Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(32)

“What is that?” Porter demanded, storming toward me.

“I don’t know—”

“On your wrist. Did he do that to you?” He ripped my hand from the doorknob and inspected my arm, his eyes growing even wider when he saw the damage I’d done to myself.

“No, of course not.”

“Tell me the truth, Brin. Did that sick f*ck do this to you?” His eyes were wild, flaring with anger.

“No! I told you no!” I yelled.

I never yelled. Not since I was a child playing games with my siblings, had I shouted at another human being.

What is this man doing to me?

“Fine,” he conceded. “Then what the hell is this?”

He obviously wouldn’t stop until he got an answer, so I whispered, “I did it.” I stared into his eyes, feeling disgusted at myself and my reasons for doing what I did.

“Why?”

I couldn’t answer. I turned my gaze to focus on the window, wishing I were a bird, wishing I could fly away from the truth. Every last bit of it.

“Why, Brin? Why did you hurt yourself like this?”

I closed my eyes as tears streamed down my hot cheeks. “You,” I whispered. “When I think of you, I pinch myself. So I’ll stop.”

He dropped my hand, his mouth agape. He took my cheeks in his hands as tears formed in his eyes. Then Porter lunged at me, claiming my mouth with his own, his body a live wire wanting to feed upon me. He pressed his body against me, pushing me against the door, and the sharp edges of the lock dug into the small of my back.

I yelped in pain. My cry didn’t faze Porter, still aggressively pressing his lips against mine. Fear built within me and I shoved at his chest, pushing him away from me.

“Stop!” I yelled when he wouldn’t pull away. When I turned my face, denying him access to my mouth, he pressed forward anyway, inadvertently ramming his forehead into the door. I gasped in surprise and Porter pulled away, his eyes crazed from the drugs in his system.

When he took in the fear evident in my face, in my body language, he trembled and turned away, then paced to the other side of the room. Suddenly he pulled back his fist and punched the gray wall, leaving a dent in the smooth surface. He grunted in pain and clasped his knuckles close to his chest.

I wanted to run to him, to comfort him and kiss his hand. But I was too afraid.

Porter slumped onto the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. His breathing was ragged, his chest and back heaving. I reached back to the doorknob, not sure of what I should do. I wanted to run, to go back home where I knew I was safe.

But I couldn’t leave him. Not like this.

And so I stood there mutely, watching him breathe deeply and calm himself. I was too afraid to go to him, but leaving the apartment wasn’t an option I could accept. I had to know he’d be all right.

“Brin, I—” He lifted his head and searched my eyes with his. “I’m so, so sorry. I know I’m f*cked up right now. I know that. When I’m like this, I just . . . I can’t kiss you. Because I want more. Too much more.”

“You scared me.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry. Please don’t go. I won’t kiss you, I promise. Just—please, stay.”

He patted the bed next to him and I hesitated, not knowing if I could trust him while he was clearly on some sort of drug. I swallowed hard, not breaking eye contact.

“Hold on a second. I’ll be right back.” Porter leaped from the bed and walked past me, opening the door and closing it behind him.

Willing my body to calm, I distracted myself by inspecting his room. I wanted to understand Porter, to feel connected to him again.

His bedroom looked nothing like the rooms I was used to. Ours were clean at all times, yet his was a disaster. Clothes were flung across the floor. The walls of my bedroom were covered in photos of the Cluff family, as well as pictures of my parents, sisters, and brothers. Porter’s walls held no pictures. None. Porter had no memories to cling to, nothing to keep him going. He only had the present, and the possibility of a future.

The door opened, jolting me back to our reality. A wicked smile lifted the corners of Porter’s mouth as he revealed his hands to me, both covered in dark blue oven mitts. There he stood, wearing nothing but a pair of faded jeans and two ridiculous oven mitts.

I burst out laughing. “What on earth?”

“I told you, I won’t touch you. I promise. Here, I brought tape,” he said, awkwardly lifting one of the mitts to reveal a large roll of packing tape. “You know, in case you wanted to tape them to my arms.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“Don’t be silly.” I took the tape from his mitt-covered hand. “That tape will rip your skin off.”

“I don’t care.” He shrugged, placing his hands on his hips. He was obviously being sincere, but I couldn’t help but laugh again.

“I can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing those things.”

“Okay, fine.” He chuckled. “Will you stay? We can just talk.”

“I’d like that.”

He walked to the bed and I followed. We crawled over the rumpled blanket and sat next to each other, leaning our backs against the painted wall. Porter rested his mitt-covered hands on his thighs. True to his word, he didn’t try to touch me. Not once.