Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
My body still hums when he kisses me the last time, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make me forget the taste of fear still hanging in my throat.
Then he’s gone—boots heavy, door shutting behind him.
“Lock the fucking door,” he growled.
I turn, staring at the handle. I did lock it. I know I did. But the thought burrows like a worm, digging through my chest until my lungs seize.
My palms slap flat on the table near the entry, knuckles whitening. My chest convulses. Air rips short and shallow, like someone’s pressing a pillow over my mouth.
No. Not now. Not when it’s quiet. Not when the danger is supposed to be gone.
My knees give. The table corner bites my hip. I press harder into the wood, ribs straining, nails clawing at the edge.
The panic rushes in—sharp and merciless.
“Breathe, Julie,” I choke. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. “Just… breathe.”
Black dots flicker at the edge of my vision. Sweat slicks down my back, but I’m ice-cold.
Then a laugh tears out of me—ugly, sharp, broken. I sound insane. Because maybe I am.
He came. He just came. Didn’t ask. Didn’t knock. Didn’t give me a choice, not really. He tore into my life like a storm breaking windows and…I let him.
I let him fuck me with another man tied to a chair across the room, and I came apart around his cock like my body was begging for it.
Fury sizzles in my blood. At him. At me. At all of it.
I stumble down the hall, yank the bedroom door open, then stop dead.
Blood.
It’s everywhere. The smell hits first, sharp copper twisting my gut. The sheets are streaked with it, splashes across the comforter. Drops spatter the floorboards like breadcrumbs. Even the wall by the wardrobe wears some.
I slap a hand to my mouth. Gag. Swallow. Don’t puke.
The mop. The bucket. Rags. I don’t think. I just move.
I strip the bed bare, bundle the sheets like they’re diseased, and jam them into the washer with bleach, slam the lid down. The hum of the machine sounds too normal. Too wrong.
Then I scrub. On my knees, rag in hand, the bleach biting at my skin and nose. My arms ache, shoulders screaming, tears dripping hot into the water. No matter how much I wipe, I still see red. Still see the spray, the spatter, the shadows of violence burned into my walls.
I scrub until my knees are raw, until my hands sting. Until the bucket water runs pale pink instead of crimson.
Then it all breaks loose.
I fold onto myself against the bedframe, arms wrapped around my legs, forehead pressed to my knees. And I cry. I cry like I’ve never allowed myself to. Deep, ripping sobs that leave me gasping, the sound bouncing back at me off scrubbed walls.
By the time I stop, I’m wrung dry. My throat is raw, eyes swollen, body empty.
I force myself up, drag toward the door. Check the lock. Once. Twice. Three times.
My hands shake against the metal, but at least it holds.
When I shift, I feel it—wet heat between my thighs. Sticky. His cum clinging inside me.
Shame curls sharp in my gut. But heat curls with it, dark and low. Dirty. Owned. Alive.
I drop into bed, staring at the ceiling until exhaustion finally drags me under.
Daylight doesn’t change a damn thing.
I smear on makeup to cover the wreckage of my face. Pretend my body isn’t one big ache. Pretend I don’t still feel him inside me with every step.
When I step outside my building, I freeze.
Two bikers wait against the brick wall. Cuts heavy on their backs, cigarettes burning lazy between their fingers. They don’t speak until I edge closer.
“Prez’s orders,” one says, voice flat. “We walk you.”
I blink. “You… what?”
Neither answers. They just fall into step when I start walking, one behind, one beside until we reach my car.
The city moves around us, horns blaring, people shuffling to work, but nobody drifts close. Not with the Saints flanking me. People glance once, then look away.
For the first time in months, I feel like nothing can touch me.
When we reach my boutique, I park and their bikes roar around me. One tips his chin toward the door. “You’re good.”
I unlock it with shaky fingers, step inside, and when I turn back, they’re already gone. Silent. Like they were never here.
I close the door, lean against it, and laugh once—soft, disbelieving.
Safe. That’s what this feels like.
Safer than cops. Safer than my father’s bullshit lectures. Safer than any lock or alarm system.
My phone burns in my pocket. I pull it out, thumb hovering, nerves rattling. Then I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Thank you.
I hit send. Toss the phone on the counter like it might bite me. My pulse still hammers, heat curling in my chest.
Because what the hell am I doing? Thanking the man who broke me open and stitched me back together with his cock and his fists?
What am I doing, craving more?
Storm. That’s what he called me.
And maybe he’s right. Because storms don’t beg. They don’t hide. They don’t ask permission.
But my thighs still ache, my chest still pounds, and deep down, I know, the next time he shows up, I’ll let him ruin me again.