Chapter 6 #3
The pressure of his palm, the way his body leans into mine to keep me still, the air disappearing from my lungs , it rips me straight out of the car and back into that motel room with peeling wallpaper and a deadbolt that never felt strong enough.
Back to the smell of cheap cologne and sweat.
Back to being held down, silenced, told to stay quiet because my voice wasn’t worth anything anyway.
My chest caves in on itself.
“You have no idea-” he starts again, his voice low.
“Get off of me,” I sob against his hand.
The words barely make it through. My body is already spiraling. My pulse pounds so violently I can hear it in my ears. I claw at his wrist, trying to pry his fingers away, but he tightens his grip instead, his eyes blazing with something feral and un-contained.
“No,” he snaps, leaning closer. “You want to talk big? Then-”
The moment he pulls his hand away, the dam breaks.
The sob that tears out of me is raw and humiliating. My whole body shakes with it.
“Y-you’re no better than them,” I choke, scrambling backward until my spine hits the car door.
The space feels suffocating. Too small. Too tight. The air inside the car feels contaminated, like it’s already been breathed too many times.
“You’re no better than those men,” I repeat, my words tripping over each other as panic swallows my lungs whole.
Confusion flickers across his face.
“What fucking men?”
“Her dealers,” I cry, the confession bursting out before I can stop it. “Her fucking dealers.”
The words feel like glass in my throat.
My hands fly up to cover my ears, as if that can drown out the memories clawing their way back to the surface. My body folds inward automatically, shoulders curling in, trying to disappear.
The party music outside keeps pounding. Laughter drifts through the open windows of nearby houses. The world keeps moving like nothing is wrong.
Inside the car, I’m unraveling.
“Octavia.” His voice is different now. Less sharp. More cautious.
His fingers brush my arm again.
I flinch violently.
The door handle is under my hand before I realize I’ve grabbed it.
Shoving the door open, I stumble out of the car, my legs unsteady as they hit the pavement.
The cool night air slams into my lungs, but it does nothing to fix the tightness in my chest. Sucking in a breath that feels too small, I try for another.
It still isn’t enough.
Silas steps out more slowly, watching me like I might shatter if he moves too fast.
“If I wanted someone to touch me for their own benefit,” I say, my voice louder now, fueled by adrenaline and humiliation, “I’d go back to that motel where she died.”
The words taste acidic.
“I’d wait for her dealers to have their way with me again,” I continue, staring at him with wide, furious eyes. “I’m sure, the way they see it, I still owe them.”
He goes still.
The anger drains out of his face, replaced by something darker.
“She… used you as-”
“As currency,” I cut in, my voice cracking. “For her addiction.”
The truth hangs between us like something rotting in the open air.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head. The excuses. The promises. The way she’d tell me it was just until she got clean. Just until things got better. Just until we were safe.
We were never safe.
“Happy now?” I demand, swiping angrily at the tears on my face. “Now you know. I’m not some sheltered, delicate little charity case. I’m just as fucked up as you.”
My hands are shaking. My entire body is shaking.
But I hold his gaze.
Because if I break eye contact now, I might collapse completely.
He doesn’t look victorious.
He doesn’t look smug.
He looks like I just punched something out of him.
I don’t wait for whatever he’s about to say.
The pavement is cool beneath my shoes as I start walking toward the house at the end of the block.
With each step, the bass grows heavier, vibrating faintly through the soles of my feet.
Bodies move in clusters near the gate, red cups raised, someone shouting about shots near the pool.
It smells like chlorine, cheap liquor and freedom.
My breathing is still uneven, but the air outside feels bigger than the air in that car, slightly less suffocating.
Silas Corvin may be the product of a broken father and a system that failed him long before he failed anyone else. He may carry survival carved into his bones the same way I do. But that does not give him the right to drag his chaos across my skin like it belongs there.
Surviving one nightmare only to step willingly into another would be the cruelest joke of all.
The gates to Kadin’s yard stand open, light spilling across the lawn in neon blues and pinks. Music crashes into the night, drowning out everything else. Someone bumps into me without apology, too drunk to care, too caught up in the thrill of the evening.
Good.
Let it be loud.
Let it be messy and reckless, because it’s easier to disappear into noise than to stand in silence with everything that just cracked open.
Behind me, the car door closes again. Whether he follows or not doesn’t matter right now. What matters is forward.
Forward into the crowd.
Forward into the music.
Forward into something that isn’t a parked car and a pair of hands that felt too much like the past.