Well. There’s my confirmation.
Preston wasn’t lying.
Violence thrums through my veins, and my body practically hums along with it. My brain lags and my heart is out of the question, so I focus on what my gut is saying.
The easy thing to do would be to try and endure. To hold off until Jonas and my maybe cavalry arrive, but who knows what shape I’ll be in at that point?
Easier is not always better.
I struggle against him, trying to get my hand up enough to knock him loose with the iron, but then he’s reaching for my throat and crushing my windpipe.
“Stop being such a pissy little brat,” he snarls, nails cutting into my skin.
Then, he shifts, freeing one of my arms, seemingly unbeknownst to him. It slides up my chest, snatching the brush hidden in my cleavage.
Curling my fingers around the handle, I suck in a deep breath, ground my feet into the floor, and hope that one day I’m able to come to terms with my decision.
Relying on pure adrenaline and instinct, I rear my arm up around my head and drive the handle into the side of his throat. A brief pause ensues, and I feel him reach up to clutch the wound, but then I pull it out and repeat the motion, adding even more force behind it.
Then I do it again.
And again.
And again.
Until finally, his hand falls away from my throat, and I hear his body hit the floor.
I stand still for several minutes after, staring at the door even as my father’s blood drips down my scalp, trailing a path along my spine. Over my shoulders. It clings to me, along with the lead weight of his threats—followed quickly by the ghost of promises made when I was younger.
That he’d never hurt me.
That he wanted me to be happy.
The paintbrush falls from my hand, and I lean against the door. I want to sink into it, to become one with the wood so maybe everything would hurt a little less.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, but the voice that breaks through the darkness coaxes the first of many tears from my exhausted, dirty body. Like lightning striking a storm cloud, igniting everything it touches.
“Well.” That smug British accent skates over my skin. “Better you than me, love.”
Pushing off the door, I launch myself into Jonas’s arms before waiting to make sure he’ll catch me.
He does.
Naturally.
They wrap tight around my waist, and he buries his head into my neck. I wince, pain ebbing where the brand brushes against him.
Pulling back, he cradles my face with calloused hands. “Are you all right, love?”
I shake my head, tears rolling over his fingers. “No,” I whisper, wishing more than anything that I could see him. Take some sort of comfort in those violet eyes and let myself get lost in their depths.
But if the lights come on, that means I’d see my father, too.
So, instead, I pray they remain off a little bit longer.
Scooping me into his arms, Jonas fits his shoulder against the wall, as if using it to judge his movements. I lay my head against his chest as he carries me, and my eyelids get so heavy that I decide to rest them for a moment.
When I open them again, I’m lying on the sofa in the living room. The lights have been restored, my dress has been discarded and replaced with an oversized T-shirt, and the fireplace warms my toes. Jonas sits on a stool at my side, glaring at the branding iron on the floor.
Across the room, Preston sits with his back against the wall. His wrists are handcuffed, and his arms are bound with a thick nylon rope, while packing tape covers his mouth.
Not to mention, he’s completely naked, and his hands are positioned, so he holds his flaccid dick between them. Humiliation colors his skin in reds and purples, and the glare he sends me could probably kill if I wasn’t already dead inside.
Looking at the man by my side, though, feeling warm in spite of everything that has happened tonight, I remind myself that it’s not true.
That the damage they did isn’t permanent, because I’m no longer allowing it to be.
“He’d been watching us,” Jonas says through clenched teeth. “I kept seeing things outside, shadows at night, but I didn’t think to look. Didn’t think it’d be anyone, because the security cameras never picked up on anything. Then, when Mileena showed up, I figured it’d just been her creepy arse.”
Drawing a deep breath, he shakes his head. Scrubs a hand over his face. “This brand isn’t even one of mine. He copied it. Watched us together. Watched you alone in my house. Knew where you’d be, what you’d be doing. He… he saw everything, Lenny. Like some sick Peeping fucking Tom.”
Pushing into a sitting position, I tuck my hair behind my ears and crawl to him. Without hesitation, Jonas yanks me into his lap and releases a shuddering breath against my throat. He pulls back, tugging the neck of the T-shirt down a bit, cursing under his breath.
“And now he’s done this to you. Hurt you—”
“No,” I interject, gripping his chin. “I did that. He had no part in it, except that he threatened me with it in the first place.”
His violet eyes are wide as they roam over my face, and he squeezes my hips. “You burned my initial into your skin?”
I nod, biting my lip as his gaze seems to darken.
“Well, that doesn’t change the fact that he tried to take you from me.” His hand skims along my spine, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“But he didn’t.”
“The impact does not negate intent, in this case. I want him to suffer.”
Nodding again, I realize I’m barely even paying him any attention. My body’s so content, fit tight and snug against his after the uncertainty from this evening, and my heart feels so fucking full that nothing else is really registering.
“Lenny.” He stills my hips, which I didn’t notice were even moving until he pinches me. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, swallowing.
And I don’t, really. This isn’t a normal response to trauma—or maybe it is.
Maybe your response has more to do with the circumstances themselves and your personal reaction to them, rather than the rightness of the situation.
My pelvis shifts and I feel him grow thick and stiff beneath me. “Lenny,” he admonishes, and a small vein bulges against his forehead. “Stop it.”
Shaking my head, I reach down and tug the hem of the shirt up my thighs, revealing my bare pussy. Frowning, I give him a look. “Hey. Where’d the lingerie go?”
“Thrown out.”
“Rude. I didn’t even get to see your reaction to it.” I pout, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his white dress shirt, yanking it from his black pants. “Have I ever told you how much I like you in a suit?”
“Maybe tell me when we don’t have an audience, and you’re not in shock or healing from physical wounds.”
I blow a raspberry with my lips, then lean forward and lick the seam of his mouth. Frissons of heat coil tight in my core, and I sit up straighter, looking him directly in the eye. “This will hurt him,” I say, pleading.
“This shouldn’t be about him.”
“It’s not.” When I reach for his belt, he doesn’t stop me. “Just an added bonus.”
He’s silent as I work him free, and I grin when he pops out, heavy in my palm. Preston starts making noises, struggling against his binds, but I don’t bother looking at him.