Nila
THE WORLD SOLIDIFIED.
I traded treacle-unconsciousness for cumbersome reality. One moment I was off in make-believe land with deformed unicorns and black rainbows, the next, I was awake.
Where am I?
Groggy, heartbroken, stupefied.
I clutched my head, warding off the gentle headache and fuzzy taste on my tongue. I smacked my lips, trying to get rid of the taste. The metallic residue was...familiar.
But where from?
It reminded me of the one and only operation I’d had when I was seventeen to remove my tonsils. I’d been sick for a year with tonsillitis until I’d begged to have them out.
Waking up from the operation had been terrifying. Surrounded by piercing beeps and turned into a pincushion with needles.
Massaging my temples, I forced my brain to work.
What happened last night?
I blinked.
The Weaver quarters pieced together like a storybook—bolts of fabric hanging from the walls, messy table with scissors and chalk, and the grey centrepiece for my collection draped otherworldly on the mannequin.
My eyes flew to the towel discarded on the emerald W embroidered carpet.
Did I get dressed in a hurry?
I followed the trail of fuchsia pink dress draped over the wingback by the fireplace. I frowned at the unwanted lingerie on the foot of the bed.
Then I saw the zipped garment bag.
And everything propelled into me with razor blades.
Poker. Cognac. Blindfolds. Daniel. Cut. Kestrel.
My hands flew to cover my mouth.
Oh, my God. What have I done?
I cringed, reliving the way I’ve softened toward Kes, the way I’d found unwanted pleasure in his arms, then I buckled under my hate for Jethro at leaving me there. He just left!
And Kes stayed and helped and—
He drugged you!
My heart catapulted into a thousand beats.
Oh, God. What did they do?
Panic and horror shook my hands as I shoved the duvet away and looked at my body. I didn’t know what I expected to find—bruises and cuts and obvious marks of rape—but the stark whiteness of a nightdress hid answers.
I have to know.
I had to see, had to come to terms with what foul, disgusting things might’ve been done while I was unconscious.
I need a mirror.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the thick mattress, I leapt.
My feet touched something cool and hard, rather than warm and soft. My balance tripped, my ankle twisted, and I tumbled forward to land on all fours.
A masculine curse filled the space. Something shoved me, turning my fall into a somersault. I cried out, coming to a halt on my back.
Jethro.
The instant my eyes landed on him, the betrayal over the past few days choked my lungs. Those damn drugs. His twisted family. A lifetime of conditioning and a soul thoroughly broken from circumstances I could never understand.
My heart bled for him. But at the same time, I no longer cared.
He’d thrown me to the wolves and left.
He didn’t deserve my compassion or affection or tenderness.
He deserved nothing.
Jethro groaned, but his eyes remained closed. The fumes of alcohol soaked the air around him. His arm flung out, seeking something.
I scrambled out of reach.
He mumbled, his face screwed up and sunken.
What the hell is he doing in here?
I couldn’t stop the crashing waves of dislike, distrust, and utter resentment taking hold.
He flinched, grunting as if in pain.
Climbing to my feet, I darted around the bed and snuggled back into warm sheets. I wanted him gone!
Curling my legs up beneath me, I wrapped the covers tight like a fortress. “Get. Out.” My voice was full of contempt.
Shuffling sounded below, but no reply. A few tense minutes ratcheted my heart rate, before he slowly inclined from lying to sitting. His back rested against my bed as he groaned, grabbing his head. “Fuck.”
He didn’t look up. His long legs bent, the rest of his body wrung out and weary.
The love I’d had for him wanted to comfort, but the repulsion of him leaving me last night made me hunker deeper into my quilt and glower.
Rubbing both hands over his face, he yawned. Every motion was lethargic and reeking of drunkenness.
So he’d left me at the fate of his family to drink last night?
Arsehole. Complete and utter arsehole.
Looking over his shoulder, he froze.
My breathing ceased. My blood curdled. “Leave.”
The single syllable hung between us like a deflating balloon falling to the carpet.
Jethro swallowed. Pain and intoxication swam in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. Gone was the refined gentleman who hid so much. Gone were the chiselled cheekbones and radiant golden eyes.
The man before me...the man who’d hurt me, crushed me, and still held my heart in his traitorous hands was a mere shadow of himself—not even a shadow—an extinguished, extinct, broken thing.
We stared for a millennium.
Slowly, his lips tilted into a grimace; he bestowed the saddest, sweetest smile and staggered to his feet. “I’m sorry.” With an unsteady wave, he swayed to the door. “Didn’t want you to wake...alone. Wanted to keep you...safe.”
His voice roped around my heart, forcing it to beat and flurry. His steps were terminally empty, staggering toward the exit.
That was it?
No heartfelt plea or fervent explanation?
Just ‘I’m sorry?’
“No, you know what?” I threw the duvet away and hurled myself out of bed.
Storming after him, I grabbed his forearm and dug my nails into his flesh.
“Sorry isn’t good enough.” Tears exploded into being—a salty river flowing unheeded down my cheeks.
“Sorry doesn’t cover what you’ve done to me. Sorry will never be good enough!”
He stood there like a township sacked by pillaging enemies. He didn’t move to shrug me off or argue or explain. He just curled into himself, squeezing his eyes as tight as possible.
I hit him.
“Tell me what they did to me!”
I hit him again.
“Look me in the fucking eye and tell me why you let them do this!”
I hit him again and again and again.
“Explain to me why you didn’t save me. That you left me to suffer when I know you care for me!”
He jerked away from my barrage, backing toward the door. “I’ll leave. I won’t put you through any more—”
“No!” I screamed. I’d never been so loud.
My voice bounced off the chandelier, disappearing into luxury fabrics waiting to be turned into garments.
“You leave now and you will never be welcome in my life. You hear me? I hate you for what you made me go through last night.” My voice cracked.
“Kestrel—he proved to be twice the man you are and I liked him touching me. At least he deserved a reward for doing whatever he could to save me.”
Jethro stumbled backward, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t want to hear about—”
“Tough shit!” I stalked him as he lurched away.
My stomach coiled and spat with pain. What Kestrel did last night stained my entire outlook. Yes, I was grateful to him for trying. Yes, I’d come under his touch. But it made me feel dirty and whorish to speak about Kes to Jethro.
I didn’t have feelings toward him other than friendship. And even then, I still didn’t trust him. He’d drugged me for heaven’s sake!
But I wanted to hurt Jethro so much. I wanted him in pieces like I was. I wanted him fucking bleeding at my feet and begging for forgiveness.
I turned feral. Vibrating with the need to hurt. I’d never been so callous to crave others’ pain. But this...I’d never experienced anything like this.
Shoving his chest, I snarled, “Where did you go, huh? Where were you while your brother put his finger inside me and came all over my back?”
He grunted, shaking his head. “Nila—don’t—”
“No. You don’t.” I pushed him again. My hands curled into fists, raining on his chest. “Talk to me! Tell me what the fuck you were thinking! I’m done existing this way. I won’t let you use my emotions against me anymore.”
He swallowed hard, running a shaking hand through his hair. “I get it. You hate me and want me to leave.” He stumbled forward, pushing past to reach for the doorknob as if it was centimetres away not metres. “I’m leaving...I’ll g—go.”
The slurs and hesitation spoke of a tongue still tangled with booze.
“You’re drunk.” I laughed, letting my pain frolic in the brittle sound. “I can’t believe you left me last night and got drunk!”
He shook his head. “Not anymore.” His eyes watered. “I wish I was. Fuck, I wish I was drunk. Then this wouldn’t hurt so damn much.”
“What wouldn’t hurt so much?!” I plucked the strange nightgown I wore. Who dressed me after they’d finished raping my unconscious form? Who put me to bed to wake alone and discarded?
But you weren’t alone. He slept beside you.
“What wouldn’t hurt, Jethro? The fact you’re a monster?
That you’re a horrible human being? That you’re a pussy?
Oh perhaps, none of the above?” My eyes narrowed.
Anger boiled over, stripping body from bone.
My temper was corrosive—an acid eating its way like a worm inside my mind.
I couldn’t go on living like this. I couldn’t go on loving a man who refused to love me in return.
I couldn’t exist in this hell. “Maybe you hurt, because you finally see how fucking wrong all of this is!”
“Stop.” He covered his mouth, shaking his head. “Just stop—”
“No! I won’t stop. Not until you tell me. Tell me what they did to me last night. I need to know. Don’t you get it? Not knowing is worse!” I balled my hands, wanting to kick him. “I want you to keep your bloody promise. Tell me what you were going to tell me the day the police came for me.”
He froze. “I—I can’t. Not now.”
“Yes. Now. This instant.” I pointed at the door. “You leave, you never come back. I’ll never again acknowledge you, look at you...kiss you. Do you understand? Never, Jethro. This is your last chance.”
I ran hands through my hair, pulling the stands. “I don’t even know why I’m giving you that. After what you did last night, you don’t deserve a chance to explain. You deserve to die a miserable death and leave me the hell alone.”
A tortured groan echoed in his chest. “Just let me go, Nila. I can’t—”