Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Stiletto
I pace the small space of my room, my fingers tapping against my thigh.
The walls feel like they’re closing in on me.
I drag a hand through my red hair, frustrated.
I want to scream as loud as I can but I swallow it down.
The bed is unmade, sheets twisted and tangled, a reflection of my mind.
I shove a pillow aside, its softness mocking me.
All I want to do is stay tucked away. Yet, I can’t stay here forever.
The door creaks open slightly, and I freeze.
I don’t want to deal with anyone. Not today.
My heart speeds up, pounding in my ears like a drum.
“Stiletto?” A voice slides through the crack.
It’s familiar—too familiar. I clench my fists, angered at who they’ve sent to talk to me.
“Go away!” I shout, slamming the door. The words burst out harsher than intended.
“Really? That’s how we’re playing this?” Alexa’s voice is steady, unwavering. “You think hiding makes it go away because it doesn’t.”
I roll my eyes, turning my back to the door.
If I ignore her, maybe she’ll go.
Maybe everyone will just... vanish.
“Open the damn door!” She knocks again, firmer this time.
"Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I shoot back, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Because we care about you!” She’s persistent, like a dog with a bone. “And because you need help.”
“Help?” I scoff, spinning around to face the door. “I don’t need help. I’m fine.”
“Fine? You haven’t left this room in days. That’s not fine, Stiletto.” Her tone softens, but I won’t let her in.
“Just go!”
Silence follows. But it’s thick and heavy, pressing in.
My heart races, uncertainty creeping in.
“Stiletto,” she says finally, “I’m not going anywhere until you open the damn door and talk to me.”
My breath catches. I hate that she’s right.
"Whatever," I mumble, opening the door for her.
I walk over to my bed and sink onto the edge of it.
I stare at the floor, willing my racing thoughts to slow.
“Why do you even care?” I whisper, almost to myself.
“Because you’re my family.”
Family.
The word grates on my nerves.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, wishing I could shut out everything else too.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the darkness doesn’t bring relief.
Instead, it amplifies the images that cling to my mind like poison.
The Commander’s hands—grimy and brutal—wrap around my wrists.
I can still feel his breath on my neck, hot and rancid.
My heart races as I replay the moments over and over—the fear, the helplessness, the way he smiled as if I were just a toy.
Each time I close my eyes, the memories crash in harder, suffocating me.
“Hey Cheyenne,” Alexa says, pulling me from my thoughts.
I glance up to see Cheyenne coming into my room, shutting the door behind her.
“I’m going to look over your wounds. I told you I need to see you every day, and yet you don’t want to come see me.” Cheyenne looks right into my eyes.
“I haven’t really wanted to leave that much,” I murmur, hating the way I feel about myself.
I feel disgusting, like trash that’s been left out in the sun for too long on a hot summer day.
“Just breathe, okay?” Cheyenne instructs, her hands gentle yet firm as she reaches for my arm.
“Yeah, well, easier said than done,” I grumble sarcastically.
Cheyenne goes to work, taking off my bandages.
“How bad are they?” I try to sound nonchalant, but there’s a tremor in my voice.
“Bad enough,” she replies, opening a bottle of antiseptic.
The smell hits me first—a sharp, stinging scent that makes my stomach turn.
“Perfect,” I mutter, bracing myself for the pain. “Just what I wanted today.”
“Quit whining,” Alexa chimes in from her spot by the door.
She leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching with an intensity that makes me squirm.
“Easy for you to say,” I shoot back, heart pounding.
“Let’s get this over with,” Cheyenne insists, dabbing a cotton ball in the antiseptic.
“Hold tight,” Cheyenne warns, pressing the cotton to my cut.
“Ow!” I yelp, jerking my arm away instinctively.
“Stiletto, come on.” Cheyenne’s voice is firm now. “You have to let me clean these up for you.”
“Fine,” I snap, forcing my arm back toward her.
The sting burns, but I try to breathe through it.
I focus on Alexa instead.
“Why are you really here?” I ask, needing to change the subject.
“I already told you—you’re family. On top of that it’s because you’re not fine,” Alexa says, her gaze unwavering. “And we both know it.”
“Whatever,” I huff, biting my lip as Cheyenne continues her work.
It hurts, but the pain is grounding.
“Ugh,” I groan, squeezing my eyes shut as Cheyenne finishes putting ointment on me and bandaging me back up.
My heart races, not just from the physical pain but from the emotional toll of their presence.
“All done,” Cheyenne announces, pulling back.
“Finally,” I breathe, relief flooding through me. But I know it’s not over yet.
“Listen,” Alexa says, settling into the armchair—a throne of judgment, really. Her eyes are sharp, piercing through me. “Do you know my story?”
I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. “Nope.”
“Well,” she starts, her voice lowering, as if to draw me in. "Bull and the club saved me from a similar nightmare years ago. I was… tortured for weeks. Raped. I thought I wouldn’t make it out alive.” She pauses, searching my face for something, but I don’t give her anything.
“Yeah? So?” I snap, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.
I want to hear about her past, but not like this. Not when I’m still wrestling with my own demons.
“Listen, Stiletto,” she continues, her tone earnest. “Bull pulled me out of that dark place. He?—”
“Great for you,” I cut her off, my voice rising. “But I don’t need saving. I’m fine, okay?”
“Fine?” She rolls her eyes, disbelief etched across her features. “Anyone can see you’re not fine. You won’t even look at your sister.”
“Maybe I don’t want to look at her or talk to her.” My heart races, panic bubbling beneath the surface. “What’s so hard to understand about the fact I want space?”
“Nothing, except you’re hurting,” she replies, frustration lacing her words. “And pushing people away isn’t going to help.”
“Stop acting like you know me.” I lean back against the wall, glaring at her. “You don’t.”
“Then let me in,” Alexa urges, her voice softening. “Let someone help.”
“Why would I do that?” I snap, but I feel the crack in my armor, the vulnerability creeping up on me.
“Because Miles cares about you,” she presses. “The whole club cares too and you’re shutting them out.”
“Good,” I bite my lip, swallowing the truth lodged in my throat. “Maybe I want to be alone.”
“That’s not what you really want.” Her gaze is steady, unwavering.
“Just drop it already!” I shout, throwing my hands up in frustration.
The room feels too small, too suffocating.
“Fine,” she concedes, but I see the disappointment in her eyes.
It cuts deeper than any wound.
“Can you both just leave me alone?” I plead, desperation spilling from my lips.
“Stiletto…” Cheyenne begins, but I don’t want to hear it.
“Please,” I whisper, the fight draining from me.
“Okay,” Alexa finally says, standing up.
She glances at Cheyenne, who follows suit.
“Take care of yourself, okay?” Cheyenne murmurs softly, but all I can feel is the emptiness settling around me as they walk out.
I shut the door behind them, leaning against it, breathing heavily.
“Stupid,” I whisper to myself. My voice feels foreign, like I'm talking to a stranger.
I take a shaky breath and head into the bathroom.
The harsh light stings my eyes.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Who is this person standing here?
Dark circles shadow my hazel-green eyes.
My cheekbones jut out too far, skin pale and clammy.
I run a finger along the edge of my jaw, feeling the hollowness.
“Look at you,” I mutter, disgust curling in my stomach. “Pathetic.”
Tears spill over, warm trails down my cheeks.
I wipe them away with the back of my hand, but more come.
They won’t stop.
“Enough,” I choke out, angry at my own weakness. “Just... stop.”
I want to scream. To punch something. But all I can do is stand here and watch the girl in the mirror crumble.
“You’re fine. It doesn’t matter if no one believes you. You’re fine.” I tell her, but the words sound hollow.
“Just breathe,” I repeat, but breaths come in short gasps.
Each inhale feels like a betrayal.
“Why can’t I just be okay? Why does everyone point out the fact I’m not okay?” I ask the empty room, my voice breaking.
A soft sob escapes me. I don’t want this. I don’t want to feel like this.
The knife glints under the harsh bathroom light. I don’t hesitate.
My hand reaches for it, fingers wrapping around the cool metal.
It feels solid, real.
I raise it, staring at my wrists.
My pulse beats in time with my racing heart.
A whisper of fear curls in my gut but I push it away.
The blade hovers above my skin.
I can almost hear the echo of those dark thoughts screaming through me.
They taunt me. They mock me.
With a quick flick, I press the edge against my wrist.
The sting is sharp, immediate. Red blooms, vivid against my pale skin.
“God,” I gasp, a mix of pain and relief washing over me.
I watch as the crimson flows, a release.
It’s beautiful in a twisted way, like the chaos inside me finally finding an outlet.
“Why does this feel good?” I whisper, shaking my head, but I can’t stop the next cut. Another slice.
“Just breathe,” but breaths come rapid and shallow.
My vision blurs and darkness takes me.