Page 42 of Broken by my Bully (Lessons in Cruelty Dark Academia #1)

Haven

A loud bang wrenches me from the deepest, most luxurious sleep I’ve ever slept.

I sit up with a strangled gasp, swinging to the source of the sound.

I’m still in Professor Rooke’s house. And if this was one of those ‘spot the difference’ puzzles, the only difference I can see is a dark smear on one of the bedroom windows that wasn’t there before.

The fuck was that?

More importantly, why the fuck am I still at Professor Rooke’s house?

I take a few quick breaths, trying to calm down my racing heart. Talk about a fucking jump scare.

“Prof—” I cut off. “Bastian?”

There’s a weird echo in this house that tells me I’m alone. It should be comforting.

No awkward conversations. No regretting just about everything that happened yesterday.

Instead, it makes me feel exposed, like there’s no one to protect me if a wolf charges through the door to tear out my throat.

Jeez, my imagination mill got to work early this morning. Must be the fantastic night’s sleep I had on these duck down pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets.

I’d still be sleeping if it wasn’t for the thirst, or that noise. My throat is dry, my mouth gummy and gross.

Slipping reluctantly out of the warm, soft, impossibly silky bed, I pad over to the window to take a closer look.

“Aw, shit,” I murmur.

There’s a bird on the other side of the glass. Judging from the angle of its neck, its flying days are over.

I head into the bathroom and take a few sips of water from the faucet before emptying my bladder—another reason I was pulled from sleep.

As soon as I start peeing, I wince and nearly force myself to stop.

Fuck, Kai’s fingers did a real number on me down there. I’m shocked I don’t see blood when I wipe.

When I go to wash my hands, I spot my sundress on the railing where I left it to dry yesterday. My underwear is on the floor. I stare at it so long I have an afterimage, but then I see the rumpled towel on the rail where it had been.

Bastian must have dried himself off and tucked the towel in there without realizing he’d dislodged my underwear.

I force myself to snap out of the mental image of Professor Rooke drying off after a shower. Too slow, but I’m not mad about it. That’s going to live rent-free in my head for days to come.

I lean on my palms so I can get closer to the mirror.

It still looks like I barely survived a date with Patrick Bateman.

My hair looks like shit. There are dark smudges under my eyes. But whatever Professor Rooke put on my neck has drastically improved the marks on my throat. And the painkillers he gave me were the stuff of dreams. I mean, I feel nothing.

Nothing .

Okay, I feel a little sexy. My bare legs rubbing together under a soft hoodie that smells like my professor, who the fuck wouldn’t?

A massive shift from how I felt yesterday when I stopped at Lookout Point. When I was still tender, stinging, aching, and so fucking stuck in my head, I didn’t know if I was coming or going.

…you like being used like this, don’t you?…

Fuck, I wish I was normal and sane, but I guess I’m not. Because it did feel good. Kai’s hand wrapped around my throat made me want to leave my body…and that was before he added his fingers to the mix.

When I step back and lift my hands to do something about my hair, I notice white streaks on my palms.

I hadn’t seen the ghostly traces of powder on the white granite countertop.

Baby powder?

Dried shaving cream?

…coke?

The last is a ridiculous thought, but I duck down until I’m eye level with the counter. As soon as I see the faint outline of the lines, my stomach grows heavy.

My uncle loved coke. Fuck knows where he got the money for it, unless it was some sub-par rip-off. He’d cut his lines anywhere he could find a clean surface. I don’t know how many times I’d get white powder on my school clothes when I leaned in to spit out my toothpaste in the bathroom sink.

I quickly wash my hands and then scrub them with a towel. I probably can’t get a contact high from just touching it, but still. I need a clear head if I’m going to remember where the hell I parked my car so I can get out of here.

Bastian’s hoodie is so warm and cozy I have to work up the motivation to change back into my sundress, but I can’t exactly leave with his clothes, either. I’m many things, but I’m not a thief.

That’s when I notice the stack of clothes beside the vanity. There’s a note on top of them.

These should fit better .

The pile yields a black t-shirt, so washed out that its print is illegible. A pair of sweatpants, just as worn. These feel like something you dig out of the attic, but they smell freshly laundered. Not a moth-eaten hole or rip in sight.

They’re a hell of a lot better than my sundress, so I slip into them and try to ignore the way Bastian’s laundry detergent smells on me.

There’s another note on the kitchen counter, on top of a few pages of stapled papers.

Hope you slept well.

Make yourself comfortable + help yourself to anything you desire.

I’m sure you’ll find this week’s study material most fitting.

Everything about it feels polite and professional…but my eyes keep darting back to one phrase.

…anything you desire…

Is this what being sexually frustrated feels like?

God, it’s fucking awful.

The house is so silent, it feels like it’s holding its breath as I wander into the kitchen to take a peek in Bastian’s fridge. And even though he gave me permission, it still feels all kinds of wrong to rifle through the contents, pulling out this and that.

Oat milk, cottage cheese, blueberries, free-range eggs, avocados, spinach. No wonder he’s in such good shape. The most decadent thing in here is the bottle of white wine in the door.

There’s frozen meat in the freezer compartment. Ice cubes. And a big tub of ice cream.

I fight back a squeal.

It’s rocky road.

I snatch it out and start pulling open the drawers to find a spoon. My sigh of pleasure as I plop down on a kitchen stool and crack open that ice cream is a sound I haven’t heard in a long, long time .

My eyes drift closed as I scoop a bite of ice cream into my mouth and let it dissolve on my tongue. Does this guy have any idea how lucky he is? I’d kill to live in a place like this. Ice cream in the freezer. Healthy, gorgeous food in the fridge.

And it’s so quiet.

I take the tub with me as I go to stand by the massive sliding glass doors leading into the backyard. It’s impossibly beautiful out there, late afternoon light filtering through the leaves in slivers of gold and amber.

God, how I’d love to wake up in a place like this every morning. Having a cup of coffee on the porch in one of those rocking chairs, listening to the surviving birds singing, the rustle of leaves.

My significant other busy in the kitchen, making blueberry pancakes.

Is it weird that Kai pops into my head, not Bastian?

I suppose my brain is trying to keep things age-appropriate, and there’s nothing appropriate—age, or otherwise—about me waking up beside Professor Rooke.

I take another few bites of ice cream as I soak in the luxurious ambience.

I’m interrupted by a very rude, but very intriguing thought.

God, how could I forget?

The spoon dangles from my mouth as I hurry over to Bastian’s bookshelf with its dark, gleaming wood. I squat so I can peer into the bottom row of books.

What the fuck?

Just a bunch of paperback novels. Where are the spiral-bound notebooks I saw the last time I was here? The ones I could have sworn were Activity Logs?

He must have moved them, but why?

…because he saw me looking at them?

Nah, that’s a stretch, even for my insane levels of paranoia. But now I’ve got an itch that needs to be scratched, and a tub of rocky road for a faithful sidekick, and permission to help myself to anything I desire.

Answers, Sir. I’ll have some answers, please.

One of my knees pops as I stand to look around.

The professor’s house is a large rectangular block. The master bedroom spans the entire width of the east wing, with the living area between it and the kitchen area. There’s a wall with another inset sliding door like the bedroom has, except this one has always been closed.

Thankfully, it’s unlocked.

I assumed it was an office or a scullery.

Turns out it’s a long passage with a study at the end.

Dark furniture, thick slate gray carpets, even darker art prints.

If it weren’t for the wraparound glass windows opening to such a spectacular view of the surrounding woodland, it would be depressing as fuck in here.

But this feels almost like an animal hide, a place where Professor Rooke can observe without being seen.

“Wow,” I murmur, trailing my fingers over the soft leather of a dark gray office chair. Everything in here looks like it costs a couple thousand dollars, especially the massive glass ball with a blue butterfly trapped flawlessly inside the crystal.

There’s another bookshelf in here, much smaller. Journals and stacks of paper covered in hand-written notes, like discarded drafts of a book. I rifle through some of them, but it’s all psychobabble that is way too highbrow for me to decipher.

Something shiny catches my eye. I turn to the desk and stare at the big gift-wrapped package near Bastian’s computer keyboard. I walk over and run my hand down the beautiful black paper, the embossed gold design skimming against my fingertips.

Must be a gift, but there’s no card, no name.

I gently pick it up, weighing it. I thought it was a box, but it’s too floppy.

Heavy, too, and unfortunately still sealed up tight. If I could have peeled off the tape without damaging the paper, I’d have risked opening it.

I search the rest of the room, but I don’t find the spiral-bound notebooks. I’m just about to leave when I see a practically invisible door beside a monochromatic painting. The wood is painted the same color as the wall, and even has a rough texture applied to it, as if to make it blend in.