There isn’t a way in this world they would ever believe I just decided not to come home when given the opportunity. So I mustn’t have had that opportunity. They must think I was stabbed or shot, or worse, that I was raped and beaten to death.
God, I am the worst person on the face of the planet to leave them wondering like this. My heart feels like a lead balloon sitting heavy in my chest as I find new, un-shredded clothes to put on.
I should call them. I should just stop being such a fucking coward, and I should tell them I’m okay, even if I end up hurting them by not going back to Seattle. Straight away. Not going back to Seattle straight away. I will have to go back at some point. Don’t I? I can’t hide here forever.
The t-shirt I’ve stolen from Rebel’s closet is clean and soft and smells deliciously of him as I pull it over my head. My moral compass starts spinning, then. Why can’t I stay here for a while? At least until everything with Ramirez dies down. I have excellent grades. I could always go back to college next year if I want to. There may even be a college in New Mexico that—
I can’t help but smile as I hear the cabin door creak open. He thought he was such a smart ass when he high-tailed it out of here, leaving me on the floor, needing so much more of him. And now look. He’s back within ten minutes, no doubt ready to teach me a lesson. I get half way through pulling the t-shirt over my head, but then there are hands on my hands, stilling me. I’m half naked, only my head and shoulders covered by the soft, dark material. Something about that is so kinky. I’m essentially blindfolded for all intents and purposes. He could do anything to me and I would never see it coming.
“So,” I say breathlessly. “You changed your mind. Will this be part of my punishment?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His stubble grazes me across my shoulder blades, my skin immediately turning to goose bumps as he places his lips against the curve of my neck. Slowly, his hands travel from mine down my arms until they’re hovering just above my breasts. I want him to touch me. I want him to touch me so badly. I arch my back pressing my breasts upward, catching my breath in my throat, waiting for him to gently slide his palms downward, following the swell of my body.
However, when he does move his hands down, it’s not gently. He takes hold of my breasts, grabbing with rigid, calloused fingers, and then he squeezes so hard I’m momentarily blinded by the pain.
“Ahhhh! What…what the fuck? No! Stop!” For a second, through my confusion, I think that this is the real punishment Rebel was talking about and I am frightened. Very, very frightened. And then it hits me. There’s no way Rebel would ever handle my body like that. Like he hates it and he wants to hurt it. I may not have been with him for years and years, I may not know what his favorite color is, or what all of his childhood stories are, but I know he would never do that to me. Never in a million years.
Which means…
Terror is a living, breathing thing, snaking its way through my insides.
Oh, god, no…
Oh, god, no.
My whole body locks up tight when I hear the sound of very familiar, very evil laughter in my ear. “Oh, I knew you would have such a pretty little cunt. I knew you would love me pinching your perfect titties like this.”
Raphael.
Raphael is here, with his hands on me, touching me. Hurting me. I try to drag in a breath but it’s impossible. My ribcage feels like it’s in a vise and I’m never going to wriggle free. My brain eventually connects my difficulty to breathe with the fact that Raphael has wound one of his arms around my chest and is squeezing tightly.
The next three seconds are a blur. I tear the t-shirt away from my head, which leaves me completely naked. Better naked than blind, though. I thrust my elbows backward, slamming them into Raphael’s body, contacting with his side and his arm. He doesn’t let go, though. If anything, his grip grows even tighter.
“GET THE FUCK OFF ME! LET ME GO!”
“I won’t be letting you go, princess. Not this time. This time you’re mine. Struggle, bitch. Fight me. Come on…make me believe it.” I can’t see his face but I can hear the sneer in his voice. He’s loving the fight almost as much as he hates me. Because he does. He despises me. He’s the sort of man who hates all women, purely because of their sex. I know nothing I say is going to get me out of this situation. I’m going to have to fight my way out of it, and I’m going to have to be smart about it, too.
I’m gripped by panic and fear, but somehow my brain is still working. Through everything that’s happening, feeling trapped and ultimately terrified, I manage to form one coherent thought: stop giving him what he wants.
I fall limp in his arms.