Page 18 of Paper Thin Love

Sparks.

Oh no!Why do those feral, scary eyes make me feel giddy?

Not him! No, what about a simple nobody with a kind boy next door smile?

“Do you fight them like you are fighting me?” Dash questions.“Or is your relationship just one-sided abuse?” His voice is deep and stern. Confident like a strong wildfire, not a flickering ember in a lingering campfire.

“W-what?” I gasp as I blink wildly.

A twist of his palm forces my neck to move in tandem.“I need to make sure you’re strong. I hate weakness.”

Seriously, what the fuck!He’s deranged, yet so intelligent he saw through my smile into my darkness.

“I know it’s not your parents who hit you. Your shock was real. So I’m guessing whoever you fuck likes to get rough with you. Do you like that?”

A blush creeps up my cheeks as I try to swallow, but his hand over my throat stops it from freely rolling down.“I’m not in a relationship.” I gasp through stolen inhales.

“You don’t have to be in a relationship to fuck, Mila.”

I try to shake my head, but my movements are limited.“No.”

“No, to what?” He replies, his tone amused.

“No, I’m not fucking anyone. No, I’m not in a relationship, and,”Let me breathe you bastard!“No, I don’t like pain from them.”

His eye twitches having caught my clue. I like pain, just not from other’s hands. Ballet is pain; maybe I only put up with it because I feel something at the end of the day.

Sometimes, it is so hard to feel. Other times, it’s overwhelming.

If anyone heard me think this, they would commit me, but in reality, we all love pain in some form. Runners feel pain when they run; they also get a high from that discomfort. Students feel pain when they over study, but some keep pushing themselves to study more. Even an old grandma feels pain when she over mixes a cake batter, flaring up her arthritis, but she continues to bake.

What defines bad pain from good? You tell me and do so without casting judgment.

“So who hits you, Mila?” Dash persists.

Jared, sometimes. It’s not hits per se, more like rough grabs that leave bruises. I’m the one who hurts me deeper now. How can Dash see that?

He whispers my name like a monster under my bed, calling to me, begging me to step just one tiny toe out from under the covers.“Mila,” a tug of his lips reveals his delight.

The way Dash speaks sends a chill up my spine like he’s a god granting life into a simple word, attempting to awaken me, to make me react, to snap, and not be the ballerina stuck dancing for others.

He makes me feel like I should dance for myself.

How can a stranger make me feel that?

His fingers tighten. The tips are hot. Burning. Or is it my walls set aflame that he is torching away?

“Do you fight back when they leave their marks on you?” He brings his face closer to mine.“Or are you too scared to admit you like it?”

I like it when I’m in control of the pain.

“Why are you asking me this?” I beg, my eyes fix on his arms, desperately hoping to slip under him and escape.

He pauses so long that I become relaxed in his hold. My back slumps into the door as if I’m the one with a crutch and not him.

“My father requested you be my guide. Why?”

“I don’t know!” I hiss.

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