17
Violet
T om bobs his head and smiles as he slips out of Carter’s office, briefcase in hand.
The therapy session ended as it does every day, after six long hours, but if I’m honest, I could talk for another six. While it took me a while to open up and trust the process, now that I have, the words and stories don’t end.
I never thought fleshing out the nightmare I lived for six months, talking aloud about the hurt I experienced, the fear, and the dwindling hope, would help me in any way.
I was wrong.
After almost two months of long, daily sessions with Tom, even I have to admit I’m doing so much better than I was at the start. Somehow, talking and crying has purged part of the hurt. I’ve expelled the feelings that kept me suspended in the present.
This morning, when I got out of the shower, was the first time I didn’t see a broken, scarred, sex-doll in the mirror. For the first time in a long time I didn’t see a victim.
I didn’t see Viera and it’s all thanks to Broadway.
After I told him about the line I’ve drawn between the girl I was and the girl I want to be—because I’m not her yet—the very next day everyone started calling me Violet.
It helped and, while I’m far from feeling like a survivor, looking at myself and not feeling nauseated is big. It’s a step in the right direction.
The negative nelly living in my head questions my moves less and less the longer Broadway and I spend time together: another big step.
A step that wouldn’t have been possible without him. I can’t put a finger on what it is about Broadway that helps me, but whenever he’s around, I’m more determined to drag myself out of this pathetic ditch and put the past to rest.
Taking my empty cup with me, I leave the room, my head full of plans for the evening. The days have been more or less the same since I arrived here. I haven’t had the will to leave the house—save for a few walks through the huge backyard with Hailey, and my nighttime rides with Broadway—but today... today feels different. I want to do something other than sit in my room for hours on end.
Carter’s office door closes behind me with a small click and I start down the corridor. Head in the clouds, I don’t register the chatter from the living room until it’s too late.
I step inside, the volume hitting my ears in full, and my body instantly freezes. I’m used to seeing Broadway, Koby, and Ryder around. Apollo’s becoming a familiar sight, too, but there are more men here today.
A quick head count... ten . Ten men, five of whom I’ve never seen before. They’re all staring at me, their eyes like a physical, unwanted touch burning my skin as they take me in from head to toe.
My heart pounds in my ears, blood runs cold, and reality starts blurring. The day after the first auction hits me square in the jaw—a major regression considering how well I thought I was doing no longer than two minutes ago.
That day, I walked into the same thing. Blaze’s living room filled with ten ruthless, menacing men, the man who’d bought me among them: Cassio Barbieri. Tall, elegant, aristocratic. He took one step toward me, hungry eyes roving me up and down, and my instincts kicked in.
It’s happening now. Adrenaline floods my system, kicking my survival instincts to eleven when a man I don’t recognize flashes me a grin.
The empty cup slips from my hand, shattering against the wooden floor. My legs turn weak. So weak I can barely spin around, but I do, stumbling out.
Rational thinking is replaced by pure terror and adrenaline, an aftershock of the day Cassio came to collect me for the first time.
Running away was instinct. Uncontrollable.
And it’s back right now, twice as potent because I’ve tasted safety. My weak legs carry me down the hall as I brace against the walls, bursting into the kitchen, head swimming, fear choking my throat like two big, cold hands.
Cassio’s hands that night...
The maid cocks an eyebrow, assessing me from where she stands by the oven, checking on today’s dinner. Her eyes widen when I slam into the back door. I’m half limp, half frantic, so disoriented I can’t see straight. Almost as if I’ve been drugged.
My vision blurs, swimming back and forth between the kitchen, Noretto’s mansion, Cassio’s bedroom, Vincent’s basement... red room, ropes, pain, grunts...
I need air.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My hand grasps the door handle but before it gives way, two strong arms grab my shoulders and spin me around, sending me into a frenzy.
I fight back with what little strength I have.
I fight, trying to push the man away, my legs like jelly, my heart clawing its way up my throat.
“Shh, hey, hey, it’s me, it’s me. You’re okay, you’re safe,” Broadway chants, every word calm and level, but his grip close to desperate. His words start to sink, breaking through the fog in my mind. “No one’s going to hurt you,” he adds quietly, weaving his fingers through my hair.
The moment his fingers press those delicious points at the base of my scalp, I go slack in his arms.
The fight fizzes out of me at once.
He still coos in my hair, shushing me softly. One of his arms is curled around my upper back, holding me flush to his muscular chest, his face in my hair, warm breath tickling the side of my face.
Don’t just stand there, shove him away! Too close, TOO CLOSE!
I shut my eyes, as if that will silence my screaming mind, and focus on Broadway.
He keeps massaging my neck, increasing the pressure until I can barely hold my weight. It’s so... calming.
“That’s it,” he mutters. “Calm down. You’re okay. I won’t hurt you.”
I nod, clarity returning.
His strong hands aren’t the only reason I’m pressed up against him. No, I’m grasping fistfuls of his jacket in both palms, squeezing hard and pulling myself in, closer and closer. My eyes grow heavy, the familiar scent of his cologne working like a lullaby.
Most nights I hardly sleep, catching an odd hour here and there in the early-morning noise.
I’m exhausted. The dark circles under my eyes speak to that, but no matter how depleted I feel, I can’t sleep in the silence of Carter and Hailey’s house. The nights are so quiet it throws my mind into overdrive. After months in Noretto’s mansion and years on the streets of Bratislava, it seems my mind’s conditioned to only let me sleep where there’s background noise.
I guess the insomnia is why Tom claims my progress is remarkable. I’m sure long daily sessions aren’t standard practice. While letting things out is healing in a way, it’s his questions and prodding that really help.
But it requires time for me to think, mull over his words, accept and adapt my way of thinking to his suggestions. If I slept like a normal person, I wouldn’t have that time and my progress wouldn’t be anywhere near as good.
My mind’s alive during the night. Perched on the windowsill, I think . I analyze the day’s session, every word I said and Tom’s replies. These hours upon hours of contemplating his advice allow me to process and adapt. To understand and see where I’m going wrong.
I bet that’s why after just eight weeks I no longer feel disgusted in my own skin. Why I no longer hate every inch of my body, why I no longer cry in bed, curled into a ball, cursing fate and wallowing in self-pity.
I survived .
Tom helps me see it. He helps me build myself back from the ground up.
“Is it always like this?” Broadway asks, still clutching me close. “Every time you meet someone new?”
“Is she okay?” Carter’s voice interrupts. His tone is level, words considerate, but with a coldness that makes me shiver.
Carter’s an enigmatic person. Lethal, composed, menacing. I don’t care much for him when Hailey’s not around. He’s... scary without her.
“I’m okay,” I mutter, peeling my face away from Broadway’s chest. I’m instantly cold. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize,” Carter cuts in, before giving Broadway a pointed stare.
“I... I’ll go back to my room,” I say, sensing they need privacy.
Stepping out of Broadway’s arms shouldn’t be this hard. I shouldn’t feel so safe with him. He’s a man, and every man in my life thus far has used and abused me, starting with my dead-beat father, right through to the men Blaze made me service.
Only Damon never hurt me, but he wasn’t friendly, and I never liked his hands on me. He was cold. Distant. He may have created an illusion of safety, as my bodyguard, but I was terrified whenever he came too close. Save from Blaze’s order, nothing was stopping him from touching me.
I’m not afraid of Carter or his men, but I don’t enjoy being alone one-on-one with any of them.
Except Broadway.
It’s different with Broadway.
He elicits a sense of calm. Whether it’s because of the way he handled me at the auction, or because we’ve spent so much time together lately and I’m most familiar with him, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, he’s the only one I don’t mind being alone with.
I really need to tell Tom. I’m sure he can help me figure out why Broadway’s presence is so soothing. It might be the scared, vulnerable, broken, girl inside me seeking comfort, or the part of me fighting that girl and wanting to believe not every man is a monster.
Broadway lets me go, but not before he swipes his hand along my cheek. His index finger curls under my chin, tilting my head up so I’ll meet his eyes. “Try to get some sleep. You look exhausted.”
There’s so much tenderness in his voice, nothing but raw emotion in the heat of his gaze.
My legs are weak, though not from terror like they were a moment ago, it’s a very different emotion now: affection.
And because I really am sleepy.
Broadway caressing my pressure points has sent my mind into a hazy, blissful state. If there was a bed here, I’d fall face first and be out of it before my head touched the pillow.
I only manage to give Broadway what I hope is a thankful smile before taking the long way round the house. There’s a second staircase that bypasses the living room and lets me enter my bedroom without bumping into anyone on the way.