Moth (Dragon Triad Duet Book 1), page 22
I think I try to say something, but my voice is so garbled, I don’t even understand the words.
But he does. “You can barely fucking walk,” he snarls before entering the kitchen with an enviable display of speed.
Seconds later, he returns with his arms piled high with supplies that put my meager sewing kit to shame.
“Your face is going to scar if you don’t go to a hospital,” he tells me, prodding my left cheek, which aches the most.
Any other day, I’d react to that fact with more panic. More guilt. A scar would mean more questions. Questions would mean more chances to screw up and betray Branden, which would only lead to him trying to exert more control over my life in general.
But now?
I can’t feel anything but the warm fingers smoothing the hair from my face. He dampens a paper towel and applies a cool liquid to my cheek next, holding it there despite how I flinch.
“Don’t move,” he warns. “You don’t want this to get infected.”
He continues to apply more liquid with a familiarity that makes me suspect this isn’t the first time he’s patched someone up like this. Bonnie? No. Something in his stern expression triggers the memory of what he said to me the night he was stabbed. You looked like me. Those scared bunny eyes…
“You need to take off your shirt,” he commands, drawing back. He stands and exits the room, seemingly expecting me to comply on my own.
I stare down at my sweater, speckled red in places, but I can’t seem to make my arms move. By the time he reenters the room, I haven’t budged.
But he’s already stripped off his bloodied shirt, leaving his chest bare. Dangling from his arm is a clean one, but he brings it to me rather than put it on.
“Lift your arms.” His tone carries an authority that I’m too exhausted to argue with. Or follow.
In the end, he sinks into a crouch and tugs at the hem of my sweater, dragging it over my head himself. He swaps it for the oversized one of his, which hangs on me loosely, pooling over my waist as he tugs off my skirt.
Wary, his eyes meet mine, brimming with confusion as though he’s contemplating some complex puzzle. “Get up.”
To leave. I’ve already made peace with that inevitable outcome. I try to stand. Gingerly, I brace my feet on the floor, but when I attempt to rise from the couch, my muscles refuse.
He has to grab my arm and haul me to my feet. I stagger, forced to cling to him for balance. “Come on.”
My fingers grip his forearm, but he sweeps his hand around my hip, keeping me upright. Then he lifts me entirely, taking me into his arms as though I weigh nothing. Instead of the stairs, he carries me down the hall, deeper into the apartment’s layout. When he reaches a closed door, I can feel him hesitate before he finally pushes it open.
A spacious bedroom lurks behind it, one accented with navy walls and pops of scarlet. His sheets are red, his comforter black. Apart from a black wooden dresser, he doesn’t have much furniture, leaving the space almost utilitarian. Somewhere he sleeps, savoring his time alone.
Time to read the battered book I spy on a nightstand as he sets me down on the wide mattress, double the size of mine. I’m too stunned by the feel of the blankets to fully process the action. This whole room smells like him, a haven of smoke and coconut. But my observation is cut short when he pushes me down.
“Sleep.”
He turns, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
Even now, he’ll bend his rule, but he won’t break it.
Chapter Twenty-One
I wake up so disoriented I know I’m dreaming. The bed beneath me is far too soft to be mine. Too big. Soft blankets shroud me in swaths of fabric, and it feels as though I could lie here forever.
But raised voices intrude my refuge, sounding as if they’re coming from directly below.
“…said you told him to stand down,” a man says, his voice so deep it seems to vibrate through the floor, up the bed frame, and into my very bones. “Since when do we cower in our territory?”
“He isn’t worth it,” a man replies, his voice so level I almost don’t recognize it. Rafe. He must be down in his shop, and the sound must carry easily in this old building. “There’s no point in—”
“No point in proving that we are not people to be fucked with?” the other man counters, his inflection conveying a dangerous implication. “I’ve given you more control than most men would,” he adds. “Don’t make me regret that, Rafael.”
“You won’t,” Rafe replies.
“And now with the missing Wen girl. The police will be buzzing around, sticking their fucking noses where they don’t belong. You need to get a handle on this. Now. Not toy with your fucking whores, or waste time doing whatever the hell it is you do in this shithole of a playhouse.” The vitriol in his tone makes my skin crawl. It’s cruel, directed at more than just this building, but at everything down to the drawings adorning the walls.
Every piece of art.
“I will,” Rafe says.
“And if you don’t… You know I don’t give second chances.”
The man must leave because I hear a bell chime as though the main door was opened. In his absence, heavy footsteps resonate, though muted from the distance. I recognize the slow, steady gait. Rafe. Pacing?
He must do so for what seems like hours, forming endless circles. Finally, the sound trails off only to be replaced by the louder thud of advancing footsteps entering the apartment. He comes close only to retreat without trying the door. Again, minutes later.
My brain reads into the action. His attempts to do what he did the first night I stayed here. Tell me to leave. Uphold his rule.
Pain shoots down my spine as I push back the covers and gingerly sit upright. I’m still wearing his shirt, my shoes removed, my bag nowhere in sight. I brace my feet on the floor and attempt to stand. My knees buckle, and I have to clutch the bed frame just to stay upright.
Bit by bit, I inch toward the door and push it open. My eyes scan the living room for my stuff. I find my bag on the couch and my shoes near the door. I start for them first and attempt to wrestle my feet into each sandal.
From this position, I have a clearer view of the apartment’s common space—including the figure standing in the kitchen with his back to me. He sighs heavily, rummaging through a pile of assorted items. I can tell from the set of his shoulders alone that he’s sensed my presence.
I don’t wait for him to turn around scowling or to dish out his trademark kiss-off.
Limping with the effort, I start for my bag. I barely get my fingers around the strap when it’s yanked from my grasp. A sturdy arm hooks around my waist, bringing with it the overwhelming scent of coconut. My feet leave the ground a heartbeat later, and before I can even blink, I’m being placed onto a hard surface while a muscular body blocks me in, preventing me from falling.
I’m on the counter, sitting precariously beside a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter.
“Eat.” A sandwich appears beneath my nose, oozing peanut butter from the edges. “Eat.”
I eye the soft, pale surface. Of all the scenarios running through my head, this one didn’t even make the cut. A trick? A test?
“I’m not hungry,” I finally rasp.
He makes a gruff sound in his throat, and I finally gather the nerve to meet his gaze. A single cocked black eyebrow transforms the cold, icy expression I expect to find. He looks more irritated than anything. “You slept through the night,” he says. “It’s two in the fucking afternoon. You’re starving. Eat.”
My brain short-circuits, and I can’t argue. My lips part as he rams a corner of the sandwich between them. I bite down and chew.
The simple act triggers an avalanche of pain I’d been able to suppress until now. My throbbing left eye. My cheek. My jaw. My shoulder. Chewing hurts, and it’s painful to swallow.
Taking a hint, he sets the sandwich aside and grabs a spoon from the drawer. He shoves it directly into the jar of peanut butter and brings the mixture to my mouth.
“Eat.”
It’s easier to swallow without having to chew first. I take a careful lick. Then another. After that, he switches up the rhythm by presenting me with a glass of water before one more spoonful.
His eyes scan my face as I choke down each sampling, hunting for something. Whatever he finds in the end, makes him set the spoon aside once I’ve licked it clean. He raises a hand to my face next, but his demeanor keeps me from flinching. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this expression shaping his features, tightening the line of his mouth, and darkening those watchful eyes. The worst part? I can’t even begin to name it.
My confusion only grows as his thumb glides beneath my eye, and the mysterious emotion shifts. Now I recognize it. Rage. “A little higher. A little harder. He could have killed you.”
He says it so matter-of-factly and with a nonchalance that makes the overall statement even more chilling.
“Like you could have killed Gino?” I don’t know why I turn it on him. Why a part of me squirms, hating his attention. Though I haven’t seen my face yet, the need to minimize is ingrained within me as a mantra of sorts. This? This is nothing.
“Yes,” he says without an ounce of shame. He teases aside a lock of my hair, exposing more of my injuries to him. “Like I could have killed Gino. But Gino’s got a good hundred pounds on you, and I can tell you right now that he’s not fucked up half as bad as you are.”
I assume he’s joking, at first. But no, his eyes stare dead into mine, daring me to question.
“Are you an expert?”
“I know my own strength,” he counters. “What’s that saying? Pick on someone your own size. If Gino were anywhere near your size? I’d know better than to touch him. Not unless I wanted fucking prison.”
“He insulted your mother,” I point out. “You were angry.” I’m not sure whether I’m justifying his actions or pointing out the failure in his logic. There was nothing controlled about what he did. He lashed out purely on instinct. In rage.
He frowns, letting his hand fall from me. “He did,” he admits. “And he fucking deserved a fist to the face for that. But using that logic, what did you do, huh? It must have been pretty fucking bad, bunny.” He eyes me again in that indiscernible way, making my breathing hitch. “I wanted to shut Gino’s ass up and teach the fucker a lesson. But what he did to you? He wanted to hurt you—”
“Stop.”
“You know what Gino does to the girls who work for him?” he adds. “He treats them like shit. Makes them turn tricks to curry favor with whoever he wants. Rich fuckers. Businessmen. Even the cops. Someone like that deserves to be beaten so badly he can barely fucking walk, not—”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh?” He rears back, an eyebrow cocked. His thumb finds my chin, manipulating my face so that he can view me from a different angle. “Fine,” he echoes harshly. “You know that journal of yours… One of those little stories you wrote? Deceiver, I think you called it.”
Alarm prickles down my spine. That story got me my first ever feature, submitted to a paper on a whim. I try to turn away, but his grip tightens just enough to keep me trapped without causing more pain. “S-Stop.”
“It was really morbid shit, bunny,” he tells me, snatching a fresh paper towel to dab at my lip with. “About someone haunted by a monster. One who got inside her head and threatened to destroy her from the inside out. The only way to save herself? Deceive someone else into becoming his prey—”
“It’s just a story.”
“I doubt that,” he replies, sounding confident. “In fact, I think it’s the realest thing you’ve scribbled in that little journal of yours. The one time you admitted it to yourself—you’re afraid. Not of just him, but of the things he’s done to you. Whatever twisted shit being with him has made you do—”
“Please stop.” I squeeze my eyes shut, steeling myself for more. More anger. More vicious words. More of the truth…
He sighs. “Eat.”
I open my eyes as another spoonful of peanut butter appears beneath my nose. His version of a truce? I’m too grateful for the distraction to care. Parting my lips, I let him shovel a spoonful inside. And then another.
He watches me swallow, his expression unreadable. When I’ve eaten enough to satisfy him, he rocks back on his heels, and I grip the edge of the counter, preparing to stand.
“I should go—”
“Stay.” He grits his teeth, and I can practically see him wrestling with the decision to voice the next words to leave his mouth. “You should stay. Get some sleep.”
He makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like he’s granting a request I never asked out loud. Regardless, he’s already tugging off my sandals without waiting for an answer. He tosses them into a corner near the couch, and then palms my hips, easing me down from the counter.
“I have to work,” he says before pulling away, heading toward the door to the stairs. “In the meantime, you can come up with a good ass lie to explain your face before you go back to him.”
My face? I watch him go, then I turn on my heel and find myself creeping toward his bathroom. It’s dark enough inside it that I have to flip the light switch just to be able to make out my reflection.
But a monster stares back. Her eyes are bloodshot—one partially swollen shut. Bruises in various shades of purple discolor her skin. A gash slices beneath her cheek, dangerously close to her eye, and her neck is a patchwork of discoloration.
I can see that my mouth is open and my eyes wide, but I don’t hear anything, just my surging heartbeat. It hammers against my eardrums, deafening me to anything else.
Until the door flies open, smacking off the adjacent wall. The figure behind it looks at me, his brows knitted in concern, his chest heaving as though he ran all the way here. I can finally name that elusive emotion creeping across his features. Pity.
He steps forward without a word, impossible to outrun. I’m in his arms before I can even think to react, burning alive in his heat.
And all I can do is surrender to the inferno.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“He’s never hit you in the face before. When he abuses you.” He makes it sound normal almost. As if he’s so familiar with the ins and outs of such a dynamic. Abuse? A part of me cringes from the word, and the soft surface beneath me makes for a fitting hiding place from the reality of it all.
His bed. He’s sprawled out beside me, his fingers in my hair, his eyes on the ceiling.
“He keeps it all concentrated on your arms,” he continues. “Your legs. Back. Places that are easier to hide. Easier for you to ignore. But when it’s on your face…” He sighs, bringing his hand to his right temple. His thumb traces the length of his eyebrow, bringing attention to a tiny scar slicing through it that I never noticed until now. “That makes it real. You can’t ignore it then.”
“Like you?” I tilt my face against his chest, just enough to make eye contact. “Your father?” I ask, recalling something Mara mentioned. He went to prison, though I’m not sure why. Murder, I think.
He stiffens, and I don’t expect an answer. His fingers are in my hair again, distracting me with their soft, gentle motions over my scalp. “He’ll do it again,” he tells me, ignoring my question. “You don’t want to hear it, but he will.”
Of course, I already know as much. I’ve made peace with it in a sense, but the fact never alarmed me before. My chest clenches at the prospect, my limbs trembling.
Why?
Because it’s getting harder than ever to shut the pain off? Because the moth drifted too close to the fire, burning up her fragile shell. Now she feels everything.
And it hurts.
I hunt for another distraction and find one as I shift over scarlet silken sheets. “I’m in your bed,” I point out, my voice broken and raspy. The change in subject makes him stiffen this time. “Your sheets will smell like me—”
“You have a boyfriend,” he counters, his answer to every inch of his control he’s let me take. “This doesn’t count.”
“No, I don’t,” I confess, feeling my throat thicken. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
He grunts as if he’s not sure how to process that statement. In the end, he just sighs, letting his fingers slip through my hair. And in the gentle motions, I lose the last bit of myself I’ve kept restrained.
“He hurt me.” It’s so surreal saying it out loud. Hearing my voice form those words I’ve expressed through my writing so many times. Through deception and prose. Through lies. “Bran hurt me. He’s always hurt me…and no one has ever cared.” Not our parents, who found it easier to let Branden oversee my life than do it themselves. Not my classmates, who overlooked the girl who always wore sweaters, even in the summer. Not his wife.
“My mother made excuses for my father,” Rafe says, his voice so soft I barely hear him. “She always fell or tripped. She said she was clumsy, not that he’d smacked her with his fist when he didn’t get his way or hit her with a wine bottle. Not when he left for three fucking years, fucking around while she did whatever she could to care for me. No matter what it cost her, she did it.”
I brace my hand against his chest, feeling his heartbeat raging beneath my palm. He eyes the ceiling coldly, his teeth gritted, body rigid.
“And she always loved the fucker, though I don’t know why. She always took him back, no matter what he did… No matter how badly he hurt her, she let him return again and again.”
I shift against him, watching as those dark eyes flash with rage at the memories.
“One night, he got too rough after showing up again out of the blue. He shoved her around, but she didn’t get back up. The asshole just laughed and passed out. She would never call the cops on his ass…”
“But you did,” I whisper when he trails off.
He nods, his chin jutting proudly. “I did. Not that it made much of a fucking difference. She wasn’t able to make excuses for him that time.”
