Page 14 of Promise to Break

Chapter seven

Maricela

Underestimating your opponents is stupid, to say the least. I didn't learn that from any fancy book or any of the philosophy studies we have to partake in, either. Not in this God-forsaken place. No, I learned that from the harsh lessons life is constantly throwing in my face.

My first not-so-pleasurable lesson was when my father came to my school with a gift for my birthday. He even made a show of it, as he came with an enormous chocolate cake with the number seven on it. His friends from the police department came with him just to celebrate a little girl's birthday. Foolish me. I ate that shit up like the frosting on the luxurious cake that I threw up when we got home, which resulted in him beating me to a pulp.

Apparently, my teacher called him, saying that she understood the importance of his work as a policeman, but he had to find time for his two daughters. He was not pleased, but a man like him had to keep up with appearances.

The next lesson was when the police came to tell us that my father had died in a car accident while driving under the influence and that we had to go into the system. I remember that I actually thought it was for the better. I didn't even mourn him. Serena did. She cried for the father she had before I ruined everything by coming into this world.

But I was wrong about it being better. At least when we were under his roof, we had food on our table, and we could hide from him most times. But when we got put into the social services system, I had to become a royal bitch just so we could survive. I stole, lied, and acted like a criminal. Serena wasn't and still isn't much for fighting for things, so when food was taken from us, I had to fight for both of us. After that, the lessons just kept coming and coming.

I learned that anyone who harmed you once would do it again, given the chance. Yet, I actually considered that Killian would finally leave me alone, especially after that last show he put on, which was too much, even for him. I thought he understood that no matter what he does to me, I won't react.

So, why?

Why am I standing in my bathroom in total shock, looking at him naked?

Killian Fierro is naked. In my dorm room.

Naked and all wet.

Fuck.

Naked skin, tattoos, muscles, and…fuck. Is it…

Is his dick pierced?

I've heard about those kinds of things. I even saw it done in a porn flick, but I never saw it in real life. It looked so scary in the video. Like, why would someone willingly do that to himself?

It's so big and angry, just like its owner. Is it smooth? Will my fingers feel different when they touch the raging member somehow? No. That thing is nothing but a cock. No polite word suits it.

I want to feel it. Will the metal be cold? Or is it always hot? It's on his crown. What the hell? His cock is pointing at me with this thing inside his almost purple cock. I never considered that a part of our bodies could be so dark without needing to see the doctor. What the actual fuck?

"Enjoying the show, Little Girl?" I gulp on the steam in the room. I always thought this place was too big for a bathroom, but now it suffocates me to the point that I want to run. Did he bathe in my tub?

I look at the tub, but I don't see any bubbles, so maybe he used the shower.

"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out steady, as if all of this is totally normal.

"Isn't it clear as day? I'm waiting for you." His voice, however, is rough, like he's been working out or something.

"Why?" I don't enjoy playing his games, but really, what can I possibly do? Killian will do to me whatever he likes.

And why isn't the thought of that as terrifying as it should be? I should be screaming, begging for my life, trying to run. Something other than thinking of him doing whatever he wants to me isn't the most outrageous idea in this universe.

Get it together, Maricela Fernandez!

"I have a proposition to make you." His hands move over his pecks as if saying, "Look how beautiful all this ink is. You can touch it if you want." And it is absolutely magnificent. All of it.

I learned his tattoos by heart from the many times I've seen them in the photos the paparazzi have taken of him. My defense was that I needed to know if all those marks on his skin had some meaning I could use for my benefit.

The art looks chaotic on his skin, as if it's ready to come out at any moment and strike whoever is brave enough to get too close. On his left arm, he has snakes in all shapes and forms. They look as if they're the protectors of his non-existent heart. His right arm is full of symbols that seem to form the puzzle of a crying woman. She looks so sad and broken. His front torso is full of written words in something that appears to be a foreign language and looks as if it was written with blood instead of ink. I tried to decipher the letters once, but it wasn't useful.

I look at this boy who looks like a man who's seen every evil thing life has to offer, and I understand that his menacing appearance is purposeful. With unwavering certainty, I can say that every artwork etched onto his skin is a warning to the world from the actual Killian Fierro—an unstoppable creature.

"Are you going to stand here for long?" I finally ask.

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