Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(61)

“He told me that he liked young girls, younger than me, in fact. My sister Dahlia was the perfect age, he told me. But he could be nice, he said. He’d let me be a good big sister and take her place, and if I cooperated, and didn’t tell, and didn’t complain, or cry out, or scream, he’d leave my baby sister alone.”

“How long did this go on for?” Tristan asked softly, something dreadful in his voice. I was thankful that dreadful thing wasn’t for me, but it still made me shiver to hear it.

“It felt like eternity, but it was just over a year. It happened often. In the middle of the day, in the kitchen, anywhere he wanted. He loved to pounce on me in the washroom. He’d bend me over the washer a lot, and I couldn’t make a peep.”

I couldn’t believe that I was telling this to him while I was lying on my back naked, but I didn’t feel the need to cover up, as though I just trusted him that much.

“Long story short, my sister walked in on us. I wasn’t fighting him, in fact I was cooperating, so she thought it was something I’d wanted. That ugly confrontation revealed that he’d lied about not touching her. He’d pulled the same routine on us both. I was a shitty big sister, and I’d failed miserably at protecting either of us. She ran away, haven’t spoken to her since. No idea where she is, but I know that she hates me for what happened to her, and what she saw. She was pretty clear about that. I tried to explain myself to her, but she didn’t want to hear it.”

“God, Danika…”

“He didn’t hurt me.”

He made a choked noise in his throat that told me he took strong exception to that statement.

“Well, what I mean is, he didn’t hit me or anything, but it did hurt. It was horrible, in fact. It’s hard to describe, but when someone takes that choice out of your hands, even takes away your choice to struggle, well, it kills something important inside of you. I’m still struggling to find that something I lost. I struggle every day with it. To feel whole. To feel a sense of self-worth that Lucy tells me everyone should have. It colors every little thing I do, if I’m honest, but one of the most obvious results of that ugliness is that it’s important for me to feel in control.”

“I got a boyfriend when I was about seventeen. He said he loved me, seemed to mean it, and I was so ready to love somebody that I fell for him hook, line, and sinker. I probably rushed into the sex part of that, but it was actually my idea. I wanted to get it over with, especially doing it with someone my own age. It was never about liking it. It was about…enduring it, and feeling like it was my choice. My next boyfriend was a slight variation of pretty much the same damn thing.”

My voice had stayed steady, my breathing even, as I told the embarrassing mess of a story, but Tristan’s wasn’t. His breathing was uneven, and messy, and spoke clearly of temper.

“Where does he live?” Tristan asked very, very quietly.

“Who? The old man?” I’d never say his name, not ever.

“Yes. Where does he live?”

“What? You making plans to go kick his ass?”

“Or kill his ass.” He sounded so deadly serious that I opened my eyes to study him.

“He died of a heart attack when I was seventeen. Been in the dirt for years now. No need for murder.”

I was teasing him, but he didn’t look amused. He looked troubled, and it was the kind of trouble that didn’t go away with teasing.

“I didn’t mean to kill the mood, but that’s it, that’s why I think sex hasn’t been good for me.” My tone was flat, but I felt so vulnerable, so open, and ready to be wounded again, and I strongly suspected that wound would come from whatever his reaction might be.

Words seemed to pour out of me in a jumble, as though I couldn’t say them fast enough, because I’d clearly rather wound myself, than have it come from someone like Tristan, who could really do some damage. “Probably not the sort of thing you want to hear about someone you’ve slept with. I’ll totally understand if you don’t want to do anything else with me. The things I’ve done are…disgusting. Believe me, I know that better than anyone.”

He was on me, angry and domineering, before I’d finished speaking.

He slanted his mouth over me, his movements angry, but his kiss so soft. When he pulled back to speak, his words were soft too. “You could never be disgusting, sweetheart. Never. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. You deserve so much more than what life gave you, and I wish to hell I could go back in time and kill that sick old man before he ever hurt you.”

“Thank you,” I told him, my voice thick. He’d hit all of the right nerves with a few short statements, soothing my wounds, instead of inflicting new ones. I should have had more faith in him. “But I really will understand if you don’t want me anymore.”

His answer was to move down my body with soft, feather light kisses, the contact sweet, his intent just the opposite.

He buried his face between my legs, eating me out with enthusiasm and skill. Skill and…talent. He had me gasping out his name, just on the edge, before he pulled back, turning me onto my stomach.

He pushed my legs out and up, until my knees were bent, my thighs spread. I tensed as I felt him positioning himself on my back.

He rubbed my lower back, and murmured soothingly. “Relax and arch your back for me a bit. I’ll make it good, sweetheart, I promise.”