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Anna gasps before saying, “Riot?!”

She takes my silence as an answer. She comes over and sits next to me, slapping my covered thigh. “Penelope, you dirty girl.” She smirks. “How was it?” Oh, kill me now.

“She said it was amazing, one of the best orgasms she’s had, and that he snuck up on her in his mask,” Destiny taunts, pushing her shoulder into mine as my cheeks heat even more.

“Oh-hhh my God,” Anna laughs. We all laugh at it.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the sound of the woods, the water sloshing at the shore, and all the animals that surround us.

“Alright, let’s go to bed. We have a full day of fun and havoc to cause tomorrow.” We pack everything up and head inside, just dropping everything on the kitchen counter and climbing up to the loft.

It takes me longer to fall asleep, my mind on him. He plagues my life. When I go on the roof, I think of our first time. When I close my eyes, I see him. Him in his mask, shirtless, and hunting me.

I see him without his mask, hovering over me as he thrusts into my pussy. I see his heart, and how broken he is, but how well he hides it. I want him, need him, but it’s clear he doesn’t need me. He may want me, but it’s just lust.

Lust. An evil emotion.

…

I feel the pain radiating through my face, skin swelling in an instant. My father just punched me. He shoves me through the door, and I trip on the air, face planting on the floor. I tried. I tried to get away. It’s my 23rd birthday. September 19th. He was gone, getting beer or his next hit, I don’t fucking know.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN RUN AWAY, BITCH?” My father screams at me, entering the foyer and slamming the door behind him, the thin walls shaking with the force.

In an instant, he’s over me, fingers fumbling with his belt. Tears run down my face, screams ripping from my throat.

Before I have time to think, I wind my hand back and launch it into his nose. He falls off me, and I get up, tripping over my own feet trying to get to the door. I open the door before I scream from his yanking me back with my hair.

He throws me to the ground, pinning my arms under his knees as he straddles me.

His fists rain on my face, bruising it to a pulp as blood pours out of my nose, some leaking out of my ears.

I wake up in a cold sweat, my hair sticking to my skin. Sitting up, I brush my hair off my face, trying to calm my racing heart. He’s stained my sleep for the past five months. Every night for the past five months, I’ve always had a nightmare about him. Always worse than the last. I just want them to end.

We got back from the camping trip a week ago. We ended up staying three nights instead of two, just not wanting to leave the peace of utter silence the woods brought.

The group has been on all different missions this week. They leave in two days for a month-long mission, so we plan on hanging out until the very last second tomorrow since we’re all free. It’s been so boring.

I’ve been on rides, wasting so much gas just to go an hour down the interstate and turn around. I’ve spent countless hours on the roof and spent one night up there. Swimming, reading, coloring, painting, dancing, and listening to music. Still fucking bored.

I haven’t seen Riot since that night, but I know he’s still at the Manor from how everyone is on their very best behavior at all times, almost robotic-like.

I miss him. The way he smells, his warmth, comfort. The way his eyes shine when looking at me, but also the fear it brought when they glared at me. I just miss him, as a whole, all the dark and bright.

A knock pulls me out of my thoughts. “Come in,” I shout, patting my ruffled hair down. Viktor opens the door, head peeking in. When he sees I’m still in bed, he opens the door fully before stepping in.

“Hey Сестра, just wanted to see if you’re up for a ride.” He pulls his helmet out from behind his back, shaking it slightly.

“Yeah, let me shower and get dressed,” I sigh, rubbing my hands up and down my face, scrubbing the sleep away. He frowns at my tone. Usually, I’m all for going on a ride, but I’ve just been so down this week.

“What’s wrong?” His Russian accent is thick, dark. He comes to stand at the edge of my bed, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a dark compression shirt with long sleeves, small peaks at his tattoos on his hands.

“Why do you hide the scars?” I ask, and his eyes flash with anger, fear.

“Why do you care?” he shoots back, venom in his words. I sadden at them. Sad he thinks he has to hide, like Riot.

“You don’t have to hide, you know. Scars aren’t a reflection of what happened; they are a sign of strength. Not just physical, but mental as well. You are strong with those scars; they don’t make you weak. They make you who you are.” He seems taken aback by my words.

Viktor takes a seat next to my feet, on the edge of the bed, sighing and dropping his shoulders, looking at the floor. “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours. Deal?” He barters. I sigh. He got me with that one.