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I’ve asked myself the same question a million times. And I always circle around the same answer.
“Revenge. And I don’t care if that doesn’t make me the bigger person. I have power over her, and she’s forced to pay me rent. After everything I went through in that house, I’d say I’m being pretty fucking considerate.”
“What did you go through?” he asks softly. I brushed over a lot of shit this entire time, but he caught me at a good moment. It feels good to talk about this stuff. Ryan doesn’t ask—or care—and Amelia knows a lot, but she’s dealing with her own shitty past. It never felt right to dump mine on top of hers.
I don’t think I’ve ever been able to freely talk. And that’s what I do with Mako. I purge everything that’s been done to me as a child. The dirty men raping and molesting me since I can remember. I don’t remember kisses from my mother, but from strange men.
Then I tell him about Camilla and how for a short period of time, she saved me. And right when I really thought I was going to escape Shallow Hill far before I planned, she was ripped away from me. Sometimes I wonder if I was a horrible person in my past life, and this life is my punishment. I’m atoning for whatever sins my soul has committed.
I tell him about the countless times I’ve gone hungry and had to beg for food after Camilla died. Men would only give me food if I performed sexual favors. I did it. It was my way of survival. I became what Barbie always said I would—a whore.
That’s why I know Ryan isn’t wrong. I am a whore. I had sex with men at thirteen years old so I could eat. My only requirement was they wear a condom. I’d rather starve than catch an STD. I was incredibly lucky I hadn’t up until that point.
“Please don’t call yourself that,” he pleads quietly, but gruffly. The soft tone catches me off guard. I look at him with confusion. Not only was I not expecting him to care what I called myself, I certainly wasn’t expecting him to ask so… nicely. Ryan’s always demanding things of me, expecting my compliance and then calling me names when he doesn’t always get it.
“What?”
“You’re not a whore, River. You were repeatedly raped and were forced into those situations because you were slowly dying from hunger.”
Fire blazes from his eyes. I’m not sure how, but I know it’s not directed toward me, but for me. And I don’t know how I feel about that.
I open my mouth. I almost say the words.
Ryan thinks so.
But I already know what his response will be.
Ryan’s fucking wrong.
Is he? I’ve been called a whore my entire life. For my actions—for what I had to do. For being pretty and dressing in clothes that compliment my body. Men have whispered in my ear countless times that if I didn’t look so sexy in my pajamas, they would’ve been able to resist me. It’s because I’m so beautiful that men just can’t resist me.
And that’s when I was a little girl.
Yesterday, I wore something sexy. And men looked at me. That upset Ryan.
“I don’t believe that.”
Mako turns towards me further. The bench protests under his weight, and I get a little nervous that it’ll collapse.
“You shouldn’t be punished for showing the world that you’re beautiful. Those men are wrong for sexualizing a little girl. That’s sick, River. It’s okay if a man looks at you—as a grown woman—and finds you attractive, but it is not okay if that man assumes that gives him the right to make you uncomfortable in any way. Whether it’s by the way he looks at you, speaks to you or touches you. If you want to walk out of the house in the sexiest thing you own, then that’s your goddamn right because it is your choice to show off your body. Don’t give any man the power to control what you do with it.”
“It’s mine,” I whisper.
“It’s yours,” he repeats. “No one else’s.”
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip. I’ve never had a man give me a choice. It’s always been take, take, take.
But the thought of Mako owning my body… God, I think I’m having a heart attack. It’s too sinful. Liquid heat runs through my system and straight to my core. I clench my thighs to abate the feeling, but only serves to tighten my nipples into sharp little points.
“What if… what if I want a man to own me?”
He leans closer, and his scent assaults my nose. Pure male with a hint of soap. My eyes want to roll, but I don’t let them. I’m in control of my body, not him.
“Then give that privilege to a man who deserves it. If you want a man to own you, then let him. But that’s not something he has a right to without your consent,” he says, his voice so, so deep and husky.
Licking my lips, I feel compelled to ask. “Do you want to own a woman?”
My own voice is dangerously husky. My breath too short. Too choppy. My body is too hot, overheating until I’m sure there’s smoke leaking out of my mouth.
