The Ring
Lex
I walk with purpose. Stepping into the elevator, I keep my back flush against the wall, head up, and eyes forward. My heart hammers, and I coach myself to keep breathing. The doors open, and I step out, my movements almost a march to my door, and only when I pull my keys out and reach them toward the lock do I see how much my hands shake.
Get inside.
This lock doesn’t stick like my old one. It’s the new lock to which Adrian has a key. I need to remedy that tomorrow. I need to lock him out. I push the door open and close it behind me, twisting the lock. As soon as I’m closed inside, I sink to the floor, my body wracked with sobs. Pulling my knees into me, I lean into the door, trying my grounding exercises.
Feel the floor under me.
Feel my clothes on my skin.
Feel his cum between my thighs.
Fuck.
I bury my head in my knees as the tears continue to fall. Flashes of the party burn through my mind—Greg watching us, the crowd, the way Adrian felt, and his cold, detached tone. My skin crawls. My stomach churns.
I’m going to be sick.
I push myself up and dash for the bathroom, falling to my knees as my stomach empties itself. I’m not drunk; this isn’t alcohol-related. I’m so fucking disgusted that I let that happen—that I thought we could be anything other than poison for each other. The hair on the back of my neck rises; it feels like I’m being watched. I spin around, looking into the main area, but it’s empty. I need to wash this off of me: him, tonight, all of it.
Standing, I pull the short dress over my head, remove my panties, which are covered in both of our cum, and step into the shower. When I turn it on, the water is freezing, but I don’t move. I let it cascade over me while it heats, like a minor punishment for being so fucking weak. I don’t know how long I stay in this spot, scrubbing my skin repeatedly, but I don’t feel clean. I feel rotten and decayed. When the water runs cold again, I turn the shower off, step out, wrap a towel around my body, and then head straight to bed. I can’t look at myself.
My alarm jars me out of sleep. I forgot I work today. I contemplate calling in sick, but I could use the distraction. I feel like a zombie as I go through the motions, pulling my clothes on, twisting my hair into a low bun, offering Millie some kisses, and heading out the door. The day passes in a blur, bouncing between flashes of last night and client meetings. Kendall pops her head in and invites me to lunch with Olivia, but I decline. My stomach still feels so twisted and off. She lingers a minute, staring at me.
“You okay, honey?” She asks.
“Yeah, just tired. It was a long few days.”
I’m not ready to talk about it; I’ll never be prepared to talk about it. She opens her mouth like she will press me for details, but she must rethink it because she silently closes the door and walks down the hallway. Relief hits me, and I rise, walking to the wall of windows, closing the blinds, and locking the door. I need to be alone. At 5:30 p.m., I walk home. Mildred greets me at the door, rubbing her smooth body over my legs, purring loudly. I smile for the first time in what feels like a million years. She’s the best medicine.
When I open the fridge, I look over its contents, sighing when nothing appeals. Early bedtime is about the only thing that seems acceptable. I avoid the mirror but force myself to brush my teeth, eyes trained downward. It’s barely 7 p.m. when I crawl into bed, allowing the first tears of the day to fall. My quiet sobs lull me to sleep.
Wednesday and Thursday blur together—wake up, get dressed, brush my teeth, go to work, come home. I hate myself too much to eat. That night haunts my dreams, a cruel taunt from my subconscious. I’m in the middle of that party, leaning back into Adrian, on the verge of coming, when something pulls me from sleep. My alarm clock says it’s 9:18 p.m. I’ve been asleep for two hours.
I’m about to force myself back to sleep, assuming normal city sounds woke me when I hear the knock again. Groaning, I rise from the bed. The oversized shirt I’m wearing hits mid-thigh. Good enough. I stumble toward the door and peer through the peephole, and my heart stops. His head is turned down, but there’s no question it’s Adrian. I’m frozen in place. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, he’ll go away.
“Lex, open the door.” He says loud enough for me to hear but not in a demanding tone.
“Go away.” My voice wavers, and my eyes sting.
Fuck.
Don’t cry.
“Please. Open the door.” His voice is steady and measured.
He pauses, then adds, “I can open it without your permission.”
Fucking hell. I forgot to change the lock.
My shoulders sag as I reach for the lock. I step back. The knob turns. The door creaks open. His eyes crawl up my body, stopping on my face. I can see the judgment; I know how I look, and the shame of it has me wrapping my arms around myself. His eyes shift, looking around my apartment, which is in ruins. The dishes in the sink are piled high, and takeout containers of barely touched food and dirty work clothes are scattered around—signs of my unraveling.
He sighs, turning back to me and taking a step forward. Instinctively, I flinch and step back. My chest tightens, and my breath seems to evade me as I feel myself dissolving, the first tear trailing down my cheek. He doesn’t stop; he takes slow, methodical steps, his hands raised like I’m supposed to believe he’s safe. I know better and continue to move backward, trying to keep my distance. When my back hits the wall, my knees start to crumble. Tears fall harder, and he closes the distance in two steps, catching me as I begin to sink.
His strong arms wrap around me, pulling me into his chest. The smokey smell consumes me, and I let myself fall apart, weeping into his chest. He’s silent, unmoving. I can feel my lungs struggle to breathe.
Focus on what you can feel.
The heat of his arms.
The steady rhythm of his heart.
The way his chest rises and falls.
“Lex,” His voice is soft, a tone I’ve never heard.
“You have to take care of yourself.”
He has no idea. He comes around uninvited and judges me for my place being a bit messy. I put both hands on his chest and push him back. He’s big enough to fight me if he wants to, but he takes two steps back, giving me enough space to see him. I’m so fucking tired, but I refuse to hear that condescending tone.
“Fuck you, Adrian.”
“Gladly.” The softness fading from his tone.
His gaze shifts around my place again; it makes me feel so vulnerable, seeing it like this.
“This isn’t you.” He says.
I scoff, replying, “Because you know me so well.”
He’s right, I know he is, but…
“I could help.” It doesn’t sound like an offer as much as a demand.
I need help.
“I don’t fucking need you.” My tone is laced with ire.
Liar.
He tilts his head slightly, his warm eyes crinkling with the grin that spreads across his face as if he sees right through the lie. He pushes his hands into his pockets.
“We both know that’s not true. You need me like you need oxygen.”
I want to argue, to fight.
“You need me as much as I need you.”
I freeze at that comment. What?
“I brought you something.”
Internally, I panic. The last time he came here and brought me something, he restrained me, presented me with the option of sex toys, and left me feeling on the brink of detonation. This time, he pulls his hand out of his pocket, a small velvet box in it. My heart skips.
Stepping forward, he opens the box. Inside is a small ring, a twisted golden band of thorns. I look at it, up to his face, then back to the ring. Then I start to laugh. The sound is hollow and humorless. His expression stays flat, and I laugh harder. I double over, hands on my knees, laughter breaking out between the tears. It’s wild. Unhinged. The kind that doesn’t sound like joy at all.
“Oh. You are completely out of your fucking mind. I mean, I knew it, but this is certifiable.” I struggle to get the words out between bouts of laughter.
When I look back at him, his eyes have darkened, and he’s holding the box out to me.
“Put it on.”
Folding my arms across my chest, I let the laughter fade.
“Absolutely fucking not.”
He takes a step forward.
“If you think I’m just going to—”
His low voice cuts me off.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either way, this ring is going on your fucking finger.”
He can’t be serious.
I’m laughing again, but it’s shaky and nervous. I push my hands under my arms, against my body, and shake my head.
“Adrian, you’re not going to force that fucking thing onto me.”
This time, he laughs, and it chills me to the bone.
“You bet your ass I will.”
I unravel my arms and pause, letting him think I’m giving in, before shoving them behind my back and pressing all my weight into the wall. It bites into my wrists, but I steel my expression. He smirks again before reaching forward, grabbing my left arm, and ripping it from behind me. The aggressive movement has me tumbling forward, and a pained squeal escapes my mouth. He pulls the ring free, flinging the box across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud. I flinch. His grip is brutal, and my hand aches instantly.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll do it!” I scream.
He releases me and presses the small band into my palm. I look down at it; it’s pretty. Two vines of thorns swirl together. If the situation were different, I’d love this addition to the collection I wear daily.
“Put it on.”
I try my ring finger, but it’s too large.
“It’s not a wedding ring, Lex.” His tone taunts me.
“How the fuck do I know what your twisted fucking mind was thinking with this?”
I move to my pointer finger and push it down—it’s tight, but I force it on. When it passes my knuckle, something almost clicks.
This doesn’t feel right.
It feels almost sharp. I move to pull it off to see why it feels like it’s cutting into me, and his hand lands on mine.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I look at his face; the playful look there makes my anxiety skyrocket.
Oh no.
I try desperately to pull the ring off; pain lances through my fingers. I hiss, yanking harder. Something warm slides down my hand. I freeze, looking down, a tiny perfect bead of blood seeping from where the metal meets my skin.
“What the fuck did you do?”
Panic. I panic. Twisting the ring back and forth, crying out as it cuts the skin under it. Horror sets in, and I look at him, mouth agape, my pulse thunders in my ears.
He’s still smirking.
Why is he smiling that way?
“You’re mine, Lex. And every time you try to remove me, it’ll hurt. Every time you try to remove that ring, the symbol of me, from your hand, you’ll bleed for it. The more you fight me, the more I’ll scar you.”