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“Is that what you’re so fucking worried about?” he grits out, his cheeks turning red. I shove him again, this time harder, and cry out when he pulls my hair. “You’re worried I fucked her, huh? Worried that while you were gone, spreading your legs for my pathetic waste of a son, I had my cock buried inside Mary’s cunt?”
I should be shocked by the way he’s speaking to me, but I don’t care. Not as anger fills me at the way he refers to Roman. How dare he?
“He’s not pathetic!” My fingers wrap around his as I scrape and claw against his grip. “Let me go, Isaac!” I shout, then whimper as I feel some of my strands of hair give way. “You’re hurting me!”
His grin turns feral, manic as he shakes his head. “You have no idea what pain is,” he murmurs. “None.” And then he’s using his hold on my hair to drag me to my bedroom. “But you will.”
I scream, fighting with everything I have as I stumble behind him. My dress gets caught on the edge of my desk and I try to free it as the material pulls taut, warring with his punishing grip. But it’s no use. It tears, and he laughs again, the sound so wrong, it sends shivers down my spine.
He shoves me, and I trip over a pile of clothes on the floor, catching myself on the edge of my bed. My eyes land on my open laptop, and bile fills my mouth at the sight. I try to stand up, but then he’s there, his fingers digging into the material of my dress. He grips the neckline with both hands and pulls, ripping the thin cotton easily down my spine.
I scream, terror shooting through me at the sound, the feel of his rough hands on my skin as he shucks the material away.
Wrong.
So wrong.
I cling to my dress, holding it against my chest to cover myself before it falls any further. “What are you doing?” I yell, but he ignores me as he pulls the dress again, yanking it down. I let go, using both my hands to cover what I can, protecting myself.
I know he’s seen me naked before, that he’s had his hands on my body. But not like this, not by force, not without giving me a choice.
Not when I truly didn’t want it.
“You’re filthy,” he spits, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Take off your clothes, you temptress whore, or I’ll do it for you.”
I choke out a sob and stumble again, this time over my dress, as I try to get away from him. But he’s already there, ripping, tearing, destroying. I shake my head, crying useless tears that won’t help.
Something in me snaps.
His hands are on my body, forcing me to give in, pushing me to do what he wants, but I’m not letting him take something else from me.
Nothing else.
I claw and slap at him. Shove and fight and scream and kick. I don’t stop, even when he grabs my hair again and jerks me into his body. I don’t stop, even when his hand collides with my cheek, making black spots fill my vision and blood coat my tongue.
I think I’m begging, a jumbled mess of words spilling from my tear-stained lips.
I think I’m making promises to a god I truly stopped believing in the day my world fell apart.
I think I tell Isaac that I still love him, that I’m sorry, that I’ll do anything.
I think he doesn’t care.
And I think he’s going to break me, anyway.
My knees collide with the harsh floor as the room spins and he forces my face into my yellow bedspread, the white flowers blurring into nothingness.
I don’t stop kicking.
I don’t stop screaming.
His hand connects with my bare ass cheek. Once. Twice. Three times.
It doesn’t turn me on.
It makes me vomit into my mouth and I spit it on the floor as I continue to fight. Continue to scream. Continue to make promises I’ll never keep.
I hear his belt slide from his jeans, feel the cool leather as it lashes out, leaving burning devastation across my back in its wake. My arms give out and for a second, just one second, I forget to fight.
