Page 132 of Broken by my Bully

I want to pour myself a glass of sparkling water. Fuck knows why I just grab the bottle of wine instead and close the fridge. Maybe because it feels more mature to be sipping wine than gulping down sparkling water like a kid.

Maybe because talking to Bastian feels like playing poker. Blindfolded.

Or because he’s right—it’s been a hard day, a hard week…fuck that, a hard goddamn life, and I’ve deserved some R&R. Maybe I’m just curious about what all the fuss is about. I mean, everyone else in the world seems to love alcohol. I should give it a second chance, right?

Now that my tequila hangover is a distant—yet still slightly unpleasant—memory, having a drink doesn’t seem like such a bad idea, especially if it will loosen me up like it did at Melissa’s sorority. I definitely don’t want to get drunk again. Ever.

I set the wine down on the counter, going onto tiptoes to get a glass from the cabinet. I’m taking the second wineglass down when Bastian speaks.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“God!” I fumble the glass

He’srightbehind me.

“Pouring a drink!” I sound much too defensive.

“A dash of bourbon in your cocoa isn’t the same as a glass of wine.”

“Just one glass? Please?” I feel like I’m asking him to extend my curfew to ten. He searches my face, and I guess he finds enough responsibility there to satisfy him that I won’t get drunk and puke all over his nice white carpet.

“I reserve the right to cut you off when I see fit.”

“Whatever you say, Professor.” I keep my back turned as I twist off the screw-top and pour a glass.

“Don’t you mean, Daddy?”

It feels like my face is going to melt right off my skull. I say nothing,focusing on getting my hand to stop shaking as I pour the second glass.

He appears in the corner of my eye, going to stir the saucepan where his delicious concoction is brewing.

I take a glass to him, setting it down near him on the marble counter. As I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist.

His fingers don’t just grasp—theyshackle. His thumb finds my pulse point and presses.

“Two blocks of ice.”

“Sure thing, Prof?—”

His grip tightens. My pulse hammers against his thumb as he tuts at me.

“Bastian.”

“Good girl.” He releases me slowly, fingers dragging along my skin.

I plop two cubes of ice into his glass, holding my hand over the top to minimize the splash.

“None for you?” he says as I’m about to put the ice back in the freezer.

Is this a test? Are you supposed to drink wine with ice? Dad only had ice in his drink on special occasions…like the day after he got his disability check.

“Silly me.” I toss two cubes in my glass, hesitate, then add a third. I suppose it will water it down.

I wander into the living area and give Bastian’s house another slow scan. Despite how many times I’ve been here, I can always find something new to appreciate.

Like that painting above the fireplace? I’ve seen it before, but I never reallylooked.

“You like fucked up art, don’t you?”