Chapter 12 Collins
Collins
“HE RUINED ME.”
Ihad to pee. That’s it. But I was too stubborn to wait for Creed to come back and help me, not that I thought I needed it. Therapy had cleared me to get up and move around more but said that it probably wouldn’t hurt to have somebody with me at first, just for safety’s sake.
But Creed had pissed me off, and I didn’t want to wait around to ask for his help. He’d lied to me about going to see Riley. I could tell in his tone two nights ago that he was giving me a roundabout answer, and I don’t think he fully understands the gravity of my need to lay eyes on Ri.
He may have had the perfect reason as to why I couldn’t see him, but he didn’t give me one at all.
His avoidance is what pissed me off. I can’t possibly start to heal until I see for myself that my Riley’s heart is still beating.
Because if it’s still beating, then I have hope that everything will be okay, at least someday.
From the time I woke up, I had almost professionally avoided looking at the severity of my injuries.
I didn’t want to see the marks cut so deep into my skin that the evidence of Guy’s torture would forever haunt me.
I’d childishly hoped that if I ignored them long enough, maybe they’d fade or go away entirely and I wouldn't have to bear the pain of seeing what he did to me.
After emptying my bladder, I’d made the mistake of catching my reflection in the mirror when I was washing my hands.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my face and body in over two weeks.
It’s a fucking meticulous nightmare. I’m covered in bruises, bandages, and healing cuts that were made with near surgical precision.
I tried so hard to look at them with indifference. To not feel the bile rising in my throat or the phantom pain I felt every time the coolness of the blade pressed against my skin. The way Riley moaned, cried, and begged for the blade to be turned onto himself instead.
I’m not entirely sure when I blacked out this time. But coming to, I realize I’m straddling Creed’s thighs and we’re both sitting under the tail end of the showerhead spray.
Creed’s words echo around me, sparking something inside of me.
Show me where you think he ruined you, and I’ll show you a fucking masterpiece.
The way he’d said it as his lips ghosted across mine had my body practically singing for him.
“Go ahead, Stardust.” He rocks his hips up again, the proof of his arousal pressing against my core. His ice blue gaze never once falters from mine as he challenges, “Prove me wrong.”
I start to shake my head, but Creed gives me a gentle, encouraging squeeze on my hips. It’s not a demand, but an invitation for me to take back some semblance of power. I don’t even know where all of my injuries are, but I guess we’ll find them together.
For the first time, I look down at my arms with intent. Most of my left forearm is wrapped in gauze that’s now soaking through from the spray of water peppering down on it. With shaky fingers, I peel the tape away, slowly revealing the wounds beneath.
The cry that skates past my lips is silent, but my right hand rushes to muffle the nonexistent sound anyway.
There are two small cuts with four stitches each sitting about midway down my forearm, but it’s nothing compared to the six massive incisions he’d run vertically, down to my wrist, purposefully avoiding the main vein that flowed down the center.
It’s red and angry where it’s been stitched and glued, but the lines are disturbingly clean.
My once flawless skin is now marred beyond healing and unrecognizable, and that’s just my forearm.
I’m terrified to look anywhere else, especially my shoulder that’s fucking screaming in pain beneath the wrap with the smallest of movements.
When I finally gather the courage to look at Creed, I’m taken aback by the look on his face. He looks surprised at first, but then it morphs. Where I thought I’d see anger or malice or even a small part of me expected disgust, there’s an odd mix of shock and…is he fucking smirking??
“What the fuck, Creed?” I whine. The fuck is wrong with him? “Why…why the fuck are you grinning right now? Look at what he did to me!” I hate that the words are brokenly squeaking out of me like I’m some timid little mouse. They make me feel fucking frail.
Creed’s face sobers fractionally as he cups my elbow gently with one hand and ghosts his fingers over the marks in my arm with the other. He’s not actually touching the wounds, but I can still feel the electricity of his touch nonetheless. “Baby, take another look. Do you see what he did?”
I open my mouth to answer, but he barks a laugh that startles me. He looks devastatingly handsome with the way his eyes twinkle in amusement and his smile grows sinister as he dips his chin toward my arm again. “It’s me.”
Uh. “What?”
“It’s fucking me, Stardust.”
I blink at him, my lips parted in utter confusion. He’s lost his goddamned mind. “I–Are you okay?”
He just chuckles and traces the tender shape again. “Does this pattern look familiar to you?”
I stare at it for a long moment before it clicks and my eyes bounce back to Creed’s. “Holy shit.”
While Guy had wanted to cause the most damage to my body, he unknowingly had cut the shape of a fucking guitar neck—the bridge, saddle, and strings take shape on my forearm.
I can’t stop staring at it in this new light, and I can’t believe that in mere seconds, Creed’s outlandish claim has given these cuts a new perspective.
It didn’t remove the memory of how they got there, but now I won’t be able to think of anything but Creed’s goofy-ass claim over their shape.
The fact that his shenanigans worked has an embarrassing squeak that’s supposed to be a giggle bubbling up; it pops from my lips on a hiccup. Creed’s attention snaps back to my face the moment the sound comes out and the most breathtaking smile graces his lips.
He reaches up with reverence and swipes his thumb across my lower lip, stopping at the corner of my mouth where I’m still smiling. “There she is.”
Something shifts in his gaze. His ice-blue eyes never leave mine as he raises my arm and presses a delicate kiss to my wrist, right over the scabs of the vertical cuts. Goosebumps erupt from the soft caress of his lips. “My amazing, strong girl.”
I shudder a breath. “I don’t feel strong.”
He rocks his hips to shift his position. It’s evident that his cock is, indeed, still rock hard. His rigid length combined with the subsequent brushing of the rough fabric of his jeans against my core causes an unexpected full-body reaction. I shiver as my thighs clench around his bracketed hips.
Creed groans, his eyes slipping closed. “You’re not doing a very good job at proving me wrong, Stardust.” He smirks as he leans back against the tiled wall again. The hot water of the shower has the room flooded with steam, and we’re both now a combination of wet and sweat, but I don’t care.
Creed’s confidence has created a safe haven for me to find my strength again, even if it’s fleeting. I don’t want to shatter the illusion by moving from this very spot just yet.
The cuts on my right arm aren’t nearly as shocking as my left, but they’re still fucking ugly as I show them to Creed, who takes his time to place soft kisses upon each and every one.
There are multiple cuts on my inner thighs that I’ve been ignoring the sting of while sitting astride Creed’s lap.
He takes his time roving over them, but just as he’s done with every cut, he proves his arousal by torturing me with his rolling hips.
I don’t believe it’s intentional, but he’s getting me so wound up, and it has my body feeling conflicted.
I’m sore from every cut. My muscles are stiff and protesting from being locked in the same position for two weeks. I feel dirty and a little hollow after Guy took and took and fucking took from me. I’m haunted and plagued by flashbacks of how he hurt Riley.
I’m tired.
So fucking tired.
But I also refuse to let him have any power over me where I can help it.
I won’t let the memory of how he hurt me take away from every step I try to take forward.
Creed has this way of giving me strength with his presence alone.
His proximity and the aura he emanates is like a spark of life that ignites my soul, its warmth a physical thing I can feel.
The slow, unassuming undulation of his hips awakens something within me.
I’m still so broken, but fuck it.
This moment is mine.
His strength is mine.
It’s a feeling I want to drown in. To escape in.
Right now, I want to pretend I’m okay. That I can be everything that I know I’m not. I’m panting, hardly able to concentrate on anything outside the feel of his featherlight touch gliding up and down my thighs, over my hips, and deftly up my exposed back.
He reaches the tie of the soaked hospital gown and slides his finger through the loop, a clear question in his eyes.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the single word.
My hands tremble furiously where they grip his wet t-shirt as he pulls the string slowly until it gives way.
I close my eyes with a soft sigh when I feel the first touch of his fingertips against my skin. It feels healing, as he slowly peels the material down and away from my body. The gown folds over itself as if shedding skin as the last remaining part of my covered body is exposed to him.
The wet fabric pools between us as he carefully pulls it from around each arm.
I feel the weight of his gaze as it settles over my bare chest. I fight the urge to cover myself because these are the scars I do remember vividly, considering they’d happened on that very last day.
My nipples tighten, and I honestly can’t tell if it's from the exposure to the steam-filled room, or from Creed’s intense stare. It fucking hurts, though.