Page 21 of Mortify

"About time," he says without looking up. "I have a business meeting. You'll clean the carpet before you leave. And make sure you do it properly. If there's even a hint of a stain when I get back..."

He doesn't finish the threat.

He doesn't need to.

"And Everly?" He finally looks at me, eyes cold and calculating. "Next time I summon you, you come immediately. Not when it's convenient. Not after you think about it. Immediately. Understand?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Good. Now get dressed and clean up your mess. You look pathetic in my robe." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and throw that dress away. You've ruined it with your weight gain. I'll buy you something more appropriate for a fat girlfriend."

The door closes behind him with a decisive click.

I stand there for a moment, his robe hanging off my frame, feeling smaller than I've ever felt.

Then, mechanically, I get to work.

I find cleaning supplies under his kitchen sink and tackle the wine stain.

On my hands and knees, scrubbing at the carpet while my body aches from his abuse.

The symbolism isn't lost on me—cleaning up messes, erasing evidence, making everything look perfect on the surface while underneath, the damage spreads like poison.

It takes an hour to get the stain out completely.

By the time I finish, my knees are raw from the carpet, my hands red from the cleaning solution.

I dress in my torn clothes, using safety pins from his drawer to hold the dress together enough to get home.

The journey to my car feels endless.

Every step hurts.

Every movement reminds me of what he did, what he's been doing to my birth control, what might be growing inside me right now.

I make it to my apartment through sheer force of will.

Triple-lock the door, then collapse on my bathroom floor, finally letting the tears come.

Great, heaving sobs that shake my entire body.

Tears for who I used to be.

For who I've become.

For the innocent life that might be caught in this nightmare with me.

My phone buzzes.

Him, of course:

You did well today. Same time, Thursday. Don't disappoint me again.

Thursday.

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