Echo (Black Lotus #2)(37)

“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.

I deserved it. I deserve even worse.

If this is his way of punishing me, then I’ll suppress the need to fight him. I’ll bear it and take it without enmity.

Concentrating on calming myself down, I turn on the faucet and cup my hands under the cold water. My knuckles sting as the water flushes the split skin. It takes my blood and runs red down the drain. I allow the coolness to numb the wound.

After taking a few sips from my hands and rinsing my mouth out, I start opening the drawers and cabinets to find a couple bandages to cover my knuckles. Once I have the band-aids in place, I undo my pants to clean up. Flinching when I wipe myself, I look to see the toilet paper streaked in blood from his assault.

I splash a little water on my face, and finger-comb my hair, before I open the door and take slow steps through the bedroom. I’m timid and nervous about walking out of this room, about facing Declan, about what will happen next. Making my way down the stairs, I don’t see him, so I head to the kitchen where I left my coat and the keys to the car.

I stop when I see Declan leaning over the counter. I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. His back faces me as he’s bent over, leaning on his elbows with head in hands. The rise and fall of his shoulders is noticeable as he stands there, slightly disheveled in his tailored slacks and untucked button-up.

When he senses my presence, he shifts his head to look at me and I notice his reddened eyes. The shame is written all over him, staining him in humiliation, but I’m the only one who should feel it. Not him.

He pushes back from the counter and stands up, facing me, and when I take a slow step into the kitchen, I’m overwhelmed with the need to give him honest pieces of me. To open up with truths he’s never heard before. To finally let him inside of me.