Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(54)
My palms dig into the ground on either side of her head, but I feel it against my knee when her hand shifts. Sliding my gaze downward, I try to swallow down my amusement when I realize what she’s holding.
A paintbrush, medium thick and broken into a shiv-like device at one end. My sweet little puppet’s go-to defense mechanism, the weapon that makes her so uniquely her.
Slowly, she lifts her hand between us, knuckles white from how hard she’s gripping the handle. Touching the sharp end to my chest, she still doesn’t speak. The wood tip stabs through my shirt and into my skin, but just barely; she’ll need more leverage if she wants to actually do any damage at this angle.
Chuckling, I wrap my fingers around her tiny palm, urging her to push harder as I rock my hips into her. Her swallow is audible, and she parts her legs—just slightly, but enough that I feel the shift.
“Interesting form of foreplay,” I murmur, biting back a moan as she swivels her pelvis up, meeting the roll of mine. “But you always were a bit murderous, weren’t you?”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she says.
“I want to. Desperately.” Cocking my head to the side, I give it an incredulous shake, because I can’t believe the sentiment, nor that I’m admitting it.
“Because you think I’m weird?”
“Because I think you’re terrifying.”
With a sigh, she releases the pressure on the paintbrush, and I’m racked with the sudden, inexplicable urge to lean down and kiss her. To seal this night between us as some kind of monument, attaching it to our relationship indefinitely.
I dip down, allowing the tip of the brush to stay notched against my pec, and I don’t feel the movement of her free arm. My focus remains solely on her pretty, puffy lips, and the image of my cock sliding between them not even an hour ago takes root, blotting out all logical thought and self-awareness.
When the blunt object smacks into the side of my head, it takes a moment for the ringing in my ear to catch up with my sudden loss of vision. A grunt falls into the air, whisked away on a sea breeze, though I’m not sure who it belongs to.
The object comes down again, something dull but thick, and this time it sounds as if something in my skull cracks.
Pushing off of her, I clutch at the wound, my fingers coming away slick as I feel around beneath my hair. I’m too stunned to speak, and as soon as my eyes meet hers again, she manages to wiggle out from under me before I can comprehend what’s just happened.
A large rock falls to the ground in front of me as she jumps to her feet, and this time when she bolts, I let her.
25
My first thought is to run back into the beach house, but then I don’t want to think about how Jonas will retaliate. Attacking him was definitely not something I saw coming, but the urge to free myself became overwhelming, and my body moved before my brain could catch up.
Fight or flight kicked in, and any progress I’ve made at overcoming my issues seemed to take a complete back seat. The most impulsive of impulses—violence.
I duck past the back of the house and keep walking, through the fields of tall grass and wildflowers, the broken paintbrush wrapped tight in my fist. By the time I make it to the main road, my feet ache in my Prada flats and I’m shivering, even though it’s not actually that cold.
Shock seems to have a choke hold on my system, though, and when my feet touch the pavement, I just stand and stare at it for a few seconds. Definitely not a good idea coming out here alone, and while I could probably make it downtown by sunrise, I realize that I don’t really want to.
Turning around, I consider trying to retrace my steps and go back the way I came.
Maybe Jonas won’t be angry.
Biting my lip, I touch the cut on my forehead, wincing as it smarts.
Sure, Len. He’ll probably welcome you back with open arms.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I open up my contacts and hit Cash’s name first. Even though he’s back in Boston, he’s the most likely to be awake right now, and the most likely to come get me.
He doesn’t answer.
Headlights shine against me as I hit Palmer’s number, and my stomach flip-flops as I wait to see what the car does. Tension clogs my throat as it passes, fear that whoever was at the house has followed me, but they don’t even slow down.
Heaving a sigh of relief, I bring the phone back to my ear and get Palmer’s voice mail.
I can’t call my parents. They’d never let me live it down, and Daddy would have me moved back into the mansion before lunch. Mama would use this as another opportunity to try and drive a wedge between Jonas and I, fitting Preston in the middle like he isn’t a major factor in why I left in the first place.
Technically, I could call a taxi, but even then I’m running the risk of paparazzi seeing me and running with some convoluted story. In fact, the longer I stand here, the greater that risk becomes, and I start to panic at the idea.
My finger taps a button at the last second, before I can consider the consequences, and when a white pickup truck turns onto the street a half hour later, I feel stupid.
A pang of guilt and shame ripple through my chest as the truck comes to a stop at the curb. After a pause, the driver’s door swings open, and Preston climbs out, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his blue jeans.
Immediately, I regret the decision. Should’ve known Mama would send him.