. You thought you’d broken through. You thought he was on the road to recovery.

I was idiotic to hope he wouldn’t self-harm anymore. I’d searched for evidence, but saw none. Now, I knew why.

His inner thighs had an array of marks and cuts, decorating his already scarred legs. He’d even taken out the stitches on his thigh and calf, causing the wounds to gape a little, not fully healed.

Fuck.

I rubbed the heel of my hand into my chest, trying to dispel the aching agony. I hated seeing someone in pain. I hated not being able to help.

There was no helping someone with a mind so scrambled like Fox’s.

The shower switched off and a few minutes later, Fox strode into the room dressed in his usual wardrobe of black.

His eyes narrowed, running hands over his wet hair. The strands of colour captured sunlight, looking bronze, cinnamon, black, and gold. The Sydney sun bounced through the large windows, turning the black interior into a sun-soaked paradise.

“What the f*ck, Zel? You look like you just witnessed a murder.” Scowling, he headed to his wardrobe and came back with a black blazer.

I blinked, forcing the unhappiness away. “Nothing. Just a sad program on television.”

He dropped his arms, the blazer dangling by his side. “Don’t you dare lie.” His eyes flashed white, looking around the room, searching for some hint at what switched my mood. “Tell me. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. It’s what you did!” Shit.