Echo(44)

“Just look at me, okay? I’m here with you. You’re not alone, but I need you to turn off your feelings right now.”

I fight to relax my body while Pike continues to talk to me and stroke my hair. And soon enough, in a matter of seconds, my muscles slacken and my breathing slows. My eyes are locked to my savior.

“That’s it. No one can hurt you if you can’t feel,” he reminds me. “I’m here with you, Elizabeth. Just keep your eyes on me. It’ll be over soon.”

I nod at his words and trust in them. I keep my focus and never let my eyes stray from his as Declan forces his domination on me. In mere moments, he flexes above me, filling me with his cum. His body hunches over mine as he groans out in pleasure. Or is it anger? Then I notice his hand is no longer shoved in my mouth, but instead, holding my hand.

Why is he doing this?

My head fills with a haze of swirling thoughts and memories that are unrecognizable. I’m dizzy in the wake of what just happened as my head lies in a puddle of saliva, tears, and snot. The mixture, the evidence of my fight, coats the side of my face and cakes in my hair.

“You’re okay,” Pike assures me . . . and then . . . he’s gone.

I don’t even get a chance to grieve his loss when Declan pulls his cock out of my ass. I wince against the pain when he does this, but I’m frozen, bent over his bed, unable to move from the shock. I can feel the delicate tissues swell in a blistering heat of rawness.

“Jesus Christ,” I hear him pant from behind me, and he quickly releases his belt from my arms.

I remain in place as I listen to his footsteps, followed by the click of the door closing, and it’s then I finally take in a breath of air. My body slides off the bed and onto the floor where I lie with my pants and underwear still shoved down around my knees.

Destroyed.

Humiliated.

And in a sick way . . . loved.





CHILLS WRACK MY clammy body as I lie here on the floor of Declan’s room. The room that was supposed to be ours, housing our bond and love for one another.

It was never supposed to be this.

But it is.

My thoughts are scattered and confused.

What just happened?

My body trembles in the aftershocks of the trauma it just endured and the memories of my childhood. I fight the vomit that sours the back of my throat as my gut bubbles in disgust.

But you want to know the most f*cked up thought running through my head right now?

Here it is . . .

I still ache for him. For his love, his touch, his breath upon my skin.

And then I think about him holding my hand. He held my hand. It’s nothing new for him—he’s always held my hand when we orgasmed. It’s his one tender gesture that would remind me, that no matter how rough he chose to be with me, that I could trust in his comfort to always be aware of me and take care of me.

Does he still feel that way?

Bracing my hands on the floor, I push myself up to sit, and my ass stings as I shift. Biting against the pain that shoots through me, I stumble up to my feet. I reach down and pull my pants up. Wobbly on my feet, I walk over to the en suite bathroom, and when I flick on the light, I get a glimpse of my ashen face.

I touch my reflection in the mirror. Somehow, it feels safer than to touch my actual face. There’s always a disconnect in one’s reflection, and right now, I need that distance. But the reflection I see is me at age twelve. I look at me—at her—and my heart begins to pump harder, fiercer, sadder.

Her blue eyes are filled with a pain she hides from the world, and I want so badly to reach through the glass and save her from the life I know she’ll endure. I know that deep down she’s buried a small light of hope, and it kills me to know it’s just a wasted dream. This sweet, little, red-headed girl is destined for a life filled with anguish and despair, and there’s nothing I can do to save her. Her future is inevitable, written in the stars, and bound to the solidity that the fairytales she dreams about don’t exist. They never did.

Tucking my fingers in a tight fist, I feel the tingles in my palm. Everything clouds around my head in a swarm of shit memories and thoughts.

I’m stronger than this. Don’t break; I’m stronger than this pain.

But maybe I’m not strong. I just allowed Declan to f*ck me the same way Carl did, and I barely even fought him. I succumbed to him like the trash I am, gave him a piece of my worthless body for his selfish use.

SMASH!

A hundred eyes stare back at me, sad, pitiful, loathing eyes. My eyes. The clinking of broken glass falling onto the marbled sink is a song of despair, but it’s ruined with my panted breaths. I look into the broken mirror and I hate what I see. I hate what I am. I hate it all. And I want to hate Declan for what he just did, but I can’t. I can’t, and I hate myself even more for that fact.