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GENEVIEVE
Iwatch Eric go, my heart cracking from the force of my agony. The fear is quickly replaced with anger at myself, at my reaction to his. Of course he wouldn’t hurt me, it’s Eric, but I thought that same thing before. I believed that someone wouldn’t hurt me just because they were nice to me, and old habits die hard. The flinch, the reaction was instantaneous.
A Birdie reaction.
A proper rich girl doesn’t flinch at raised voices and hands. A nice rich girl doesn’t understand the pain they can cause. She doesn’t understand how quickly laughter can morph to screams. She knows nothing about the agony pouring through a body as someone takes their anger out on it.
The feel of snapping bones.
Of reddened cheeks and split lips.
My eyes close for a moment as I gather what is left of my defences. It’s a slow process, one that’s almost unfamiliar to me now. Only when I can breathe normally again do I straighten. Dropping my hands, I swallow as I stare at the apple he gave me.
Despite everything, he was worried. I saw it in his eyes, but it’s not that which has me wanting to cry. It’s the fact that I saw the pity, the understanding in his gaze, because he’s just as broken as I am.
“Genevieve,” Archer calls, his voice calm and restrained.
In that moment, I hate him, I hate them all, for making me this way again. It took me years to overcome the natural fear and instinct I developed from living on the streets, but these four men have managed to take that hard-won freedom away from me, and they don’t even care.
“What?” I snap out, an edge to my tone. My strength returns, that soul deep one I found on the streets, as does the cutthroat attitude that allowed me to survive them.
“Come here,” he demands harshly.
I consider ignoring him, but concern that they might still kill me lingers, so I leave the apple and juice on the counter as I carefully make my way towards the living room. I don’t sit, instead I keep my back to the closest wall, my eyes flicking to the exits.
Habits.
They notice, especially Gage, but he says nothing and just watches me with dark, angry eyes. I look away and meet Archer’s contemplative gaze. His hand goes to his chin as he tilts his head. “Tell us who you called.”
I flinch again at the command. He notices of course, and a sort of smugness fills his eyes. Balling my hands at my sides, I swallow hard. “What?” My voice is like sandpaper in my throat.
Is this it? Will he make me admit it all and then kill me? The sick bastard. But despite my fury, my eyes still drop to his lips before I snap them away. Not before he sees, however, and smirks at my action. “Tell us who you called,” he repeats. “We already know, so don’t lie.”
“Then why?” I demand.
“I want to hear you say it.”
The smug look on his face is what finally sends me over the edge. All the weeks of captivity, of fear that each day might be my last, of starvation, cold, and now hurt explode through me, burning me up from the inside until all traces of weakness and propriety are gone.
Until Birdie is left.
Pushing from the wall, I let them see the true me, the one I hide. “You want to fucking know that badly, you smug prick? Fine. I called Chaz. Want me to tell you word for word what he said as well? How he betrayed me, yet a-fucking-gain, and how he didn’t give two shits because he never loved me? Want to know how I heard the other woman in the background? Or how about the fact that it didn’t even goddamn surprise me?” Narrowing my eyes on him, I can see I’ve surprised him. I glance at Booker, who is leaning forward, his eyes wide and concerned, then to Gage, who’s closing in on me as if to end it. I dodge his reach, unwilling to be restrained again. I refuse to be the meek little girl they want me to be.
Everyone wants me to be her.
If you’re too loud, you’re cheap. If you’re opinionated, you’re a bitch. If you’re secular, you’re a slut. If you laugh too loudly, wear too little, don makeup, don’t wear makeup, wear heels, wear trainers… God, it’s fucking exhausting! Women can never do anything right, and I’m so fucking tired of trying to be perfect.
I’ve bitten my tongue or looked in the mirror and changed out of fear countless times. Then there are all the times I laughed when I was really scared. All of it fills me until I can’t stop it, until I can’t hold it in, even if I tried.
“You were right. Is that what you want to hear? He didn’t even care!” I scream. “Congratulations, Archer, you are always right. You ruined my entire life, one I bled for. One I fought every single day for just to feel safe, just to not fucking starve.” Tears fill my eyes, and I try to blink them away, but they fall, so I wipe them with my hand. I’m angry all over again as I stare into his eyes. “He didn’t care,” I repeat and slowly deflate. My anger turns to pain, to pure agony.
The one person I trusted, whom I let close, betrayed me, just like every single person before him.
“Why didn’t he care?” I whisper, my voice choked. I slump into the sofa, ignoring them. My head drops into my hands as the tears fall, and I hate them even more for seeing me this way, for making me like this. “My life was perfect before you came along.”
“Your life was a pretty lie, that’s all. You have all the money, status, and adoring people surrounding you, but how many would truly be there for you? How many would stab you in the back? Who would ride to your rescue the way you would them?” Archer counters.
I look up, meeting his serious gaze as he leans forward. I sink lower into myself.
“You might look down on us, Genevieve. We are thieves, poor bastards, whatever you want to think about us, but at least we have each other. At least we have a family, one I know will be there at the bitter end. Can you say the same?”
I watch him, knowing he speaks the truth, because not one person would stand with me at the end.
Not one would risk it all to rescue me, not like I would them.
And it makes me bitter as I stare into three pairs of matching eyes.
A family.
I’ve never had that. It must be so fucking nice.
