Thorne Princess(80)

“It’s not too late to ask for your own room,” Hallie reminded me, tucking her hands under her ass while sitting on the bed, legs dangling mid-air.

“And miss all this fun?” I looked around, finding a good spot on the floor by the windows.

“Your funeral.”

“Wouldn’t you wish.”

“I would, actually.”

A terse smile touched my lips. “That would’ve held more weight if you didn’t cling to me every time your father was around. You trust me more than you do him.”

She blew a raspberry at me childishly. “You’re deranged.”

Stomping to the bathroom, she returned half an hour later in an oversized gray Harvard sweatshirt, boxers, and no makeup.

I was taken aback by the sheer beauty of fresh-faced Hallie. She was stunning.

I stood by the window, watching security personnel pack their shit and retreat back into the night.

“They brought our toothbrushes and clothes from the hotel.” Hallie pressed a towel to her wet hair. I could see her through the window’s reflection. “It’s in the grand bathroom, two doors down.”

I glanced at my watch. It was ten o’clock at night.

“Will you be okay?” I asked.

“Oh, no.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll collapse into a puddle of emotion and tears as soon as you walk away.”

“Stay here,” I said.

“Famous last words.” She slid under the covers, which were tightly tucked under the mattress. “Last time you asked me to do that I was assaulted.”

“Good point.” I reached over to release the covers from the mattress for her. “New rule: stay here unless you feel that you’re in danger, in which case come and get me.”

“Better.” She turned her back to me, curling into a fetal position, signaling the conversation was over.

“Hallie…” I halted, wanting to say something but knowing whatever I said was going to sound stupid.

“Please go away.”

Sighing, I padded to the bathroom, grabbed a shower, shaved, and brushed my teeth. I slipped into a pair of sweatpants and a wifebeater. When I got back to the room, the lights were off. Hallie’s figure rose and dipped to the rhythm of her breaths.

Rearranging the pillows on the floor, I turned my back to her, trying to get comfortable. She’d crashed. I, however, had trouble sleeping, knowing her sister’s fiancé was free to roam the streets.

He wouldn’t touch Hallie again, I was certain of that, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be other victims. I wanted nothing more than to throw the bastard in jail. Problem was, it wasn’t in my job description, and was highly counterproductive to my main goal, which was to get the hell out of here once time was up and stay on Anthony Thorne’s good side.

“Do you think I’m damaged goods?” Her voice pierced through the air.

Not so asleep, after all.

“I don’t think of you as a product.”

“You know what I mean.” She let out a soft yawn. “Do you think I’m…broken?”

“Anyone with half a life story is broken.”

“You keep dodging the question.”

“No, you keep missing the point,” I said calmly, shifting to turn around and look at her from across the room. Her eyes sparkled in the dark. I wasn’t sure if she was crying, tired, or both.

“You have issues, yes. I don’t know many people who don’t. Your working assumption is that everyone else has their shit together. That’s inaccurate at best and self-destructive at worst.”

“I don’t know many women who got themselves into the same situation I landed myself in with Craig.” She picked at a fray edge of her duvet. A tear slipped down her cheek.

“You don’t know many women, period,” I whispered.

“What do you mean?” She sniffed.

“All your friendships are fake. You said so yourself. You surround yourself with people who hide their pain in the same way you do. You buy their act—and they buy yours.”

She said nothing.

“But that’s beside the point. You didn’t insert yourself into any situation. It was all Craig. You were fourteen. Young, impressionable, and sheltered. He should be in jail right now.”

“He can’t go to jail.”

I didn’t reply. Tom would hang me by the balls if I overstepped and fucked up this post. And for good reason. I’d react the same. But the situation wasn’t so simple anymore.

“Besides, if you hated rape so much—” she started.

“Stop,” I cut her off. “Not the same. Not an iota of similarity. My fantasies and kinks have nothing to do with reality.”

“Why do you have them, then?”

I swallowed. “Because, growing up, the way I was introduced to sex was kind of a task. That guy I told you about, Moruzzi? He made me and the other kids do bad stuff for him. And as payoff for our jobs, he’d hire prostitutes for us. The sex wasn’t optional. It was mandatory. A rite of passage. For a long time, I associated sex with something I was obligated to do.”

“So this is your way of taking back your sexuality.” She let out a breath.

“Yes.” It was the first time I admitted this to anyone.