Page 11 of Drowned By the Dreadnought

Having firsthand knowledge of how different wounds heal, I read the story of violence left on her flesh. A glass bottle broke over her right shoulder and left deep gashes. The imprint of a belt buckle under her left shoulder blade fills me with horror. Whoever swung that belt intended to break skin. In the center of her back, a mostly faded boot print lingers in ugly yellows and greens.

Hideous fear grips my heart. I roll her onto her back with too much force, but I can’t apologize. A red haze creeps over my vision as I slip toward alpha rampage. I yank the front of her jean shorts open. Buttons ping over the floor. She swats at my forearms, but I grab her waistband and shuck her shorts off her legs.

A dark purple bruise covers her left hipbone, but as horrible as it looks, a sliver of relief sneaks into my chest as I part her knees and find no traces of sexual assault. She lashes out and shoves her heels into my thighs, scooting herself away and hitting me hard enough to leave bruises.

I snarl and reach for her. Our eyes meet. My stomach drops.

Her physical pain is nothing compared to the agony in her soul.

I can’t breathe through the tornado of guilt and self-hatred rampaging through my chest. I stand and shove my cock back into my pants before stomping from the room. My cruel words echo louder in my mind than the slamming of the bathroom door.

I called her a liar, a whore, and a bitch. She’s none of those things.

I head straight to my personal gym and attack the water-filled punching bag hanging from the rafters. Sweat drips down my body. I hit harder. Double my footwork. Kick higher.

The bag breaks and water gushes onto the floor.

She was telling the truth. Her father hurt her for years. I blamed her for everything, but she’s innocent.

I roll my shoulders and move to the stack of tires. My knuckles split, but I start at the fourth from the top and work my way down, clearing a tire from the pile with each punch.

I push myself until every inch of my body screams for relief, then double down and attack the second water bag without a break. My thighs burn, but it’s not enough. I can’t go back to her until I’ve exhausted myself. Every muscle in my back spasms. I swing harder. Agony vibrates up my arms with every strike. My bones ache.

I roar and bust the second bag with a final burst of power.

With nothing left to take my rage out on, I fall to my knees and grab my head before my thoughts explode my brain.

What have I done?

Morwenna’s scars and bruises join the memories of my mother’s broken body. The hatred in her father’s eyes as he fought with my sire takes on a new meaning. The words he snarled down at me wound me further.

He was right. I’m not fit to take care of his daughter. I couldn’t see past his ruse to protect her from him.

For twelve years, she suffered at his hands while I foolishly hated her from afar. He’s gone now, but I wasn’t the one who saved her.

She did that herself.

Shame and guilt riddle my heart with gaping holes, joining the wounds left by my parents’ murder.

Their deaths blinded me. Trapped in mourning and loneliness, I blamed her for everything. Even when I heard of her mother’s death, my hardened heart refused to see how vulnerable she was with the male who massacred his neighbors without qualms.

I don’t deserve to wallow in self-pity, so I pick myself up off the floor and stumble to the door. Halfway down the hall, warmth oozes down my front. I look down to find my hand clutched over my heart and blood pouring from my knuckles and staining my wet shirt.

With a snarl, I flick lines of crimson on the walls as I shake out my arms and finish stomping through my den to the washroom. I fling the door so hard it bounces off the wall and swings back at me, but I stop it with an impatient hand and step into the room.

My heart cracks at the sight of my omega curled up in the corner with the shower still raining down on her. With her back against the wall and her arms wrapped around her legs, she’s tucked into a small, tight, defensive ball. Her hair curtains around her legs, hiding everything except her shoulders and toes. Her utter stillness terrifies me. I’d rather her scream and cry and take her frustrations out on me than shut herself off from the world.

I step into the shower and hiss at the frigid temperature. Concern squeezes my heart as I turn off the water and approach her. She doesn’t look up. I squat in front of her, but she doesn’t move.

Terror rips through me. I inch my fingers to her shoulder and release a relieved breath when she moves, even though she shifts away from me.

“Morwenna, I’m sorry,” I say.

Water drips from our bodies. Blood oozes from my knuckles. She shivers from the cold.

I gather her to my chest and carry her across the room. She covers her face with her hands and ignores the world despite her nakedness.

I wrap her in a towel and grab two extras before stalking into the hall.

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