Page 64 of Ruthless Chaos

If I don’t stop him this time, will I hate myself after?

Don’t kiss him.

These captive moments with Alexander make me feel alive in a way I’ve never experienced. Whenever I give into him, the pain and desire shoot me so high everything feels right, blissful even.

But afterwards, the lows are devastating.

My brain is fried.

I struggle against his grip, trying to put some space between us.

My unsteady legs make me sway.

The drink in my hand clatters to the ground. I flinch as the glass shatters against the hardwood deck. Liquid splashes my ankles.

Alexander steps back from the mess I’ve made.

I crouch quickly, annoyed with myself, and start picking up pieces of the glass.

Piling them in my palm, I try to clean it up quickly. I don’t have to look up at him to know he’s glaring at me. He might even be angrier now.

The drink splashed all over his white sneakers.

A sharp pain slices through my finger.

“Ouch!” I exclaim. A rivulet of blood trails down the side of my index finger.

Alexander grumbles something.

I look up. Too late I remember that I’mcrouchedin front of him.

Instead of his face, I see the bulge in his pants—and it’s so close to my face. It’s like déjà vu and a jump scare all in one, and before I realize what’s happening, I’m reeling backwards.

The shards scatter and I hit my head on the chair behind me as I go down.

I end up flat on my back, staring up at the starry night sky. My vision swims.

“Fuck, Allie.” I hear his feet shuffling.

The next moment, a pair of strong arms lift me off the ground. I’m pressed against his hard body for a moment, then he sets me down on the chair.

The world is still spinning. I put a hand to my temple.

Too late, I realize it’s the hand that I just cut on the broken glass.

Alexander’s eyes widen, and I figure there’s blood smeared all over my forehead.

“Shit, you’re bleeding.” It almost sounds like he’s panicking.

He walks over to another table and comes back with a drink. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket, then soaks it in the contents of the glass.

He reaches for my hand. I pull away.

“What are you doing?” I ask, skeptical.

This minor wound is nothing compared to the ones I’ve inflicted on myself, and I’m sure it will be fine in a few minutes. I don’t need his pity.

Alexander grabs my injured hand by the wrist, overpowering me.