Chapter 11
My father’s words had a way of lodging themselves inside my skin, like splinters you couldn’t reach.
He’d paced the landing, touching me, telling me I meant nothing and was disposable to my family.
The worst fucking part is he smiled. He’d grinned like a fat Cheshire cat, as if he was doing me a damn favor.
The whole time, his voice grated on my nerves.
The beast inside me, the one that awakened when someone tried to control me, coiled tighter and sharper inside me.
I didn’t go to my old room. My body wouldn’t let me.
Nothing that offered the soft comfort of apology or explanation when he didn’t.
Instead, I found myself walking down below the mansion—my sanctuary in this hell, just like the cabin.
But unlike the cabin, the gym was mine. A solitude that was only used by me.
The place was built to hone the animal in me.
Private trainers taught me every fighting style I could learn. I forced myself to practice discipline and patience. It was always here. The place I could break my body, quiet my mind, and let the blood swirl, disappearing down the drain of the showers here.
If I couldn’t drag his words out of me with blood and noise, I’d at least try to drown them to a more muted, comfortable level. I turned on my phone, blasting my screamo and falling into the familiar rhythm of the equipment.
The gym was a cave of fluorescent light and cold metal.
I walked forward, easing the rusted chain off the heavy bag and letting it swing once, to test the arc.
When I was confident it wouldn’t fly off, I wrapped my fists in tape and slid on the forgotten leather gloves, like a ritual.
I wanted to punish my body for ever coming to this fucking joke.
Keeping up appearances wasn’t worth this bullshit.
I wanted to punish my face, my biceps, anything that looked enough like the man who’d raised me to be this docile monster.
I threw myself into it. Punch after punch, I stayed silent, my ears filled with the pounding bass of the music. I’d left my headphones down here years ago, and now, they were stuck in my ears. My shoulders felt heated, and my breathing curved into short, sharp pants.
Like Sunshine’s.
The way he moaned and whimpered was a soundtrack all on its own, one I craved to hear again on repeat.
“Fuck.”
I hit the bag until my knuckles burned and the bag swung like a metronome of pure rage. Time slipped away. The music was drowning out any noise from upstairs. I slammed my shoulder into the weights, dropped myself into lifts, and rose again. Each repetition was like some fucked up prayer:
Break for me, hold for me, hurt for me.
There was a pattern to the pain I craved. A sort of math that made me feel centered. A routine I followed was like a simple mathematical equation.
Counted the sets, and doubling the reps.
Any pain you could measure, you could master.
I worked harder until my forearms were trembling, the edges of the world thinning out of focus.
My breathing, the erratic batshit beat of the pulse of my heart, and the sharp, thick taste of copper at the back of my throat.
I kept going long after the burn told me to stop, well past the bitching of my body, as I continued to abuse and torture myself.
Because the burn was the only honest thing, the only tangible evidence I had of my fraying control.
Finally, I let the bag hang and just stood there.
My fucking chest was heaving, my busted fists slick with sweat and blood.
The fury at my father had not left me. It faded into something manageable.
Now, it was like glass that I could slip into my pocket and carry.
It was painful and damaging, but not all-consuming.
I needed to wash this fucking night off my skin.
Not just from the sweat and grit, but because of the residue my father left on my body. All his expectations, the never-changing sneer, and the disappointment that lingered in his dark gaze were only for me.
Xanthy was perfect. She was the exact replica of my family’s poise and grace. Only hers wasn’t fake. She really was just a stupidly kind soul, not having been corrupted since my father was too busy breaking me, and our mother ignored our existence unless it was for a show.
Maybe Shiloh is with her because she is the light he wished he had.
A shower would help me. If nothing else, it was a small ceremony of sorts. It would wash away the residue of other people’s hands.
Did I really want it to wash away his?
I pushed open the door to the shower room and hit the valve. Hot water steamed up like a goddamn mirror, washing all the sins I tried so damn hard to hide. The room filled with that thick blanket of warm fog that I’d always associated with confessionals and punishments.
I stripped without thought, pulling the headphones out and switching my music to the surround sound system. The cool air on bare skin made me sigh. It felt good against the heat of the burn. Whatever else my father thought he could take from me, he couldn’t take this.
My fucking peace.
A soft sound jolted me, actually catching me off guard.
He was in the far stall next to the exit, tucked away from the rest of the wide open space and rows of showers.
I knew it before I saw him fully. His quiet demeanor and the way he stood too still in the steam.
I saw him walking back to Xanthy’s room in a towel earlier. Why was he here now?
I was like a cornered animal, watching and waiting to strike. Shiloh’s shoulders were clean from the blood and black markings now.
A map of taut muscle, while his dirty blond hair was slicked back against his neck. The water streaming down his back left a light that threw a halo effect around his profile. It softened him into something I hadn’t seen before.
In here, he wasn’t hiding. The tightness in his shoulders and neck released. He didn’t shed any light in the dark corners. He just…was.
He can’t hide when he’s burning for me.
Heat washed over me as I stepped under the stream, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my face forward. I didn’t let my eyes linger. I didn’t move toward him, just let the water simmer the burn out of my muscles, keeping my body turned away from him.
But he was looking.
Shiloh made a sound. It was quiet, a mix between a sigh and a huff. There was frustration, maybe even a question, but ultimately all I heard was a small war cry. I felt him shift. The air pressure changed as his wet footsteps moved closer.
I kept myself turned away, my fingers sudsing the grime of the night off my skin.
I could see him in my peripheral vision, watching as the water traced the path down my body. I let it be obvious I knew he was there, and I wasn’t going to look at him at all. I let him watch me deliberately look away.
He hated it, and I fucking loved seeing that fire.
I could see it in the cadence of his slightly faster breathing. I was going to go blind trying to study his body in my peripheral vision. The water made his silhouette more pronounced than the heavy costume. Each muscle on him was a statement. His hands clenched into fists.
He took a step, closing the distance between us. I felt the heat of him, but I stayed focused on the drain below my feet, watching the steady fall of the muddy, bloody water droplets.
I learned to control people in small increments so they didn’t know I was the one pulling the strings. Sometimes, a simple gaze withheld could be a map handed to a desperate man.
When I finally moved, it was slow and practiced—no sudden turns or showy acknowledgment. I simply reached for the soap, the bottle slick in my hands. The motion was more habitual than anything else.
I rubbed my hands together until my palms stung. The steam fogged the glass that was erected around the massive tiled floor. The world felt reduced to the hiss of the water, the thump of the intermittent music, and the suds of the soap on our bodies.
“Why are you—” he started, then stopped with a frustrated sigh.
His voice was low and uneven. It was the sound of someone trying not to break in public, even if this was a private facility.
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t give him that courtesy.
I could feel the need humming within him, raw and a little beautiful. He wanted something from me. Maybe attention or an apology? Ha. I was not a fucking charity for smiles and sorrys.
After all, sorry is only used to make the person apologizing feel better. It had fuck all to do with the one who actually deserved said apology.
Shiloh shifted again, closer this time, until the spray of my shower head hit his shoulders. The air changed with his proximity, tightening my skin. Unlike everyone else, I wasn’t afraid of him touching me.
In fact, I wanted him to.
He was watching me, waiting for the tiniest crack to give way.
An opening for him to ask those burning questions.
Maybe he thought I would look at him if he got into my space.
Maybe he wanted to catch me off guard, to reclaim his grip on control, and make me vulnerable in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Fuck me.
The silence of him being so close actually did affect me more than I wanted it to. Despite my cock hardening at the memories of his moans, I was also weirdly…warm.
I thought of my father then. That sliver of calm was flooded with newfound anger and hate. I thought of how he’d cornered me. That fucking smirk he used to mold me into a proper shape.
He had been a man who believed in speeches and threats. And now my sister’s boyfriend was here in my space, believing I’d break for him under pressure and stares. Both men only wanted fucking control of me. Both expected my surrender.
Good. I will let him want it. I’ll wait until he is desperate for it. Only to give him the illusion again that he has me under his thumb. Waiting for the perfect moment to break him.
“I heard your…dad. Xanthy said he’s always been…
hard on you. Not that you don’t fucking deserve it, you asshole, but…
” Shiloh’s voice was softer, coming from somewhere around my back and shoulder.
It was a statement disguised as an accusation.
“It wasn’t cool of him to air your family drama so damn loudly. ”
I kept washing.
“Reginald Harding has never been known to be quiet,” I said finally, the words deliberately bland and final. My mouth tasted like metal and the fruity soap. I let the sentence hang between us, not knowing myself what I wanted from it. “So you escaped the noise by snooping down here?”
That made Shiloh’s jaw work. He answered with a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been edged with something equal to pain. “You think you’re the only one who needs an escape?”
I lathered my hair with shampoo, leaning forward to let the suds run down with the cascade of water. “You can’t escape who you are, Sunshine.”
Silence gathered around us for a heartbeat.
The water was louder now that my music had kicked off.
The soft sound should have drowned the small noises from him, but it didn’t.
Shiloh’s breathing was a different tempo, faster and strained.
He was angry, clearly, but not with my father.
He was angry because I’d denied him my space.
Upset because I’d put my back to him and kept my face to the wall.
“I don’t even know you,” he said. Under the words, there was a tremor that made the syllables fragile. “But I can see you’re the only one who thinks you have everyone fooled, Care Bear.”
I thought about telling Shiloh exactly how fooled and moldable everyone was, minus my father.
Outside the polite rooms and his influence, I was adored and beloved. I thought about telling him that when people told me who to be, I liked to remind them I was someone they couldn’t name, how I let fear and attraction break them for me.
I opened my mouth to recite all the things I did to control him, to create a fixation that had him desperate for my attention even when hatred rolled off like heat.
Instead, I left him in the uncomfortable silence. After rinsing the soap away, I let the water carry down the contours of my back, ripping over my tattoos and the scars I didn’t bother to name for him. My silence was a choice sharper than any retort I could make.
“Fucking hell.”
The steam muffled it. But it sounded no less angry as it fell from his plump lips. It was pure yet furious.
“You make me want to pull away from the light I’ve held on to for so long,” he admitted, almost a whisper. “You make me want to break you.”
I’d heard of that kind of longing before, thin, hungry, and fucking dangerous lines. It made me feel pleased, yet somehow nervous in the same breath. It was exactly the kind of confession I could weaponize, and that knowledge made me cold with power.
“Maybe you will be the one who finally does someday.” I shrugged, still not looking at him.
He didn’t move.
The sound of the water filled the space between us, and that heat made everything feel intimate. I could tell he was measuring me, trying to unravel my brain when I couldn’t understand it myself.
The want was there, and the possibility that I would give anything away.
But one question bounced around my fucked-up brain, keeping pace with my heartbeat as I finally turned to look at him.
His body was shockingly beautiful in the light, and reflective droplets glittered on his skin. Those deep blue eyes were challenging, the water giving him some form of strength to face me so fully.
I licked my lips, my tongue gliding over my snake bite piercings.
He watched the movement. I watched the reaction of his cock getting heavier, thicker, and bouncing under my gaze. That same question was stronger, like a shout now instead of a whisper in my mind.
What will you do, Sunshine…if I actually let you break me?