Page 122 of Bitter Poetry
My heart is in my fucking throat and so much adrenaline floods my system I feel fucking high.
Silence.
My head swings back around.
The other end of the corridor.
The sound.
I run. The door on the left opens as I sprint past, and Lillette peers out. I don’t stop, slamming through the door that leads up to the attic studio and taking the stairs two at a time. Twisting the handle of the door at the top, I shove, only to crumple into the unyielding surface.
Locked.
“Carmela!” A thump and the sounds of a scuffle come from the other side.
Hell, fucking no.
What was that Jero said about not using force on a locked door? Yeah, fuck that. The flat of my boot delivers a sharp kick below the handle. The door shudders and the bolt strains. Another harder kick and it snaps, wood cracks and splinters, and the door slams open.
I pitch into the room, right myself. There on the floor in the middle of the room, two shapes struggle.
CARMELA
The crash of splintering wood penetrates the fog of terror. The weight pinning me disappears. I shove weakly away from the dusty cover and roll onto my side where I gasp for air.
I’m wreckage: a ball of throbbing, hurting, misery. Exposed. The sound of a fight comes from somewhere nearby: a low grunt, the meaty slap, a retching sound… a loud thud and a high-pitched scream.
“Fuck.” Christian drops to his knees beside me. “Carmela? Talk to me.”
Gentle, trembling hands brush my hair back from the side of my sweaty face.
A sob catches in my throat. I feel battered, physically and emotionally. There’s so much pain I don’t know how to process all of it.
I reach for him.
“I’ve got you.” He drags me into his arms, and I curl into a ball against his chest, my fingers clawing, trying to disappear into him. He’s warm. I’m shaking furiously, my throat making terrible hoarse sounds.
I’m joggled as he reaches behind. I cling tighter, worried he’s about to put me away. A moment later, my robe drops over me.
Covering me.
Covering the marks.
A moan sounds on the other side of the room.
“Move, and I will end you, motherfucker,” Christian snarls.
Footsteps pound up the stairs and come to a skittering stop.
“Sonofabitch,” someone mutters.
“Call a fucking doctor,” Christian says. “And the don. Get this piece of shit out of here before I snap his goddamn neck.”
My yoga pants are still on, tugged down, and the exposed skin is sticky. The memory of Cosmo thrusting against me, trying to pull them lower, is a source of unholy terror.
“Get it off me!” I start to hyperventilate, clawing at my own skin. I can’t have it on me—I can’t stand it.
“Alright. Just—Jesus!”
