Page 70 of Knot Your Rebel

Alone.

I’m so alone.

Tears stream down my cheeks, burning into my skin like fire, because tomorrow will come too soon, and I’ll hate myself again. I’ll hate him. How many more of these nights will I have to endure before the pleasure of ending it all overwhelms me.

I wake up screaming, skin coated in sweat as my eyes bounce over the room surrounding me, looking for the monster.

He isn’t here. I’m okay. But am I really? Will this trauma ever go away or will I live with it for the rest of my life.

They’ve been kept at bay, the memories, since I met Tate. He seems to keep the nightmares from creeping in, but what happened to Nova brings everything back, front and center. She was hurt because of me, assaulted against her will like I was. I know what it’s like. I lived through it.

My gut churns with guilt. I should’ve been there last night. I left her to fend for herself. God, she must hate me right now. I want to make sure she’s okay, but I’m not sure I can look her in the eyes knowing what I did.

My throat is dry, and the likelihood of me going back to sleep decreases the longer I lay here. My eyes find Tate sleeping peacefully beside me. Air slips in and out through his mouth with a rasp, but I wouldn’t describe it as a snore.

He didn’t run. He pulled me out of my head when shit hit the fan. It’s something I didn’t want him to see. I didn’t want him to know that I can’t sleep some nights because I’m reminded of the shitty card I was dealt early in life. I can’t sleep because an alpha decided the thought of breaking me was better than being respectful.

Tate’s arms wrap around me and pull me in subconsciously. He reaches for me sometimes in his sleep like he knows exactly when I’m questioning things. Instead of fighting it, I let him pull me in. I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes, but every time, I see him.

For a few more minutes, I lay there, allowing the warmth of his arms to cocoon me.

I smile wanly at the man who’s thrown my world off kilter, sleeping soundly, before carefully removing myself from his arms and sneaking out of his room.

As I move through the house, I note that it’s not very bright outside. The windows tell me that it's no longer morning, but we haven’t exactly made it to night time yet.

Making my way to the kitchen, I grab a glass from his cupboard and pour myself water from the fridge dispenser. It’s cold and stings against my dry throat as I slurp it down like it’s the last glass of water on Earth. I almost choke when it goes down the wrong pipe, but I manage to hold it in.

The urge to pee hits me, and I make my way towards the bathroom. It’s not the one in his bedroom, but it’s another full one. Turning on the sink, I splash water on my face before daring to look at my reflection in the mirror

I’m covered in an oversized t-shirt that definitely belongs to Tate. I don’t remember putting it on after the shower, so he must have dressed me in it. I lift the collar to my nose and inhale the faint chocolatey scent of him mixed with laundry detergent.

He doesn’t deserve to deal with someone like me. My shoulders drop in defeat, and it makes me look weak, pathetic. He keeps telling me he’s not going anywhere, but how can he want this, me?

I take in my face, the hollow and emptiness filling my eyes. The bags under my eyes. The smeared makeup I didn’t take off before I showered. I look like shit, like someone took a two by four to my body. I feel bruised, and the cuts on my inner thighs sting when they rub against each other, but it's a reminder that, once again, I’m here.

I’m alive.

Despite the fact that I probably shouldn’t be.

Anxiety paints its way across my features. Fear clings to my skin, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth. It’s been years, and it still creeps in and wrecks me time and time again.

I fucking hate it.

I hate the feeling of not being good enough.

I hate the feeling of being helpless.

I hate that I question everything.

“You’re thinking too much. Do I need to get you focused on something else?” How long has he been standing there? Did he witness me questioning myself, feeling like a loser.

My eyes snap to Tate’s through the mirror. His biceps flex, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the door frame. One foot propped up against the other one like he’s not the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. His chest is bare.

Why does he look so perfect?

Solid pecs.

Defined abs.

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