Page 33 of The Masks We Break

Fuck.

My body already knows who it is, jumping into action without waiting for my mind to catch up.

I reach the door in seconds, unlocking and letting it drift open. When my guest comes into view, my chest tightens, making breaths more strained. Remy stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Her dark hair is mussed, covering half of her downturned face. A strapless blue dress molds to her curves as if it was painted on her body, and while normally my dick would stand at full attention, I find myself pissed. Again, she’s out at an insane hour, wearing barely anything.

This woman never fails to leave me...perturbed.

“Puppet?” I reach out, and she jolts backward, her hair falling away from her face as her eyes finally snap to me.

For one second, the hazel eyes I’ve committed to memory soften, almost as though she’s relieved or perhaps safe. But then where she’s at must settle in, and I watch as her body physically makes the changes, tightening and straightening until she wraps around herself.

She’s drunk. Not regular, girls’ night drunk, but more like tipsy off a couple of shots, and tired as fuck drunk. For someone so fucking brilliant, I’m beginning to find her decision-making skills lacking as she keeps putting herself in situations that can get her hurt. The very notion causes red flashes in the corner of my eyes as anger drips in my blood, roaring in my ears so loud I can no longer hear rational thought. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from scolding her and grab her forearm, jerking her inside.

Remy doesn’t protest but whimpers, walking into the living room and flopping on the couch. “I-I freaked out, about-t my mom-m in the middle of a party.”

“Because you still haven’t fucking told anyone, I’m sure.” I’m already in the kitchen, snatching back out the glass and a new bottle of Gatorade. It’s only been a couple of years, but I’d hoped she made friends, maybe told someone to get her through today. I see I was wrong.

Irritation trickles down my spine as I take in her smell. It’s mostly alcohol littered with nicotine and cologne. There’s also the faint smell of something I can’t place. I grind my teeth together and decide that tonight’s the night she will get to see me. Therealme.

“Get up.”

I round the couch and hold my hand out.

“Why?”

“You smell like the back alley of a fucking bar, and I’m not letting you go to sleep like that. You’re going to take a shower, and I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Her face blooms nearly the same shade as her stained lips, but she doesn’t hesitate for a second. She stands up too quickly, almost falling to the side, forcing me to catch her bicep. But once she rebalances, Remy kicks off her heels with a relieved sigh and walks to my room.

“Good girl.”

Her back stiffens, goose bumps sprouting along the back of her arms.

Interesting.

I continue after her until we walk into my room, and I point to the restroom, but she stops. Her eyes bounce from me to the dark doorway, then back again, an unanswered question filtering through the air.

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I’m not letting you take a drunk shower alone.”

Her pouty mouth opens twice before she finds the words. “I’m not that drunk.”

“Get in the bathroom. I’m not a fucking pervert. I’m only going in here to make sure you don’t fall. There’s a thick curtain, so I won’t be able to see you.” My patience is beginning to thin. Instead, I tell her a truth I probably shouldn’t and lean close, narrowing my eyes, so she knows I’m serious. “If I wanted you naked, puppet, it would be atyourhand, not while you can barely stand. I’d sit and watch you strip each article of clothing until all that’s left is you, a soaking mess, begging for me to take you.”

The confession does more to my body than I’d care to admit. It’s as if a weight detaches from my shoulder, falling to the floor at her feet.

Remy sucks in a stuttered breath, her eyes flaring in a heat that drives straight into my core. But without another word, she spins on her soles, stumbling toward the bathroom. And it’s then I notice the way her legs bow out, as if she’s hurting— as if something hurts herthere.

A new type of anger consumes me in an instant, seizing everything in my chest until my shoulders are shaking. I snatch her wrist, albeit not nearly as gently as I should, and force her back around to face me.

“Has someone touched you?”

Her eyebrows furrow, a genuine look of confusion tugging down the corner of her lips. I don’t analyze the way that small indication clears my vision and instead ask again, this time, more directly. “Has someone been between your legs?”

Remy’s eyes widen, her pupils dilating so wide, the color is nearly invisible, but she shakes her head profusely. “No. I...” She stops talking, her neck blooming a near fuchsia.

I find my patience wholly gone now and jerk her face toward me with my free hand. Even though my touch is anything but soft, she doesn’t flinch or jump away, and the dark look in her eyes has my mind clouded. Again, I force myself to focus on what matters. “So help me, if you don’t start talking, I’m going to rip this dress off of you and look myself.”

“It’s a-a piercing.”

---