Page 48 of Broken by my Bully (Lessons in Cruelty Dark Academia #1)

Haven

My back thuds into the wall beside the front door of Bastian’s house.

“I ate too much,” I whine, hand on my belly like I’m waiting to feel my food baby kick.

“No one was force feeding you.”

“Still your fault. You shouldn’t have made the food taste so good.”

“Noted. Nothing but dried toast next time.”

Next time?

I glare over at him in his neatly pressed clothes as he joins me at the door. He stops to pick up his wallet and car keys, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Every movement precise, no hesitation. Was that tea in his tumbler last night?

“You don’t even look hungover.”

“Oh, baby, if you only knew how my head felt.” He grimaces. “Fuck. Okay.” Bastian holds up his hand. “I’m going to stop saying things like, ‘gosh, that was inappropriate.’ We’re way, way past that fucking point.”

His eyes meet mine briefly before flicking away, like he can’t bear looking at me.

My shoulders tense, and I drop my gaze .

He’s right.

I passed out on his couch last night.

No surprise, since I drank so much that I remember nothing after the peanut butter cups.

“I’m never drinking again,” I mutter, leaning my head on my forearm as I wait for him to open the front door.

I keep trying to tell him I’m in no state to go to class, but he just keeps saying things like “Just one foot in front of the other,” and, “You’re stronger than you think you are.”

I’m pretty sure he just wants me the hell out of his house.

This isn’t a good look for him. Herding a trashed student out of his home at eight in the morning?

I snort.

Maybe that’s why he lives all the way out here.

No witnesses.

He goes to open the Tesla, and I veer toward it, squinting up at the sun like it’s purposefully on kill mode.

I head for the passenger door, but it doesn’t open when I tug on the handle.

“Yo,” I call out. Rap my knuckle on the glass. “Open, please.”

Bastian stares at me over the top of his car. “You’re not driving with me.”

“Sorry, what the fuck now?” I close one eye as I drag hair out of my face with a swipe of my hand. I’m leaning against the car, because it’s that or slide to the ground.

“Christ…” He stares at me for such a long time, I look around for a place to sit because I’m feeling woozy. “Okay, fuck it. Come here.”

He holds out a hand, flicking his hand at me, an annoyed twist to his mouth. “How’d you let yourself get this drunk, anyway?”

“You were s’posed to cut me off,” I say, holding up a finger.

“And you’re supposed to know your own limits,” he snaps.

“Hey! I’m new to this whole…” I hold out my arm. “Alcoholic thing. ”

“Are you still drunk?” He double-times around the car, grabbing my wrist and jerking me to face him.

“Fuck. Ow.” I stare blearily up at him. “Yessir. Maybe?” Then I close one eye, because it seems to stop the world spinning. “How does one tell?”

He takes a big breath and then scrapes his fingers over his scalp. “Okay, okay. Here.” He takes his phone out of his pocket, and taps on it a few times. “Go inside, get some sleep. I’ll be back at noon to collect you.”

“Collect me where?”

Bastian’s impatient sigh sounds like a retro teakettle. “Just…go sleep it off.” With a flick of his hand, he dismisses me. “Go on. And drink lots of water.”

“Sleep. Water.” I head for his house, sticking my thumb up into the air without looking back. “Gotcha.”

“Guess I’ll do this myself then,” I hear him mumble as I slip back into his house.

But I’m entirely focused on getting into his warm, soft, silky bed. I make two detours though. The first, to fetch a big glass of filtered water from the kitchen. And the second, to pluck a t-shirt from his closet.

The water goes on the nightstand, the t-shirt goes over my head. A second later, my bra is on the floor, and my ass is under the sheets.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

“Haven!” a voice whisper-shouts urgently.

My grainy eyes reluctantly open to slits. I stare at the dark, foreign ceiling, trying to figure out if the voice I heard was part of a dream, or someone actually calling my name.

Oh, fuck. Someone’s inside here with me.

My eyes are barely cracked open. Eyelashes fluttering. Bastian’s room is dark, like a storm slid over the house while I was sleeping. I can’t open my eyes any wider. I’m too groggy.

“Haven.”

I try to move my head, but I can’t. I’m on my back, spreadeagled, but all I can move are my eyes. They flicker left, right, then forward, looking toward the foot of the bed.

To where the voice came from.

The top of someone’s head slowly bobs up from the shadows at the foot of the bed. A balding scalp, a few licks of pale hair standing this way and that.

No. No!

Jesus, no, this isn’t fucking happening!

My heart is thundering inside my chest, every muscle on my body clenching in terror. I can’t breathe, can’t scream.

Can’t. Fucking. Look. Away.

Uncle Lenny lifts his head until his manic, blood-shot blue eyes lock with mine. I mentally will him to vanish, will him not to rise further so I don’t have to look at his chapped lips, or the diseased, nearly toothless mouth beyond.

I still can’t move.

Fear and panic swirl together, making me feel dizzy despite lying on my back. I’m trapped in my body, forced to stare through slitted eyes at the demon huddled at the foot of the bed.

Waiting in terror for him to climb onto the mattress.

My throat vibrates as I try to scream, but barely a whimper escapes.

Help! Help! Bastian, please, please, Bastian! Help!

My body unlocks just as I manage a harrowing moan. I sit up with an awful gasp, grabbing my legs and dragging them close, trying to get them away from the hands I knew were seconds away from latching on.

But there’s no one at the foot of the bed.

I throw my head to the side, scanning Bastian’s gloomy bedroom.

Empty.

It was just a nightmare.

Except I was awake. I know I was. My eyes were open the whole fucking time.

Then there’s the smell lingering in my nose .

Stale cigarettes, cheap beer.

The tingle of phantom hands still dragging over my skin, fingernails scraping?—

No.

I’m in Bastian’s bed.

Bastian’s house.

Safe.

As safe as a lamb can be in a wolf’s den.

A sharp pain spears through my temples. Then again. I exhale, draw in a lungful of air, exhale again. I’d been holding my breath, listening for the sound of someone scuttling away.

Oh, God, that hurts.

It feels like someone’s trying to ring my skull like the Liberty Bell.

And that’s before I start sobbing.

But I only let it go on for a minute or two before I drag myself back toward myself. I slap my face a few times, swipe tears out of my eyes, and force a calm breath deep into my lungs.

Uncle Lenny can’t hurt me anymore.

That dreadful phase of my life is over. It didn’t kill me, it only made me stronger. So enough with the crying and the feeling sorry for myself.

I scan the room again, just in case.

A jolt of panic goes through me when I realize it’s not storming, but that it’s twilight outside.

I’ve been sleeping the whole day?

Where is Bastian?

Did he come back and?—

The bathroom door slides back on its hinges, and my professor steps out wearing a towel…and nothing else.

Oh, sweet baby Jesus.

He’s staring at his phone, so he hasn’t even noticed that I’m awake yet. Which means I have all the time in the world to objectify his corded arms, his slim waist, the dark hair on his chest that narrows to a path heading straight to his? —

“Oh, good. You’re up. I was just Googling the best place to bury your body.”

My gaze flicks to his eyes. They’re crinkled at the corners, mirroring his warm smile.

“That’s dark.” My voice cracks.

“Just how I like it,” he murmurs.

My laugh is uneasy, but not because of his stupid joke. I can feel how hot my face is, how puffy my eyes are.

And someone as intelligent and observant as Professor Rooke doesn’t miss those cues.

“Haven…have you been crying?”

“No.” I turn away, and then shuffle to the edge of the bed so I can stand up and avoid further interrogation.

Unfortunately, the hungover, half-drunk fool who’d possessed my body this morning had decided it would be a good idea to only come to bed in a t-shirt and underwear.

Bastian’s much taller than me, but his t-shirt barely reaches past my ass. And while his t-shirt smells glorious, feels glorious, and might even look glorious draping off me like a nightshirt, if you’re into that kind of thing, there’s no way I’m letting my professor see me half naked.

Even though, technically, it would make us even at this point.

Even though, technically, I was in the wrong for putting on his clothes in the first place.

Although…was I? I’m in his house, in his bed. I’ve eaten his food, drunk his wine, gotten drunk on his wine.

I’m pretty drunk on him , actually. Like DUI levels of intoxicated.

Maybe I want him to see me half-naked.

Maybe I want him to see me all-the-way naked.

Maybe I want him to explain how he came to the conclusion that sex was better than chocolate because I was doing it wrong.

But I’m supposed to be keeping my head down and getting a degree, not sleeping with one of my professors.

So nope .

Standing up is not an option.

I drag the sheets around my middle, trying to be inconspicuous about it.

Shouldn’t have bothered.

Bastian is more concerned with my tear-stained face than with my exposed ass.

“Talk to me.” He drops to a crouch, and even kneeling, he radiates dominance. The intensity in his dark eyes is too much to handle, so I look away.

“I had a bad dream.”

“About?” His thumb finds my knee through the sheet.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” The word is soft, almost affectionate. “Was it Kai?”

“No,” I scoff.

“So there’s someone else I should be worried about? Who?”

My breath catches. How does he always know?

“Stop psychoanalyzing?—”

“I’m not analyzing. I’m learning. Every tear, every flinch, every sharp breath tells me something about you.” His hand slides higher. “Repressed trauma can often?—”

“Oh shut the fuck up!” I snap, knocking away his hand with my arm.