Page 59 of My Girl

The man swings toward me, and at the last second, I lift the rifle, using it to block me right as Crave stabs him from behind.

The man stills, Crave’s knife keeping him upright. Blood gushes out of the man’s mouth, spilling onto me. The man gurgles.

Crave shoves his body to the ground, pulling the knife from his back. His shoulders broaden. His expression remains as empty as a blank canvas. He’s utterly calm, even after all of that.

His gloved hands roam my wet skin. It should upset me, knowing how much I trust Crave with my life when he doesn’t trust me with his real self. The leather is his cold disguise. His armor. His lack of trust in me.

And yet, comfort washes over me anyway, because he’s here. He did this for me.

“Crave,” I whisper. “You sav?—”

He slaps my face. My jaw drops.

The truth hits me then; my body blazes with confusion and need.

Crave orchestrated this night. He left the note in my apartment. He hired those hitmen. He must have done it so that I would kill one or both of them, to prove that I’m a killer just like him.

And I was ready to. I could have told myself it was self-defense, and that may have been why Crave hired them in the first place, so that I would have justification for my actions.

Somehow, I still trust him with my life and death.

He didn’t let them kill me.

Crave grabs the tall man’s hair and yanks him up. His lifeless eyes stare straight ahead.

I should be scared. I don’t feel anything.

I wait for Crave’s next move.

He slits the man’s throat right in front of my face, then adjusts his grip at the top of the man’s head, draining the warm blood all over my body. He does the same with the shorter one, drenching me in their blood. It’s like I’m being baptized. I’m not pure and clean, but I also know I’ll never be the same again. Whatever this is, Crave has transformed me.

Crave moves behind me. Fabric shuffles against skin, sloshing with liquid. He grabs me from behind. A thin rope pulls around my neck. My belly tenses.

Then I realize it’s a belt. Crave’s leather belt. Make one mistake, and the belt could get stuck on my neck, killing me.

Crave will only let me die if he’s the one to do it. And that thought thrills me.

The belt locks onto me, and his dick splits my pussy. My head spins with fear and lust and disgust. I want this so badly that it scares me. He’s here. He didn’t let me die. I must meansomethingto him if he’s doing all of this to prove a point. To prove that I’m a killer too.

He unzips the mask’s mouth.

“Weak little girl,” he whispers, the condescension dripping from his words. “What a disappointment.”

Each thrust is a punishment. His metal-ringed dick hits my cervix, causing pain to course through me. Tears streak my cheeks, and I swallow it down, absorbing it all, relishing in the fact that it’shim.The man I want. The killer I know. The man who may have sent those men to kill me, but when it came down to it, he saved me. He killed them instead.

He let them hurt you,my rational brain argues.And you failed him. You didn’t kill either one of those men.

No,I argue back.He was always going to kill them for me. He only hired them because he knew I was strong enough to survive this.

My entire body quivers in shock. All of it—the physical pain, these warring thoughts—should hurt. I trusted Crave to keep me safe, and he let those men hurt me. But it’s more than that.

This must have been a test to see if Crave could trust me. If I really am like him. I may have failed him, but now I want to prove myself. Now more than ever.

I wish I had killed those men.

And that would make you a murderer,my brain screams.Your mother would be right. You would be the daughter of a killer, just like she said.

Those logical thoughts dull as the desert air skirts through the house, my skin freezing, my mind whirring with fragmented thoughts. Am I like my father? A murderer? Am I misunderstood? Will Crave continue to test me? Will I ever prove myself?