“What’s that mean—she owed a debt of life?” Part of her was trying to assimilate all the information into something that wasn’t malicious and sick.
“That’s between your mom and my dad. Dad’s primary rule was that you were never to know, but Mom says we’re adults now and can make our own rules.”
He’d actually talked to Mom about them? Like they were a couple or something? Sick. Fucking sick.
He delicately kissed her ear. “That photo is more than their wedding photo. It’s our wedding photo too.” Junior’s words hung in the air.
Bile sloshed the sides of her stomach, and her mind ripped wide open. Memories, terrible ones she’d never wanted to remember, flashed into existence again. Memories of begging, crying, screaming for Mom when Junior was hurting her. And Mom never once intervened. Never once admitted anything was wrong. Never allowed Evanee to talk about it.
Her insides spasmed. Her bladder burned with the need to release.
“You are mine. No one else’s. And I’m done waiting for you.”
Stop! She silently screamed to the memories. Later they could take over and ravage her as badly as Junior had in the past, but not now.
Focus. Concentrate. Escape. She had to escape.
He nuzzled her neck. “We can start over. I can be tender. I can be loving. Mom says that’s what you want.”
Mom said to be tender? What the fuck planet was her mother living on? Did either of them really think that simply offering to be nice would melt her into a warm, pliant puddle?
No. No. No. Junior be kind? To her? Impossible.
Another of his mind games. But deep down in the darkest corner of her soul, she knew he’d at least told one truth. She had been sacrificed to him.
His mouth moved over her neck, then began sucking her skin. Maybe if she could uncoil some of the tension in her muscles, he might think she was into it and maybe he’d let his guard down. And maybe that would give her an opportunity to escape.
He kept one arm around her, still pinning both her arms at her sides, but moved his hand up to cup her breast.
Tension gripped all of her muscles. She waited, expecting the pinching, grabbing, pulling, but his touch was tender, almost reverent.
“Relax,” he whispered against her skin.
“I’m trying,” she snapped, then changed her tone. “This is new to me.”
“This time will be different.”
No, it wouldn’t. It was going to end like it always did. Either she’d fight him off until she escaped. Or he’d hurt her.
She endured his touch. Kept her mind away from the sensation of it and instead became vigilant about her surroundings. The rumble of semis outside—one had just pulled out of the lot. She closed her eyes and visualized her room and their position in it—standing between the beds. Sweat filmed her skin.
His hand moved away from her breast, trailed down her stomach, pushed into her shorts.
An idea bolted into her awareness. If she timed this just right, she’d be out the door in less than ten seconds. Her heart convulsed like it was being repeatedly electrocuted.
She raised one leg, rested her foot on the edge of the nightstand, and opened her thigh for him.
“Ahh…see. This is nice.” His hand moved lower and lower. She shut off the sensation of him touching her and counted. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand. Five one-thousand.
She groaned, trying to create a sound of pleasure, rather than one of repulsion, and arched back into him. He braced, just like she wanted, giving her the leverage to lift her other leg to the nightstand.
She pushed off it into him with every bit of strength she possessed.
He stumbled back in the space between the beds, taking her with him.
Let me go, she wanted to shout, but shouting would take extra energy and she needed every bit she had to get out the door and away from him.
She felt the moment when he lost his battle with balance. It meant freedom. Her moment of escape.
In midair, she twisted to the side, out of his grip, and landed on her hip beside him. Pain detonated, and every bone clattered from the impact. The agony was too great to move. Could she even walk?
She’d fucking crawl if she had to.
She was a jumble of knees and hands and feet, propelling herself toward the hopeful crack of light that framed the ill-fitting door. The initial burst of pain had already faded. If she could just get her feet underneath her. Knee, hand, knee, foot, hand—
A weight landed on her back. She went down on all fours again. Her arms gave out. She slammed cheek first into the floor. The blow sloshed her brain. She couldn’t move.
Junior turned her over. Pinned her hands above her head.
“I wanted this time to be different.” He spoke softly. A drop of spittle landed on her cheek. “You chose this. Not me. Remember that.”
“Lathan!” His name burst from her lips in a scream that split the pain in her head, then doubled it.
Junior’s grip on her wrists tightened. “Don’t ever say his name.”
“Lath—”
Junior clamped his hand over her mouth, grinding his palm against her lips. Skin tore; blood rushed across her tongue, dripped down her throat.
A warm, moist circle settled over her nose. What was that?
His mouth. He covered her nose with his mouth.
Fear slammed into her so hard she bucked from its impact.
He blew into her nose.
The moisture choked her, burning like she’d gotten water in her sinuses. She thrashed against his hold, but his mouth was suctioned to her face. Her lungs expanded larger and larger. Pressure threatened to rip her wide open.
*
Lathan knocked on her room door.
It was late. Too late. Past midnight. And yet, here he was.
The air was heavy with diesel and fried food from the restaurant across the parking lot. Morty’s itself smelled foul. A combination of mildew and rot. How could she stand living here? How could anyone stand living here?