Chapter 31
T he door closes with a click that has my shoulders bunching to my ears, everything too much right now. Lights, sounds, I need it all gone.
I finally let go of my ruined dress, the front torn all the way up to my navel, my underwear shredded in several parts.
Turns out he didn’t come at me from the side. Why would he? Mallory didn’t give a shit about my shoulder blades, only what was between my legs.
Sucking in lungfuls of air, I go to my bathroom, recoiling when I see who’s looking back at me in the mirror. Not who. What. Eyes lifeless, cheeks smeared in black, lips spattered with crimson, jaw rubbed raw, chest scratched—I am unrecognizable. Already.
I didn’t want to be this, not now, not ever.
At least now it was preventable. It should’ve been. I have a full-time bodyguard.
Crue promised me he’d follow me into hell if I wanted him to. I was there! I wanted him! But where was he? Locked in his room?
His door doesn’t even have a lock.
He should’ve disobeyed my father and insisted on staying with me. He should’ve shown up at the last second like they do in the movies. I practically challenged him to. He should’ve—
If he’d done anything more than what my father told him to, he’d be holding both a pink slip and a restraining order right now, barring me from ever seeing him again.
As heinous as tonight was, I’d do it all again for these next three weeks with Crue. I’d do it all again just to spend one more day with him.
Wiping the droplets of blood off my bottom lip with a shaky hand, I thank Goddess I don’t feel any cuts underneath. It’s all his.
Crue’s wrestling pointers did help, but they weren’t the only moves I needed to get away from Mallory. Wrestling is clean, this was not. Wrestling has rules, this had none. Crue let me move him, Mallory…did not.
Dress still on, I step under the showerhead and turn on the spray, the water soaking me from the crown of my head down. Beneath the veil of wet hair, I let a few tears free. A few turns into a dozen, and before I know it, I’ve lost count. I don’t blame the salty droplets. I want away from here, too.
I want away from me.
I roll the dress down, the material stickier than Mallory’s hands. My bra and underwear are next, the costly garments useless at my feet as I wash my body, my own hands foreign and unwelcome.
When I get out, I reassess my reflection. None of the physical signs are there anymore, yet they’re all I see. My complexion clear once again, I look normal.
I feel anything but.
He had no right to do that to my body. He had no right to do this to my mind. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t complete the rape. His attempt changed me. Forever. No amount of showers will ever be able to rid me of tonight’s memory.
I have no idea what to do or how I’m—
Crue knocks on our shared wall, not impatiently, just two soft taps to remind me of my promise.
I don’t want to go over there.
But I don’t want to be here, alone, replaying…everything. There’s nothing I can do about what happened. There’s nothing I can do about what’s going to happen.
All I can do is hold on to the one thing I do want while I can. And for once, I don’t have to in secret. He’s going to let me.
Crue opens his door before I even reach it.
“The sensor worked that time, too.”
“Weird,” I say like I have no clue.
After ushering me inside, he props his phone on the nightstand, screen-side down.
“You decorated?” I point at his lamp. It’s on, but there’s a black shirt draped over the shade, making the room a deep sepia.
“No. I was, uh… I was trying to make it darker in here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” He puts a hand in his pocket. “Oh, before I forget.” Pulling out my amethyst bracelet, he passes it over to me. “I noticed earlier I still had this one.”
“Thanks.”
I put it on, a calming energy immediately falling over me, then pull the sleeves of my crewneck over my palms, my fingers curling to keep them in place as I spin in a slow circle.
“You need anything?”
I almost ask him for something ridiculous just to see what he says. But the mannequin head catches my attention. Its hair is different than when I was in here early this morning. And beside it is a plate full of untouched food.
“Is that your dinner?”
The barest hint of acknowledgement echoes in the space between us.
“You weren’t hungry?”
Crue has a hand on his head when I face him again, but he quickly drops it to say, “I guess not.”
“You didn’t realize you didn’t eat?”
“No.”
He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands either as he lifts, then lowers them, his fingers clenching and unclenching. What’s the matter with him?
“Are you sick?” I ask.
“Terminally.”
That makes my lips pull to one side.
Quieter, he adds, “At least that’s how it felt.”
I nod, understanding…but not. I know how tonight felt for me. How did it feel for him? He sat in his room safe and unmolested. He even got his dinner hand-delivered to him where he could’ve enjoyed it without a leering audience.
What part of that made him feel like he was dying?
I start to turn back around when one of those hands shoots out, pointing.
“But I did practice.” He goes over to the mannequin, showing me his work. “For you.”
My eyes meet his. “Next special occasion, I know who to go to.”
“I’m not there yet, but I could do your hair right now. If you want?”
I’m already shaking my head. “That’s okay. I don’t—”
“Nothing elaborate. I could just… I don’t know. I could put it back for you…so it’s not in your face while you work.”
“I can manage a ponytail by myself, Major,” I whisper.
“No, I know.” He runs another hand over his nodding head. “I know you can. But, uh…” That hand falls and Crue lets me see the vulnerability I thought I heard in the hall. “I want to do it for you.”
“Why?” comes out even quieter.
“So I have a reason to have my hands on you, too.”
I cover up a sob by shaking my head and spinning in the opposite direction. “That’s, um…” I clear my throat. “That’s really pathetic.”
“I know,” Crue says much closer than he was a second ago, his breath teasing the side of my neck.
“I just came in here as a favor. I don’t—”
I feel him run his fingers through my wet hair and moan. How could something feel so good after going through something so bad?
Against my ear, he says, “I’ve been stuck in this room all night, going fucking crazy imagining all the things someone else could be doing to you. I had to do a dummy’s hair over and over and over again…” His fingers mold to my skull and pull my head back, triggering another moan, this one deeper. “…just to keep myself from climbing out the window and going after you.” He takes a deep breath, nuzzling the skin below my ear, then finishes on a whisper, “It was torture, not seeing you. Be a good girl for me and let me do your hair so I can make sure you’re here, you’re real, you’re okay. Please.”
My knees quake, my legs like jelly.
Lips to the ceiling, I rasp, “Pathetic.”
“Unquestionably.” His mouth closes around that same skin, sucking gently while his tongue swirls. But then he closes the space between our bodies, bringing his erection against my back and I arch away from it, from him, bile rushing up my throat.
Crue spins me around.
“What’s the matter?” Under drawn-tight eyebrows, his eyes search mine.
“Nothing.” I focus on his neckline, wishing I could slip inside his shirt and curl up against his chest, letting Crue’s heartbeats drown out every other noise in the world. “You said you wanted to do my hair, so…do it.”
He rolls his eyes but chuckles. “I was getting there. I just got distracted. You have a very distracting neck.”
“That’s what all the boys tell me.”
Crue’s humor disappears.
“Don’t be shy, miss. Drop those names.”
“Maybe later.” And by later, I mean never. Some of those names I’ll be taking to my grave without ever uttering them aloud. Everyone jokes about beer goggles but hard alcohol goggles are where the truly bad decisions lie. “And don’t call me miss. I hate it.”
“Don’t talk about other guys. I hate it.”
We hold each other’s gaze.
His jealousy is so funny because as hard as he tries, it’ll never reach the same level as mine. I would never ask for his exes’ names. I’d simply go online and stalk every person in his life until I found them myself.
My bodyguard nods at the bed. “Sit.”
“Do you have a hair tie?”
He brandishes his wrist, a black band around it. “Chloe left some with the head.”
Now my eyes are rolling. I just leave out the laugh as I say, “Of course she did.”
“Finally. Finally . My feisty little bat is back. All it took was mentioning your female hairstylist.”
He said it wrong again.
“You know you’re saying bat, right?”
“Yeah.” He smiles unabashedly, but reading my confusion, he explains, “You’re nocturnal, territorial, creepy, and—”
“I’m not creepy.”
“Have you seen your room?”
“I like crystals and tarot cards. That doesn’t make me creepy.”
“It’s not just those. It’s the moss and candles and dead bugs—”
“They’re butterflies I picked up off the atrium floor.”
He studies me for a minute.
“Your room is dark and feels like a lair. It’s creepy.”
My eyes drift over to the lamp with the shirt on it.
Crue follows my gaze and shifts on his feet, coughing.
Is that why he put that shirt on there? To make his room darker? For me?
Maybe I am more like a bat than a butterfly. At least he called me “his.”
After climbing on the mattress behind me, Crue starts separating my hair into sections…I assume to braid it but I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s too short. I do have the heart to tell him one thing though.
“Oh, and Chloe’s not my hairstylist anymore.”
Crue’s hands freeze, then he pulls my hair back until I’m looking up at him. Up on his knees, he towers over me.
“Why not?”
“I fired her.”
“Because…”
That chuckle finally comes through.
“Because she helped me?” he asks.
“No, don’t be ridiculous.”
He scowls but lets me lower my head again.
I wait until he resumes his task to add, “It was because she talked to you.”
“Vicious little bat,” is all he says.
His fingers are gentle and patient, the slow movements soothing. My scalp feels like it’s being zapped by tiny, pleasurable shots of electricity, lighting up all of my nerve endings.
Just as I predicted, he does try braiding my hair, the first few times in a regular braid, then in a French braid with the help of a slew of video tutorials. None of his attempts result in anything resembling either style, so after what feels like hours, he ends up putting my hair into a low ponytail, his knuckles brushing the back of my neck giving those same bursts of tingles.
When he asks to see his work from the front, he tucks the hair that fell out behind my ears.
“Those almost never stay in a ponytail.”
He shrugs. “Just another reason for me to keep touching you.”
It’s weird—this unspoken truce between us. I like it, too much, but it’s weird. Who decided on it? And when? I can’t pinpoint an exact moment where things shifted between us. Was it really when I came back from dinner? Obviously I was too tired to fight with him but what’s his reason for being like this?
Dropping my eyes, I scoot back several inches, giving him more space on the bed.
“Where are you thinking of getting your tattoo?”
“A tattoo parlor.”
“Yeah, obviously. But I meant on your body.”
“Oh. Um.” Brows pulled together, he looks down at himself, rotating his arms.
“You don’t know?”
“Yeah. Of course I do. Right here.” He holds out an arm…the one without any tattoos.
I survey all that blank canvas, asking slowly, “Where?”
He rubs his wrist. “How about right here?”
Is he asking me? Or is he not sure?
“It’ll have to be something small and without a lot of detail.”
He thinks for a minute, then pulls his fingers up his forearm to the space right below the crook of his elbow.
“Let’s do here instead. Do you need a pen?”
I pull the permanent marker out of my sweatshirt’s front pocket.
“This will work better on skin. It’ll wash off after—”
“I don’t want it to wash off. I told you I’m getting it tattooed.”
Okay. This has gone on long enough. I suspected the tattoo story was a ploy to get me over here, but now he’s taking it too far.
“Crue.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t even know where you’re getting it, let alone what you’re getting—”
“I know what I’m getting.”
“You do?”
“A butterfly.”
I fight to keep my expression neutral. “Why a butterfly?”
“I don’t know.” Crue’s green eyes plummet to the comforter. “I’ve been wanting one for a while…”
I ache to ask exactly how long? Was it since November?
“And you’re really good at drawing butterflies. I just thought…you know. You’d be the best person for the job.”
“Any kind of butterfly in particular?”
He nods, all hesitancy gone as he says, “The orange-and-black one. Monarch?”
Not only is Major Danger getting my art tattooed on his body for all time, he’s getting it for me…he just has no idea.
“Yeah. That’s a monarch. Lie back.”
Crue smirks but obeys, lying on his back, arm stretched out for me, palm-side up.
I move to straddle his wrist before thinking better of it. His hand would be right there . One flick and he’d be grabbing my pussy.
Instead, I sit between his arm and hip before leaning down to inspect the skin, feeling for any blemishes. Aside from a sprinkling of dark hair, it’s all smooth.
“They’re probably gonna have to shave some of this,” I tell him, scraping my nails through the short hairs.
He hisses, then grits, “’Kay.”
I glance up at his face, finding his gaze locked on mine. “How’d you get your other tattoos if you can’t even handle my nails?”
“I can handle your nails.”
“But you just—”
“That wasn’t out of pain.”
I try to keep my eyes on his…at first. After that, they make the trip south to Crue’s pants or, more accurately, where his erection is straining to get out of them.
“Ignore that. It’ll go down.”
With a shake of my head, I redirect my focus to his arm again.
Ignore the impressive erection less than a foot away.
Ignore the impressive erection less than a foot away.
Ignore the impressive erection less than a foot away.
It’s harder than it sounds. Literally.
Using my middle finger, I trace an outline of what I’m envisioning, measuring how big I can realistically make a butterfly.
I hear another hiss, followed by a muttered, “Maybe not,” and smile to myself.
Ignore the impressive erection less than a foot away…that isn’t going down anytime soon.
“If it’s too much, I don’t have to do this.”
“It’s not too much and you’re the only one I want to do this.”
My smile tries to double, but I bite my lips between my teeth and sit up. Resting his arm across my lap, I tuck his hand against my side. I’m just uncapping the marker when I feel his fingers playing with the back of my arm.
“You have to keep your arm still.”
The arm in question goes limp on my thighs.
“Sorry.”
A couple minutes after I start the wings, Crue mumbles with a thick voice, “I could fall asleep like this.”
“So go to sleep.”
“You won’t try smothering me?”
“No promises.”
We both chuckle and it feels good.
“Make sure you skip the pillow and just sit on my face.”
I frown and look up at him. His eyes are closed but one of his eyebrows lifts the same time the corner of his lips do.
“You’d be okay with me sitting on your face? While you’re asleep?”
“Okay with it? Shit, I drift off every night imagining it.”
I shake my head. No, he doesn’t.
Does he?
“Even after you saw what happened to Crue 2.0’s face?”
He points at his facial scar with his free hand. “An airbag going two hundred miles an hour, hitting me with over two thousand pounds of force couldn’t crush my face. You think I’m worried about you riding my tongue?”
“Riding your tongue? Aren’t you supposed to be asleep in this scenario?”
He’s smiling now. “I don’t care if I’m in a coma, your pussy gets within an inch of my face, I’m chowing the fuck down.”
Speechless, I return to my drawing.
Ignore that image.
Ignore that—
“So?” he questions with absolutely zero context whatsoever.
“So what?”
“Are you gonna do it?”
“I’m kinda busy right now, not to mention you’re…” I stop to wave a hand at him even though his eyes are still closed. “Awake.”
The fakest snore I’ve ever heard tickles my ears, making me laugh.
“You don’t snore.”
Crue stops the farce to chide, “See? All that sneaking in here while I was asleep, you could’ve been sitting on my face.”
“I didn’t know I had your permission before.”
“Now that you do, will you?”
Probably not. Crue’s the peace in a sea of chaos and lying next to him as he sleeps calmly gives me more than oral ever could.
Ignoring his question, I tease, “Is this what happens when you miss a meal?”
Crue’s hand grasps my elbow, and without a hint of humor, he says, “Be my dinner.”
Feeling his gaze now, I keep mine locked on my work. “I was joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You said tonight wasn’t about that.” Please don’t make it about that. I can’t…right now.
“Then stay the night and be my breakfast tomorrow.”
“Relax your arm.”
“Agree to stay the night.”
“Crue—”
“Stay the night with me,” he practically begs, gripping my arm tighter as he sits up.
“Why?”
“Because the safest place for you is in my arms.”
I scoff. “Just because you don’t want me in someone else’s, doesn’t make your arms the safest.”
“They’re the safest because I’d take on the world for you.”
“Is my father paying you enough for that?”
“No, he’s not… But I’d do it anyway.”
Finally, I lift my eyes to search his. Our heads seem to have some sort of gravitational pull, tugging us closer together.
“Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
Attentive. Amazing. Perfect.
“Nice.”
“Because the last person I failed to protect died. Tonight made me realize how much I don’t want that to happen to you.”
Genuine sincerity stares back at me.
“What happened tonight?” He didn’t see anything, did he? He didn’t hear anything…did he?
“My reason for getting up in the morning was ripped away from me and there was nothing I could do to get her back.”
The pain in his features, raw and vivid, reveals what tonight was for him. It was torture. I still don’t understand why.
“It’s just a job, Major,” floats through my lips like a puffy cloud on a summer day—aimlessly.
“No, little bat, you’re not.”