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I don’t count them; I just take them. He turns me around by putting his leather loafer under my stomach and rolling me over. Like a dirty animal he can’t get himself to touch. He’s dressed in a smart suit, looking handsome and so unlike the monster he is.
“My dad wants to see me,” he says casually. “Just go to bed. Maybe you’ll be willing to put a little more effort into this relationship tomorrow.”
Vileness crosses his gaze as he looks down at me from his powerful position. For no apparent reason, he presses the sole of his shoe against my collarbone, close to my shoulder. He presses, and I try to make sense of it, quickly answering what he just said. “I-I will,” I lie to protect myself.
Trying to make sense of abuse is like trying to scream in a nightmare. You need it, you’re in a breathless apnea and it would finally bring life into your lungs.
But it’s impossible.
Because just like nightmares, abuse is uncontrollable. It doesn’t matter what you say or do. It doesn’t matter if you listen and wonder if you’re awake, alive, or able to fight fate…Ultimately, you’re not the one in control.
So, when Conor keeps pressing, putting weight onto his leg and making sure my skin bruises from his gesture, I don’t question his motivation anymore.
He’s an abuser, and he will always abuse me.
29
RACHEL
A Little Death– The Neighbourhood
Conor has been gone for less than an hour and I’ve had a shower. I’ve had time to rid myself of his sickening scent but not his painful bruises. I have to keep myself busy while my body calms down from the rushes of fear and adrenaline Conor put it through. Then I’ll sleep. I start doing things around the house that don’t need to be done, just so my brain has something to focus on.
I’m changing the bed sheets in our guest bedroom, where no one has ever slept, when someone knocks loudly on our front door.
We have a Stoneview mansion. Visitors have to ring our surveillance gate before they can reach our door. The only people who know our code are us, my parents, and his.
Conor would have a key, and he’s with his dad. My dad never comes. He simply cannot stand Conor, even if it doesn’t stop him from going with my mom’s wish of forcing me into an abusive marriage with him.
It can only be Mom.
I sigh to myself, dreading seeing my mom at this hour. It’s late, and I’m ready to go to bed. I wanted to touch myself to images of Rose’s naked body while I fell into a sleep where I would only dream of her and me.
Back to wearing my silk robe with nothing underneath, I open the door to my—
“Oh my god,” I jump back in fear.
In a split second, I attempt to shut my front door on Samuel Thomas. His massive frame comes to stand closer, and he stops my movement with a mighty hand on the door.
Ever so silent, he pushes back, forcing me to step away and let him in. He walks into my house like he’s the one who bought it for me.
“H-how did you get past the gate?” I stutter as I walk backward, my hands coming in front of me as a useless reflex to keep a threat away.
He keeps walking toward me, and I eventually have to stop taking steps backward when I realize I’ve backed myself into the wall that separates our hallway from our living area.
Sam, however, keeps his strides slow and steady. His body is indescribably commanding. It’s not only the fact that he’s huge, that his height makes me feel like I’m facing a tsunami. It’s not the fact that the girth of his arm is probably the same as my thigh.
It’s the aura about him. He’s got the aura of akiller. His black eyes suck you in, ready to end you. His gelled-back hair, his tattoos peeking anywhere they can, hinting that they cover his entire body. He’s more than dangerous; he is absolutely destructive.
But even when the lethal man gets close enough to me that I can feel his breath against my cheek, my body doesn’t react a quarter of the way it does around Conor. The palpitations from my heart don’t spread disgust in my entire being. The sweat at the small of my back is not proof of fear, and the hair rising at the back of my neck is not apprehension.
No, it’s something else entirely, and Iknowthe difference.
I have always been jealous of Sam. I have always wanted Rose’s attention to myself, and during our senior year, I couldn’t stand knowing she was spending time with him. Precious time she could have spent on me.
But I understand. Truly, I get it. There is something about him that drops my heartbeats from my chest to my stomach. It’s the roughness, the fact that everything about him feels forbidden and illegal. It’s knowing he kills people, and he chooses to let me live.
He brings his hand up, and I flinch, the memory of Conor’s fingers slapping against my cheek just too fresh.
