Dark Notes(57)

Breathing heavily, he braces a forearm on the wall, rests his brow on his arm, and angles his head to look at me. “Which one of those f*ckers took your virginity?”

“No one at Le Moyne.” I step closer, within arm’s reach. “I was already…” Used. Ruined.

He reaches out and drags me against him, pinning me between his heaving chest and the wall.

Blood and dust cover the knuckles of the hand he lifts to gently caress my cheek. “There’s more you haven’t told me.”

More men who take. More truth to share. I’ll tell him everything, because he hasn’t pushed me away, hasn’t once looked at me with repulsion.

He drops his forehead to mine, fingers resting against my cheek, and says quietly, “I want to whip you for being so damn uninformed about rape.”

But I’m learning the differences, as well as who to trust and when to ask for help. I always thought the safest place to go was in my head, that no one could hurt me there. But standing between a busted wall and the fuming man who destroyed it, I’ve never felt safer.

I hold his hand against my face and meet his passionate gaze. “I trust you.”

All my disgusting secrets have finally caught up with me. But for the first time in my life, I don’t have to face them alone.





My self-control is a goddamn joke, and the unflappable part of my brain is lost beneath chilling images of Ivory cornered, hurt, and alone. My hands shake as I teeter on the verge of manic brutality, consumed with the kind of throbbing headache that can only be comforted by bloodshed.

I knew there was sexual abuse, but part of me believed it was in the past, like it had been a single horrifying moment in her life. I never envisioned years of rape.

How many motherf*ckers will I have to kill? And while I’m murdering my way through her nightmares, how will I stop myself from becoming the worst of them all?

Ivory’s view of sex is most likely damaged all to hell. How will she respond to sex with me? Will she freeze up? Am I pushing her too fast? What the f*ck do I do now, if anything, regarding our relationship?

My heart thunders louder, faster, my muscles expanding with the direction of my thoughts.

“Hey.” She holds my sore hand against her cheek. “You’re getting all tense again.”

I think she may be crazier than I am. She doesn’t cringe or try to put a safe distance between us. Instead, she gives me a gentle smile and stares up at me with huge brown eyes full of trust.

Yes, I brought her home to keep her safe, but she has no idea how close I am to snapping. My entire body shakes to bend her over and f*ck her so hard all she remembers is me. And that will destroy her.

I step back and stab a shaky finger toward the bed. “Sit.”

She smooths down her skirt and follows my order, glancing nervously at the belt on the nightstand.

My palm feels hot and achy, my arm tensing to swing that strap. Less because of anger and more because I’m desperate to put all this shit behind us and spend the rest of the night welting her into orgasmic bliss.

But it’s not like I can just go at her with a belt in hand. That would sabotage her trust. I have to teach her that there’s a better, more meaningful kind of pain than what she’s experienced. The willing kind.

To do that, I have to pull myself together.

With measured breaths, I take a moment to indulge in her beauty, absorbing her perfect turned-up nose, tawny complexion, and dark shiny hair. But it’s the boldness in her eyes, the strength in her smile, and the potency of her aura that calms me. It’s impossible not to gravitate toward her, to not be captivated by the grace and tenacity she emanates.

As I stare at her, I realize with startling clarity she doesn’t need me to slay her past. She’s already lived it and came out the other side with more fortitude than any person I know.

But she does need me to listen, to support her without losing my head, and most of all, to protect her from future harm.

With a steadier pulse and the headache subsiding, I join her on the edge of the bed, my feet beside hers on the floor. Bending over her lap, I reach for her ankles. I’ve despised her glued-together shoes since the first day when I slid them onto her feet. They’re not good enough for her, and watching her walk around in them week after week makes me want to give her every penny I have.

I push the little black flats off her heels and let them drop to the floor. If she only knew how many size-seven replacements I’ve bought her. The whole damn closet behind me is filled, not just with shoes, but clothes and bags and… Jesus, I sound like a psychopath, even in my head.

I’m not even a shopper. Fucking hate it. But for the past five weeks, it was the most benign way I found to channel my inappropriate obsession with her.

Gathering her sideways in my lap, I scoot up the mattress and recline against the headboard.

With my arms wrapped around her delicate frame, I caress her back. “Tell me about your first time. How old were you?”

She rests her cheek on my shoulder, her voice tentative. “You go first.”

An outraged Answer me builds in my throat, but I swallow it, reminding myself that honesty goes both ways.

I kiss her temple. “I was sixteen. So was she. A summer girlfriend. It was…” Sweet. Awkward. Vanilla. “Uneventful. We broke up shortly after.”

She fidgets with my shirt button beneath her chin. “Is it crazy that I want to hunt her down and scratch her eyes out for getting that uneventful first with you?”