18. Artemis
18 ARTEMIS
Cold water hits my face.
I flinch and swing, although the culprit is too fast. By the time my eyes crack open, he’s taken several steps back.
The pitcher he used is tucked under his arm.
I growl through my teeth.
“Easy, wildcat,” he says, fighting a smug smile.
“You were snoring.”
I glance around, slowly wiping water from my face.
The front of my hair is soaked, as is my face and chest. I’m on the couch, which is…
weird.
I don’t remember getting home.
“Who sleeps at five o’clock anyway?” he continues.
My first real sleep in what feels like a week—interrupted by this bag of dicks?
I open and close my mouth, trying to come up with some witty comeback, but…
I’ve got nothing.
I push myself up off the couch, and he steps back farther.
Expecting retaliation?
If only I wasn’t so bone-tired.
The good news is, the couch is wet—not my bed.
I go straight to my room and kick the door shut behind me.
I strip off my necklaces and wet shirt, unhook my bra.
I’m halfway out of my pants when the door creaks open.
“Artemis—”
Silence .
I press my lips together, reversing my motion and yanking my pants back up.
Covering my breasts with one arm, I whirl around to face him.
He’s standing in the doorway, his gaze locked on…
my chest.
Naturally.
“Get out,” I seethe.
“Is living here not enough? You need to invade my privacy, too?”
I drop my arm.
“There. Take a picture, for all the fucks I give.”
His brow furrows.
“Your nipples are pierced?”
Lord help me.
I cross to the dresser, yanking out one of my favorite t-shirts.
I hurry to get it on and don’t breathe until the fabric hides my chest.
The memory of my right nipple being pierced comes back to me, the old pain hauntingly sharp.
I pierced the other one two years later, reliving that day in a different way.
I wanted to rewrite it, but it just added to my complex feelings about the subject.
Simply removing the one didn’t feel like enough.
I had to take ownership of it.
And… well, Saint didn’t seem inclined to touch my breasts when he was mauling me.
He seems to be waiting for confirmation.
I do the crazy thing and lift my shirt, exposing a breast. I flick the gold bar and make a face.
“Yep, seems to be a piercing. Not some figment of your imagination.”
He stares at me.
“Oh my God, Saint. Get out of my room.” I march forward and shove at him.
He must still be in shock over seeing my tits, because the big man stumbles .
Just a step or two back, but it’s enough for me to slam my door in his face.
And lock it, for good measure.
Yes, my nipples are pierced.
One was consensual. One wasn’t.
But if I told him that, I don’t think he’d believe me.
I hardly believe it myself.
Sometimes, Terror feels like a distant dream.
Something my subconscious made up, and I slowly forgot about it over time.
I didn’t want to remember, and yet, standing in my bedroom all alone, the memories surge from where I’ve locked them away.
And all at once, I’m drowning in it.