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I don’t question how in the hell she found me because this is another mistake I’ve made where she’s concerned. The visible AirTag was a decoy. I stopped looking when I found it, and it seems that was her plan all along. There has to be another one in my truck, or she’s somehow managed to put tracking software on my cell phone.
If I were the type of man to issue earned praise, I might do it, but her being in front of me just pisses me off. I wanted to rid myself of her. I wanted the time it was going to take to stop thinking about this bitch, and that’s impossible with her continuing to show up around every fucking turn.
I thought I taught her enough lessons, hurt her badly enough that she would leave, but she’s like an abused fucking dog, crawling back on her stomach, too terrified to wiggle her tail but hopeful there will be kindness in my hands the next time I touch her.
But that’s not true either, is it?
She craves the violence. She wants to be hurt, to be abused.
It’s her penance, her punishment, for her sister being on the receiving end of all of it when they were kids.
It’s how she says sorry to Liana. She lets others abuse her.
I should feel like an asshole for how I’ve treated her. I think most men after hearing her confessions last night would jump at the opportunity to tell her that he’s sorry.
I’m not other men.
I’m not fucking sorry.
What I am is addicted.
I want to hurt her.
I want to taunt her about her pain while fucking her bloody.
Why?
Because it’s giving her exactly what she wants, what she needs.
She comes so fucking hard on my cock when she’s hurting the most.
It’s not my place to worry about how she copes with her fucked-up past. Just like it’s no one else’s business how I cope with mine. We aren’t special. There are more people than anyone could ever know that are struggling with battles. The level of fucked-upness doesn’t even matter.
If she puts herself in a position to be abused, how is it my place to comment? I’m not exactly the fucking poster child for positive mental health.
What’s fucked up is my demons like playing with her demons. We feed each other and that will become so fucking dangerous to both of us. Will I become her father, taking what I need when I want it? Will she become her sister, finally getting enough and plunging a knife in my chest?
My skin itches with the possibilities of finding out.
So am I the asshole for providing that to her or is the sensitive man, the one that feels bad, the asshole?
I choke down the growl at thinking of other men being inside of her.
That little hint of jealousy pisses me off. It’s another sign of her control, of the claws she has in my skin.
I hate her even more for it.
I want to punish her more.
I want more cries, more begging, more tears.
I want to leave her drained and incapable of following me.
I want her fuckinggone.
Only the chatter of other patrons float around us.
She orders a cup of coffee, and those are the only words that I hear from her for the better part of an hour.
