Page 36 of Crushing Clover

“You got your dream. You can be the snobby little self-satisfied bitch I knew was always lurking under that sweet veneer. It doesn’t mean a damn thing. It doesn’t mean you’re better than us. You wanted more, and you got more, but we’re more without you than we ever were with you.”

He grabbed my throat, and I scratched at his fingers, trying to loosen his hold. Some of the men at the resort had been out to hurt me, but this was so much more terrifying.

I fought, looking up into his dark, wrathful eyes. In that moment, I saw Warren gazing down at me. He was going to kill me—finish the job the men on the island had left undone.

Abruptly, he let go, and I arched my back in an unconscious bid to inhale air as quickly as I could, not knowing how long this reprieve would last.

He shoved my skirt up and tore my underwear off my body, stinging my hips with the force of the tearing fabric.

“Saint!” I begged.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled in fury. He grabbed one of the couch’s throw pillows and slammed it down over my face, hurting my nose and making me see stars.

Shocked, I inhaled sharply, and lint and dust invaded my lungs.

I tried to say something, but the pillow pressed against my lips, mashing them against my teeth, muffling what little sound I could make.

He shoved my legs apart and got between them, laying me out on the couch.

I tried to kick him away, but he was stronger, and I was gasping for air.

His cock grazed my still-sensitive clit, and I bucked, instinctually trying to keep him out.

We struggled, but he was too strong, and all too soon he forced his thick cock inch by inch into my pussy, giving my body what my mind had been fantasizing about mere moments before.

I managed to turn my head partially to the side to inhale from the corner of my mouth, but blood dripped down the back of my throat.

A hard, unforgiving hand dug into the flesh of my thigh, keeping me wide open for his furious thrusts.

He stabbed me with his cock like he wanted to murder me with it. Under him, I quaked with fear.

Would he kill me after this?

It hurt, but I didn’t have enough breath to beg him to stop.

He fucked me into the couch until it felt like I’d fused to the cushions, the upholstered piping hard and unforgiving against my bare ass.

My heart hammered in my ears and tears escaped my eyes, humiliating me even though he couldn’t see them.

I was used to being used roughly, but this felt different.

It was personal. It felt a lot more like hate.

This was going to be my life…possibly until he ended it. Memories swamped in of the men at the resort hurting me so bad I’d been in the infirmary for ages. If Saint hurt me that badly, would he even get me medical help?

Even though my body had been primed for action, now it only felt abused and disrespected. A few more furious thrusts and he emptied into me, his body hunched with the force of his release. I felt like I’d been brutalized, not fucked. This hadn’t been about pleasure—not even for him.

He pulled out, and every delicate part of me stung.

I rolled onto my side, facing the room, too afraid to leave my ass exposed in case he got any ideas about doing the same to that part of me next.

He levered himself up from the couch with his grip on the cushion over my face, pushing it harder against my cheekbone and jaw.

My already streaming eyes watered with pain.

“It’s your fault I did this,” he snarled. He ripped the pillow away from my face and whipped it across the room. “Things could have been good between us forever, but you had to have everything your way.”

He ran his hands through his hair, and I watched as he fastened his jeans and started to pace.

“I don’t even think I can explain how much I hate you.

You used us to get a leg up, and as soon as you got the chance you ditched us.

I hope you’re fucking happy with your little family and your eternal quest for external validation. ”

He glanced my way, a frown transforming his features from wrathful to something different.

I was too dazed to read his expression, but I didn’t much care.

I was curled in a ball, my arms caging my face, and my knees drawn up to protect my stomach.

Hot, fat tears plopped onto the velvet under my cheek.

I was dripping at the other end, too, but there wasn’t much I could do about that until he left the room.

He released a sound of aggravation and unlocked the door.

I couldn’t tell if he looked back at me as he left, but he shut the door behind him with an irritated slam.

Why was he so angry?

What was he talking about, my happy family?

Was I treating the house like it was mine too much? Was I paying too much attention to the other guys? My brain scrambled through different possibilities, but I was too rattled to make sense of what had happened.

Stupid girl.

I’d thought things between us were getting better.

There was no guessing what had set him off, and I was too tired and sad to try.

*

Much later, Rush came into the office, his customary container of ice water in hand. He scanned the room before coming to me. “Did Saint come in here?”

I was sitting on the couch, legs curled up to one side so I could keep my blood to myself. My underwear were ruined, and there was no other way to keep the tissues I’d pilfered from the desk where they needed to be.

“He left a while ago,” I managed to say evenly.

He nodded and took a sip of his drink, seeming lost in thought.

“Did something happen?” I asked carefully.

“He went on break and never came back.” He came closer. Even though this was Rush, I couldn’t help but recoil slightly. He noticed and frowned. “Did he say anything to you?”

“I didn’t understand it. Something about how I should be happy that I’m getting everything I always wanted.” I did my best to deliver the sentence with some neutrality, but my voice wasn’t behaving itself.

Abruptly, Rush put his water down on the desk, not seeming to care when it sloshed over the edge and soaked some paperwork that was piled there.

Their bookkeeper, Spring, came by occasionally to collect things, but she hadn’t been by yet this week.

Sometimes, she even stopped to chat with me about books, and to moon after Rush’s cousin, Randal the sous chef.

“Clover, did he come in here and hurt you?”

“No,” I tried to say, but it came out so quietly I wasn’t sure if he heard me.

He dropped to his knees in front of where I sat and took my chin in his hand, turning my head and wiping at the dried blood under my nose.

“Fuck.”

He pulled me into his arms. I’d held things together until then, but his gentleness was my undoing. My shoulders shook as I tried to fight down the swamp of tears that started to fall.

“He’s really mad at me,” I whispered. “Really, really mad.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.” My nose started to run, and I checked to make sure it wasn’t bleeding again.

He pulled away and took a better look at my face. “Jesus, sweetheart.” He got tissues out of the box on the desk and dampened them in his water. He did a more thorough job of cleaning me up, then wrapped a few ice cubes in a stray cloth napkin and held the bundle to my face.

“Did he fucking hit you?” he demanded, his voice full of rage.

“He’s hit me before. Why do you care now?”

“There’s a difference between punishing a submissive and beating one. Punching is one of my hard limits, and he knows that.”

“You two have hard limits about me?”

“Of course we do!”

I considered lying to get even with Saint, but what would be the point?

“He put a pillow over my face. I don’t think he meant to do it so hard.”

His expression was grim. “If you ever need me, even if it’s to protect you from Saint, you need to scream like hell, understand me?”

I nodded miserably.

“I’m not going to make excuses for him. This is fucked up.”

The worst part had been how I felt, and how angry he’d been, more than anything he’d really done. There would be no lasting damage.

“Did he hurt you anywhere else?” His brows drew down in concern.

“I’m bleeding a bit, but it’s not that bad.”

“Your pussy or your ass?” His point-blank question made my face heat.

“My pussy. I don’t think it needs ice.” I gave a weak laugh, and he dabbed at the few tears that had rolled down my face since the last time he’d dried it.

He sat on the couch and pulled me into his lap.

“You shouldn’t,” I objected, trying to push my way off.

He held me in place and tucked my head under his chin. My hair immediately tangled in his beard, but I didn’t care about that.

“I’m going to get blood on your uniform.”

“Not your problem.”

“It’s going to be my problem tonight when I have to clean it!”

He huffed. “You’re not cleaning anything when we get home. You’re going straight to bed.”

“Straight to floor, you mean?” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“I said what I said.”

My heart gave a weird little flip. “He’s not going to like it.”

“Then he can fucking sleep alone. You can sleep in my bed with me and Lucky. This shit has gone on long enough. The man needs some fucking therapy.”

He wouldn’t hear me arguing about that, but I didn’t say so.

“But what about Cygnet? If you’re in here and Saint is gone, who’s head chef?”

“It’s a slow night, and Ran has been wanting to take the lead more often. You don’t worry about Cygnet. The restaurant isn’t a Clover problem.”

I let myself relax in his arms, accepting the comfort he offered. “Yes, sir.”

Bad days don’t have to equal a bad life. Right?

We stayed like that for a long time, until Rush pressed the shattered little pieces of me back together.