Page 94 of Shattered In Darkness

Brody comes over to me in an instant. “Did he hurt you?”

I shake my head. “No, just harmless words.”

How can I tell Brody that Marcus raped me the night of my mother’s funeral? The guilt is all-consuming. It’s not like I consensually cheated. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want Marcus. But, that does not matter to Marcus. He takes what he wants.

Brody’s jaw clenches but he does not push me on the subject. I stare down at my hands. The skin is pale, child-like. Not mine at all. My heart beats in odd little bursts, like it might quit any second.

He sits next to me. Not just next to me; he wedges himself in until our knees touch, until his thigh pins my leg to the couch. There’s no space even for breath. He doesn’t look at me, but I feel his heat, furious and wild.

Sophie perches on the armrest. Purple chipped fingernails wrap around a ceramic mug. Steam coils out, sweet and herbal, and the smell reminds me of weekends that never belonged to me.

She bumps my shoulder with hers.

“You’re freezing.”

I hadn’t noticed. She tugs the throw blanket over my lap. Her kindness feels like a paper cut, easy to ignore until it isn’t.

“I’m okay,” I mumble. A lie, but easy enough to swallow.

Brody’s hand lands on my knee. Anchoring. Like he’s afraid I’ll float off or slip between the cracks in the cushions.

“You sure Marcus isn’t being a dick?” Sophie gives me her big-sister look. Concern that’s too much, all sugar, no edge. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

I shake my head. “He’s just… intense. Not dangerous. I’m fine.” My voice is stupid soft, like maybe I believe it.

Brody snorts. He digs his fingers into my knee, not enough to bruise, but enough to say, liar. Sophie doesn’t buy it, either, but she lets me have my secrets.

“Want tea?” she asks. “We have, like, seven kinds. Chamomile. Mint. Something with actual dried flowers in it. Fancy.”

I almost smile. I’m starved for comfort. “Chamomile is good.”

Sophie lights up like she’s won something. She slides off the armrest and disappears into the kitchen. I can hear her hum. She always does that; I used to think it was for me, but now I know it’s for her. So she doesn’t go crazy.

Silence. Just the sound of Brody’s breathing and the ancient clock ticking on the wall. I focus on the sound, steady and fake-safe.

Brody doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he slides his hand up under the blanket, palm heavy on my thigh. He squeezes. “You can tell me if he hurts you. I’ll fuck him up.”

“I know,” I whisper. The ache inside me is so big it spills over. “But it’s better if I just listen. If I do what he wants.”

His thumb rubs tiny circles under the blanket. I almost flinch, but I’m too tired. Too empty for fear. Let him touch me. I don’t care.

Brody stares at the TV, volume muted. Some dumb commercial plays; a happy family eating spaghetti, a lady with bright white teeth. So fake it makes me sick. My mom used to talk and laugh like that, just for show.

Sophie comes back and hands me a mug. “Careful, it’s hot!” I take it and sip slowly, enjoying the burn that it gives me. Sophie kicks my foot gently. “Hey, I heard you got accepted into that art contest. The one with the gallery in the city. Is that true?”

My stomach twists. “Yeah. I guess.”

Brody smirks. “She didn’t tell you? She got second place, Soph.”

Sophie lights up. “Lola, that’s amazing!” She leans in, her hair a wild halo. “You have to let us come see it. Seriously. All those snobby art people, and we’ll just embarrass you.”

“You won’t embarrass me,” I murmur. My voice is too small, but the smile on Sophie’s face is real.

Brody leans closer. He grabs a pretzel, eats it in one bite, all brute efficiency. “What did you paint?”

I shrug. “Just a landscape. Abstract.” I don’t want to talk about it—the edges of color, the way the brush shook in my hand, the twitch in my chest. But they wait, staring. “It was blue,” I say. “Blue and black. Like a storm.”

Brody grins. “Figures.”