Page 47 of Broken by my Bully (Lessons in Cruelty Dark Academia #1)

Bastian

Fuck. Why the hell is it so bright in here?

I push away from the white sheets and white pillows, squinting as I stumble into the bathroom.

Jesus, I’m still fucking drunk.

I’m still fucking drunk, and there’s a nineteen-year-old girl in my living room who asked if I was going to fuck her hard enough to see God last night. The same girl whose throat still bears another man’s fingerprints. The same girl I’ve been jerking off to for weeks.

The same girl I’m planning to destroy.

A much needed piss later, I splash water on my face and avoid looking at my reflection as I grab the closest towel.

It smells like Haven.

I rip away the soft, downy fabric and stare at the streaks of foundation and mascara on the stained towel. Almost absently, I swipe my hand over the granite counter’s cool, white surface.

Traces of cocaine cling to my fingers.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck !

I toss the towel to the floor and rush out of my bathroom, through my bedroom, and nearly skid on the carpet when I burst into the living area and hurriedly stop.

Haven lies sprawled on her stomach on the sofa.

One arm dangles over the side, the back of her hand resting on the floor. Her lips are parted, her eyes closed. Mascara smudged under her eyes.

Her hair is tangled, her dress creased and riding all the way up one thigh.

Only one shoe on one pretty foot.

She’s not breathing.

Jesus.

My fingertips are laced over the top of my head, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel tooth enamel squeaking.

I need to call an ambulance.

No, fuck , what am I thinking? No one can find her here.

How could I have let this happen?

Why the hell didn’t I let her sleep in her car last night? I insisted she stay with me. Insisted she drink more wine. Insisted I wouldn’t go psycho on her.

Why the fuck did she believe me?

My cellphone chimes urgently—my usual morning alarm. But there’s nothing routine about waking up with a dead girl in your?—

Haven snorts, drags in a ragged breath, turns her head, and starts snoring.

I bend, hands on my knees, and try to coax some air back into my lungs.

Belated memories of last night flood into my mind.

We ate together. Drank together. Listened to music together. Laughed at my musical taste, together.

Then it was late, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

And I couldn’t let her sleep in her fucking back seat like she always did.

Couldn’t call an Uber to take her home, because, according to Drunk Haven, home was where the heart was, and that was in her fucked up sedan parked next to my obnoxious Tesla.

Her words, not mine.

I tried to convince her to sleep in my bed, that I would take the couch, but that’s around when she passed out.

No way in hell I was moving her. What the hell would she think if she woke up in a different place than where she remembered falling asleep?

After how much she drank, though, I doubt she’ll remember anything at all.

I make us coffee, double strength. I could take pity on her—both of us—and call this a snow day, but that would set a pretty shitty example.

Plus, after the breakfast I have planned, she’ll be right as rain in an hour or two.

I take her coffee to her, setting it down on the table and shaking her shoulder. “Haven. Haven, wake up.”

“Ffffmmm.”

“Come on, girl. You’ll feel better after coffee and a shower.”

“Mmmfffgd.”

Which is ‘oh my fucking god’ in hangover. I spoke it fluently in my twenties.

“Yes, I know it hurts, but maybe you’ll remember to pace yourself next time,” I growl irritably.

I grab her under the arm and drag her into a sit.

Her head lolls to the side in an uncanny resemblance to the dead person I thought she was mere minutes ago.

“Haven.” I tap her face. “Haven!”

“Jaysusss,” she whispers, reluctantly opening a blood-shot eye. “Whaaat?”

“Coffee. Shower. Breakfast.” I snap my fingers on each. “You’ve got class.”

“You’ve got…” The other eye opens. “To be kidding,” she finishes lamely. “Puh-lease let me sleep.”

“Coffee. Shower.” I stand, crossing my arms.

She tips back her head, her chest heaving as she drags in a breath. “Fine.”

On her second failed attempt to get up, I grab her arm and help her to her feet. “And if you’re not done in five minutes, your breakfast is going in the trash.”

She tugs her arm free, hesitates, and then snatches up her coffee cup. As she half-stomps, half-staggers out of my living room, I swear I hear her mumble, “Yes, Daddy.”

I can’t help myself. I’m hungover, irritated, and already halfway to a hard on.

Haven yelps when I grab her arm, and again when I land a slap on her ass. “The fuck?” she whimpers, rubbing herself through her wrinkled dress.

“Keep sassing me, and there’ll be more where that came from.”

“Promise?” she whispers, still rubbing her ass.

I grab her chin, forcing her bloodshot eyes to mine. “Careful what you wish for, girl. I don’t do safe words.”

She sloshes coffee into her mouth, dragging a hand over her lips when some trickles down her chin.

“Who says I want safe?”

I take my coffee outside, hoping the combination of caffeine and fresh air will jumpstart my brain. And it seems to work until I turn to look back at my house. More specifically, the bedroom windows.

Being tinted, I can’t see inside them.

Doesn’t mean I can’t imagine what’s on the other side.

I should be a hell of a lot more worried about the fact that Haven’s in my shower right now. That she’s naked and wet, and that there’s nothing stopping me from walking in right now and fucking her against the shower wall.

Nothing stopping me from wrapping my hand around that bruised throat while I make her take every inch.

Nothing stopping me from making good on last night’s threat and fucking her so hard and deep I’ll ruin her for every fumbling boy who comes after.

Except, the laws of polite society have made it abundantly clear that anything approaching a relationship between me and my student would bring down a world of scorn and academic retribution.

I can’t fuck this up again.

Coke makes me reckless. Makes me want things I shouldn’t. Like my student bent over my kitchen counter, begging and panting and screaming as I?—

No.

This is what happens when I use.

I stop seeing boundaries.

Stop caring about consequences.

Agony Hollow is the perfect place for me to lie low. But it won’t be if I draw any more attention to myself than I already have.

So, yes, I could strip off my clothes and step into that shower with my nineteen-year-old student. She wouldn’t stop me. No one can stop me.

…what the fuck are you doing?…

Except me.

And this time, I will.

My eyes focus on the glass instead of trying to peer through. There’s a dark smear on the window, and when my gaze trails down, it latches onto the heap of feathers and maggots below.

Fuck.

How long has that tiny carcass been out here, breeding flies?

This is what happens when I start doing coke—I stop paying attention.

I get sloppy. I fuck up.

And I’m always left with casualties.

Haven’s going to be next if I’m not careful.

Just another broken bird with a broken neck thinking it was free, that the reflection in the window was the sky.