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With great effort and a shit load of mentally screaming at myself, I pull back, dislodging myself from his strong grasp before cupping his jaw and staring into his eyes.
“I’m here, Luce, and I’m not going anywhere,” I lean in and give his surprised face a quick peck on the corner of his lips, once again, forcing myself to pull back, “but I have no interest in body exploration with someone who is drunk and high.”
I stand straight, grinning at his now resting bitch face, and close the first aid kit.
“You’re a fucking tease, sweetness, you know that?”
I scoff as I get to the doorway, “You started it. Next time, try to be sober when you shoot your shot,entendido?”
He rolls his eyes, standing up and rushing towards me, making me squeal as I dodge his snapping teeth.
“Get out of here before I rip your clothes off with my teeth.” He walks backwards down the hall toward the kitchen, blowing me a kiss before turning the corner. The man is proud of himself for being the unhinged tease that he is.
I giggle and roll my eyes as I get to Gio’s door where I immediately sober.
Placing the kit on top of the dresser quietly, I walk over to my sleeping Gio and touch his forehead once more, my eyes roving over the patch on his shoulder. Just a few inches to the left and he could have died, leaving me and Luce behind.
Tears roll down my cheeks as I remind myself that he’s here, both of us are, and we have to be strong for Luce now.
“I love you, Gio.” I whisper before kissing his lips and standing. I quickly grab a new shirt from the dresser before swiping a pair of my boy shorts from my drawer. A shower will do me good.
Or a hundred showers, I think to myself as I turn for the en suite.
Standing under the hot spray, I groan at the feel of my muscles slowly loosening. I was tied to that bed for almost seventeen hours, only allowed to get up when a paying bastard wanted me in a new position. My body is covered in bruises and shallow cuts, evidence that I survived. Six months ago, I would have felt defeated, I would have wanted to die, begged for death, now though? I feel proud of myself. I feel broken, yes. Used and abused, absolutely. But I can’t shake this inner voice that tells me I’m a fucking survivor.
Alan tried to break me, but I’m here. He tried to kill my spirit, but I’m smiling. He should have put a bullet in my head or tied a rope to my neck because now that I’m alive and free, me and my men will hunt him down like the dog he is, and I will take my time releasing every stain of my soul upon him.
He created a new me, and he should be very fucking afraid of who I am now because in some ways, I know I am.
