Page 106 of Broken by my Bully

Obviously, I was having a dark moment out there by Lookout Point. But I’ve had them before. I just shake it off and get on with my life. But something made me come here.

To him.

Of all the places I could have gone, why did I choose Professor Rooke’s house?

And is he the only person I’ve visited tonight?

I hold up my hands.

They’re shuddering, fingertips pruned and deathly pale.

But they’re clean.

Thank fuck, they’re clean.

I shove away the questions along with my disorientation, my sudden intense fear.

Can’t give in to panic. Not in front of Bastian.

I should leave, but I don’t remember if I walked or drove here. My junker could be parked somewhere nearby, or all the way back at Lookout Point.

“Don’t just stand there, girl. Get inside.” Professor Rooke uses the fire poker to gesture and then looks at it like he realizes he might be sending mixed signals.

Looks like he was getting undressed. Half the buttons on his shirt open, his sleeves flapping against his wrists. No shoes.

He looks…drunk.

He tosses it to the flagstones at his feet, and I flinch at the loud, ringing clang. Then he gestures again, frowning even deeper.

But I can’t seem to move.

He makes an angry, growly sound and storms through the drizzle to come and fetch me. I watch, mesmerized, as his feet splash through the multitude of little puddles that have collected in his pristine, zen-like garden.

As soon as he’s close enough, he reaches to grab me.

My body moves on instinct, leaning back so quickly that I stagger.

The annoyance on his face melts into confusion. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this expressive, but that’s booze for you. It dissolves the masks people wear around each other, the one you put on to hide what you’re really thinking, what you’re truly capable of.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender.

“You want to stay out here? Fine. But you’ll catch your death.” His features flinch, and he shakes his head. “You. Will. Get. Sick.” He enunciates every word, like he’s trying to rewrite something in his brain.

Carefully, he holds out his arm. Not touching me, but cautiously herding me, urging me closer to his house.

It works.

My muscles unlock, and I walk all the way inside.

It’s warm in here, even though I saw the professor turn on the fireplace only a few minutes ago. I’ve been watching him ever since he got home, trapped in my shivering body as I tried to piece together the last hour.

Or two.

Or three.

My toes dig into the soft carpet. Why is my mind so foggy? My head so light and floaty?

“What time is it?”