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She chose to step over me and leave me for dead, and there are consequences for that choice. She can’t use her past and expect me to forgive.
It’s not like she’s asking for forgiveness anyway. The limited knowledge I have of the woman is she’s always unremorseful, and I have no doubt this situation is no different.
“It should’ve been me,” she mutters, her voice tired and distant. “Instead of Liana, it should’ve been me. Maybe things would be different. Maybe my life wouldn’t be in fucking shambles.”
She empties the dark liquid down her throat, and I hate the unblemished sight of it. My bruises should still be there. My mark should be painting her skin in blues and purples.
A soft, humorless chuckle erupts from her when she realizes she has drained the whiskey bottle.
“If you’re going to kill me, do it while I’m awake not asleep.” She gives me a weak smile, but it does nothing to detract from the darkness in her eyes. “I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
I don’t respond, and from the blank look on her face, she doesn’t expect me to. Most of the time we’ve spent together has been in silence, and there’s no need to change things up now.
I don’t tell her I won’t take her life, but I know I couldn’t. We’re too alike. Ending her would be like ending my own reflection, an impossible task.
Hurting her, torturing her, fuck, making her come is just too much fun.
I wince from the sound, knowing she’s going to have one hell of a headache tomorrow, when her forehead thumps on the table. Soft sounds escape her lips, making it evident she’s finally passed out.
I should leave her just like she is, just like I left her on the floor the first time I fucked her, over a week ago, but there’s just something a little too lifeless about the way her arms are hanging down, her neck at the wrong angle, that gets me to my feet.
I’m not careful with her. I don’t squat low and gently lift her from the chair. I pick her up like I hate her because I do. Tossing her on the bed is lethargic, but I hate she isn’t awake to experience it.
After stripping out of my sweats and making sure my gun is on my bedside table, I drop to the itchy sheets.
I can’t fucking wait to be rid of this woman and back home.
Chapter 16
Lauren
“It’s not like you’re the only fucking person to live through tragedy.”
His voice startles me, but even through the haze of alcohol, I’m able to stay completely still.
I can tell I’m in the bed, despite not knowing how I got here. There’s only one way, but I refuse to think about him being kind enough to ensure some level of comfort for me.
He’s not a kind or generous man, so it may mean he hurt me while I was passed out. I take quick stock of my body, but other than the throbbing headache, I can’t perceive any other injuries.
Did he fuck me while I was asleep?
The thought of it makes my heart rate pick up. How fucked would that be? How utterly perfect?
But, no, I don’t sense that it happened. There’s no way of avoiding that burn his intrusion provides. It lasts for days, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. I want to tell him not to start going soft on me just yet, but I keep my mouth and eyes closed.
“My father murdered my mother right before my eyes. I did nothing. Probably still wouldn’t change what happened if I could go back to that day. You don’t see me getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself.”
I hate myself for my drunken confessions, but him doing the same in return doesn’t ease me of any regret. I don’t give a shit about this man. I don’t care what he suffered. Most days, I don’t care what I went through other than using it as the fuel for my self-destruction. I said those things because I couldn’t stop myself, not because I wanted pity or sympathy.
He sure as fuck better not expect any of that from me. He’s not going to get it.
I groan internally, knowing I spilled all of it. Liana killing my father before killing herself. Her being pregnant as a product of rape. My grandmother trash talking her because she’d never believe the truth.
Fuck, I told him about the diary and the necklace.
It makes me look weak for holding onto something as simple as a cheap necklace. I fucking hate weakness.
“My father is still alive, and I wouldn’t doubt he’s hurt another woman since killing my mother. It’s not like he was the type of man that could fucking survive on his own. Make his own bed? Wash his own clothes? Cook his own meals? Not fucking likely.”