Chapter Twenty Three
“What the fuck, Rhys?!” Harper’s cry wakes me and a sudden headache tears through my skull. Pulling myself upright on the sofa, I frown and instantly regret it. Pain explodes in my head, the daylight burning my retinas. What the hell happened?
I remember Harper’s fingers clawing through my hair. Her taste on my tongue, her sweet cries as her cunt clenched around my tattooed fingers. The sight will forever be imprinted in my mind. Then, like a beckon of dread, a tiny red light flashes through the image.
That’s when it all comes rushing back. How I’d barely contained my rage long enough to demand Clayton get Harper out of here.
How she kicked and screamed as he crowded her upstairs, while my white-knuckled grip trembled on the counter.
How I let the monster within take over, a living entity crawling beneath my skin that begged for blood and promised pain.
Someone took invading Harper’s privacy to a whole new level.
No one gets to see her in the throes of pleasure, flushed and dazed with desire.
Well, except Clayton in this one scenario, but I wasn’t focused on him.
I was being driven by my need to possess and indulge.
By the primal need to mark and own her. Her body is mine.
Her soft moans, clawing nails and flushed skin belong to me.
Slowly easing upright, I hold the sides of my head together as if they might crack open.
Various points of my body ache as I tense, the whole motion of sitting up like I’m being dragged through tar.
At some point last night I’d lost my t-shirt, but my jeans are still in place.
Dark spots have stained the blue material, my brows pinching together as I check myself for injuries.
“It’s your nose,” Clayton states. Striding into view, he hands me a wet cloth.
Accepting it tentatively, I press it to my face and jerk back as blinding pain shoots through my already pounding head.
The throbbing is unbearable, a string of harsh hisses escaping me. The bone is going to need to be reset.
“Can you find my phone? I’ve got a physician on speed dial.
” Harper looks around the room, lowering to her knees to peer beneath the sofa I’m sitting on.
She’s wearing one of my t-shirts, the white material drooping forward as she bends and pushes her peachy ass into the air, also clad in my boxers.
Finding the device, she hands it over and crawls into my side, nuzzling softly.
I wish I could smell the scent of my laundry powder mixed with her vanilla shampoo, the way our scents compliment each other.
Pulling Harper closer, I wrap one arm around her body and stroke her back, my phone in my other hand as I shoot off a message to the doc.
He responds instantly that he’s on his way, as the doorbell sounds as McClean arrives for his morning shift.
Clayton lets him in, muttering a low apology about the mess.
My arm tightens around Harper, the throbbing in my face resonating with one spasming in my chest. Why the fuck is Scum apologizing for me, for the mess I made, for the monster I am?
It doesn’t sit right. Neither does the way Harper strokes my abdomen with her fingers, pretending I’m not some asshole who can’t contain his rage.
That’s when it all comes rushing back. How I’d mercilessly owned her body, worked her sweet pussy into a frenzy with my fingers and tongue.
She tasted divine. She screamed my name.
Only to have the moment ruined by someone pathetic bastard who decided they deserved a front row seat through the webcam.
No one gets to see Harper like that except me, and apparently Clayton for however long Harper takes pity on him.
Last night wasn’t my first time sharing or being watched, but it’s the first time I was controlled by pure possessiveness. When it comes to Harper, I can’t fight the primal need to mark and own her. Her body is mine. Her soft moans, clawing nails and flushed skin belong to me.
Sweeping a gaze around the house, I see my reason for not having expensive décor or personal belongings has finally come to fruition.
Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long.
The staircase banister is hanging uselessly to one side, there are holes in various walls.
Behind me, the kitchen floor is covered with smashed plates and glass.
A baseball bat lies on the central island, a vision of me playing crockery cricket flashing to mind.
But there’s something else. An arm winding around my neck and hoisting me off my feet.
A figure and a fist, just before it all goes dark.
“You broke my freaking nose,” I rasp nasally as Clayton rounds the sofa and drops into my book throne.
His arms are crossed, microscopic smirk pulling at his mouth.
For some reason I try to sniff, sending white hot agony splintering through my face.
“Jesus Christ!” Clayton chuckles deeply, the noise more like a rumble infiltrating the air.
Not a trace of regret passes through his face.
“I found myself in the rare position of being able to land a punch without you getting hard over it. And you’re welcome. You wouldn’t have had any furniture left if I hadn’t.”
I can’t deny I would have done the same in his position, but glare at him regardless.
Needing painkillers, I gently ease out of Harper’s hold and make my way into the kitchen.
The cabinet where I keep the Xanax is missing its door, a lone mug left in the cupboard beside it.
I turn to the basin, finding the faucet torn clean off and laying uselessly on the counter.
Someone had the good sense to turn off the water, and I reckon it’s the same person who’s stepping into my personal space now.
“You need to sort your shit out. You can’t be losing it like that with her in the house,” he warns as I swallow the tablets raw. Shoving past him, I pick up a bar stool to perch on, glass crunching beneath my bare feet.
“If you’re so concerned, why don’t you take the hint and fuck off already?
She’s only being dragged into this bullshit because of you.
” I spit back, refusing to acknowledge that he’s right.
I can’t be blacking out with fury when Harper is under the same roof.
My head hangs heavy as I’ve got a hangover without the sweet oblivion of the night before.
“I’m not the sole target of these taunts,” Clayton grits through clenched teeth, his eyes on the floor.
Bending, he picks at the edge of a polaroid that’s peeking out from beneath the counter and returns to his full height, the tic in his jaw beating.
A darkness has fallen over his face, his black eyes blazing with an emotion I know all too well.
I turn away, not ever wanting to see those photos again. Any images of Harper and I will be far more graphic and better yet, consensual.
“Someone has to be there to pick up the pieces when you toss her aside. That’s what you do to women when you’re finished with them,” Clayton jabs.
He’s hurt me physically, now he’s hunting for my vulnerabilities.
Luckily for me, I know what I bring to Harper’s life.
I know how she looks at me, how she aches for me.
It’s something I don’t need to explain to anyone.
“Maybe I want her as much as you do.” I challenge.
“Impossible.” Clayton’s eyes flash, the depth of his feelings starting to show at last. Before I can so much as smirk, never mind rib him the way I want to, a shoe slams into the side of my head. Spots burst behind my eyes on a groan as my other high-top hits Clayton’s back.
“If you’re both finished talking about me as if I’m not here,” she swans over, batting her lashes in that sugary sweet, I’m-about-to-fuck-you-up, kind of way.
During our quarreling, she pulled her leather jacket over the T-shirt I’m apparently not getting back and tugged on her jeans.
“I’ve had a text from Addy, we have some things to discuss.
And before you get all macho,” Harper holds up a hand to silence Clayton, “she’s waiting outside and I will not be without an escort.
Play nice you two. I’ll be back by seven. ”
I groan, leaning my forehead on my palm.
Harper is fully planning to go ahead with tonight’s study session, regardless of the looming aspect of being recorded.
A kiss is placed on my cheek and she leaves.
I spin, demanding to know what she thinks I’m going to do with Scum, but the rush of blood to my face floors me with another wave of agony. Where is that fucking doctor?
Pushing upright anyway, I stagger towards the window, checking Harper is in fact with company.
The pink-haired imp who desecrated my toenails doesn’t seem as bubbly today.
I still need to figure out how to get the offensive color off.
Regardless, I track the pair until they are out of view.
The house suddenly goes cold, or maybe that’s just my chest as I watch Harper leave.
Clayton huffs, dropping onto the sofa as if he’s actually going to stick around.
“At least she didn’t take the laptop,” he grumbles, drumming his fingers on his thigh, staring at the coffee table.
It’s a wonder I didn’t smash it alongside everything else.
“Do you know anyone who can do anything with it? Get it scanned or wire tapped or some shit?” Resting against the windowsill, I run a hand through my hair.
“I tried a hacker last time but he couldn’t get a trace. Maybe if there’s new leads, he might find something to latch onto. I’ll hit him up again.”