The Villain (Boston Belles, #2)(106)

“I’m not stuttering.” I let out a low growl, slapping my own face again.

No. No. No.

I wasn’t in an empty library this time. I had an audience, and they were watching, laughing, getting a glimpse of the freak show. I had to stop.

Stop feeling.

Stop wanting.

Stop hurting right now.

“The good thing”—Andrew stopped only when he was next to me—“is that I’m not a Fitzpatrick. An Arrowsmith always comes to his friend’s rescue. And you need to be rescued, don’t you, Kill?”

His friends laughed, hands tucked inside their pockets, glaring at me, waiting for the word go.

I looked behind me, slapping my own face again. I could probably run, but there was no point. The tics were going to slow me down, and anyway, I’d always been faster on a horse than with my feet.

I looked back at them. Now was as good a time as any to check the pain box on my list and make sure I couldn’t feel it.

Andrew cracked his knuckles loudly.

I did the same thing.

Note to self: cracking one’s knuckles is very soothing.

“I’m about to fuck your ugly face up even worse than you did, Fitzy.”

I smiled, feeling blissfully numb. “Give it your best shot, Oliver Twist.”





Andrew ended up filming some of his abuse, probably to stash it and remind himself it happened.

But he wasn’t an idiot and was careful to never show his face.

It was one of the very things we’d been taught. Never film anything incriminating. The infamous Bullingdon Club had cost Oxford University enough embarrassment, and nobody at fine British institutions wanted their reputation to be stained by a bunch of teenage dirtbags.

The abuse wasn’t one-sided.

In fact, during our first fight, I’d noticed when Andrew beat me up, I stopped feeling. The tics had stopped. And so, I sought Andrew out. Went to his room on a weekly basis. Goaded him into fighting, abusing, and messing with me.

Andrew took over. We crossed the lines many times.

Broken bones. Permanent scars. Cigarette burns.

I grew stronger and more indifferent each time.

And he? He cried when he did those things to me. Cried like a baby.

Going through the trials and tribulations of being bullied—burned, waterboarded, slapped across the face each time I stuttered or hit myself, each time I twitched—proved to be highly effective.

By fifteen, the year when I’d found out Andrew Arrowsmith wasn’t going to complete his education at Evon, I was free of symptoms.

Outwardly, anyway.

I still popped my knuckles.

Still breathed deep and slow to lower my heart rate.

Still resisted any type of feelings, smashing them whenever they tried to rise above the surface.

The more I controlled the tics, the worse they had become. Fortunately, I always unleashed them when I was in the privacy of my room.

I kicked, screamed, hit myself, broke walls, tore furniture, and devastated everything around me. But I did it on my terms, and only when I felt I was ready. That was how successfully I managed to suppress my emotions.

Until one day, the tics stopped completely.

Feelings were so far away from my realm of existence that I didn’t have to worry anymore.

But the tapes were still out there, and Andrew had them.

Like the one of me lying in a puddle of my own vomit.

Or the one where I sat at the bottom of the pool for a minute at a time until I was blue. Every time I miscalculated the time and rose to the surface too quickly, he’d strike me.

One thing was for sure: Andrew wanted revenge, I wanted complete control, and we both got what we wanted.

By the time we parted ways, his job was done, and so was mine.

I thought we were even.

I thought we both got what we deserved.

I thought I was immune to feelings ever again.

Turned out, every single one of those assumptions was wrong.





The third time I ran to the bathroom to throw up, I threw in the towel and shut my laptop, stashing it under my bed, like the videos could haunt me. I had enough of seeing my husband—then a teenager—abused.

Beaten.

Smashed.

Broken.

Stuttering.

Crying.

Laughing.

Losing it.

Finding it.

I wanted to kill Andrew Arrowsmith with my own hands.

And knew with a confidence that frightened me that I was capable of doing that, too, given the opportunity.

Andrew’s face wasn’t on the tapes. But his voice was there. So were his motives to do what he did.

At six thirty in the morning, I rose to my feet and walked over to the shower. My eyes were puffy from crying all night.

There were two things I knew without a shadow of a doubt:

One—I was going to make sure Arrowsmith was ruined, even if it was the last thing I did in my life.

Two—Cillian was truly incapable of feeling anything after everything he’d been through. But even the unloving deserved to be loved. Even he deserved peace, belonging, and a home.

From now on, I was going to let him have me on his terms.

Even if it slayed my bleeding heart.





“Sir, you have a visitor.”

I didn’t look up from the screen, still typing out a message to my legal team regarding Green Living.