Page 124 of Broken by my Bully

That I’d choked you out.

If I’d held on just a little longer, she would be dead right now.

If I’d fought Ezra just a little longer all those years ago, he’d be dead too.

But I’m not sure that’s what I really wanted, then or now.

Killing someone takes balls, sure, but a lot of planning, too. It’s usually the guys who off someone in the heat of the moment that go to jail. If I’m going to kill someone, I won’t get caught.

If I’m going to suffer, it might as well be as a free man.

Haven

A loudbangwrenches 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, whythe fuckam 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 bethe 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.