Page 93 of Reckoning

A hand strikes me. I don’t know who it belongs to, but for a second I lay dazed. It’s the sound of a zipper, the sound of clothes being removed that makes me focus. That forces me to act.

I try to sit up and realise that Darius is there now, at my head, holding me in place with an arm wrapped around my neck.

“My brother deserves a reward, don’t you think?” He murmurs into my ear. “After all the games you’ve played, after all those evenings of leading him on, of not putting out.”

“Please,” I gasp. He’s pressing on my throat, restricting my airway just enough to force compliance and I hate that it’s working.

Otto stares at me, not my face, he doesn’t give a shit about my face. No, he’s staring at my body. He starts ripping my jumper, shredding the cashmere right down the middle as I shriek. He undoes my jeans, yanking them off before he’s tearing at my underwear like this is some sort of race.

“I bet you’re not even a virgin, are you?” Otto spits. “I bet that’s another lie.”

“Fuck you.” I cry.

He clambers on top of me. That stench, that disgusting mix of body odour and whiskey covers me. “I told my brother I get first dibs.” He states. “But you know, Darius deserves a reward too. You Montagues have caused enough of a headache. Why don’t you be a good girl and make it up to us both?”

I scream. I kick. I do everything I can to try to throw him off but he’s too strong. Darius tightens his grip around my neck and for a second I think I must pass out. Only, when I come back around I wish I was still unconscious. I wish I could shut my eyes and never wake up.

I’m now completely naked. All my clothes have been removed. Otto is grunting, groaning, clearly enjoying every second as he’s violating my body. I feel like I’m on fire, like every thrust he makes is a dagger tearing me apart.

His hands pin my legs wide open, while his brother continues to hold me in place by my head.

I can’t stop this. I can’t do anything and that realisation makes it so much worse.

As my tears stream down my face, he licks them off, one by one, like they’re a delicacy he has to savour.

And when he’s done, when he’s finished, Darius releases his grip, he moves on top of me, and he grabs my legs, no doubt angling me better, before he pushes himself inside me, tearing me even more.

I scream, I cry out, I try to fight but it makes no difference.

And all the while, the pair of them are laughing. Like this is some kind of joke. Like any of this is funny.

* * *

Another week passes.Another week where all I do is spin my wheels, metaphorically speaking that is.

Only, that’s not exactly true.

I feel like I’m making progress. Slow progress. Baby steps, as Koen keeps calling it.

He makes me train with him every morning, before he disappears off to god knows where.

He’s calm, patient even. He doesn’t criticise when I fuck up. He just quietly corrects my posture, corrects my aim. Some days I have to fight to keep my body from reacting, from flinching at his proximity.

But some days it’s like I’m not really me. Like some mad woman has possessed me.

He stands so close I can feel his breath hitting my skin. When he has to touch me, he’s careful, only doing enough to correct my mistakes and then he instantly lets go. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose, maybe he’s trying to wind me up, make me desperate.

Either way it’s working and I hate it.

I’m not wearing jumpers, I guess I learnt from that mistake the first day. But the tops I am wearing are still covering enough so that none of the horror of my skin is on show except for my arms.

A few times his men are there, working out, training. They keep to themselves, they avoid looking in our direction. Maybe that’s an order Koen gave them. Maybe they also think I’m cursed.

As I land one punch and then another, I feel that anger, that spark of fury. I’m not fucking cursed. I might be unlucky. I might have had a string of bad luck but that doesn’t mean everyone around me is destined to die a grisly death. I mean, this is real life. Curses don’t exist. Bad mojo or whatever you want to call it isn’t actually a thing.

Roman calls me a few times. He checks-in enough to make sure I’m okay but not enough for me to feel like he’s stalking me. Apparently he’s done some sort of deal with Hastings in regards to my therapy sessions. Apparently they’re turning a blind eye to my ‘non-attendance’ to date. I don’t think I give that much of a fuck really.

They never helped. They never eased my trauma. If anything, talking about it, discussing it made it worse.