Page 87 of Moth
My confusion only grows as his thumb glides beneath my eye, and the mysterious emotion shifts.NowI recognize it. Rage. “A little higher. A little harder. He could have killed you.”
He says it so matter-of-factly and with a nonchalance that makes the overall statement even more chilling.
“Like you could have killed Gino?” I don’t know why I turn it on him. Why a part of me squirms, hating his attention. Though I haven’t seen my face yet, the need to minimize is ingrained within me as a mantra of sorts.This? This is nothing.
“Yes,” he says without an ounce of shame. He teases aside a lock of my hair, exposing more of my injuries to him. “Like Icouldhave killed Gino. But Gino’s got a good hundred pounds on you, and I can tell you right now that he’s not fucked up half as bad as you are.”
I assume he’s joking, at first. But no, his eyes stare dead into mine, daring me to question.
“Are you an expert?”
“I know my own strength,” he counters. “What’s that saying? Pick on someone your own size. If Gino were anywhere nearyoursize? I’d know better than to touch him. Not unless I wanted fucking prison.”
“He insulted your mother,” I point out. “You were angry.” I’m not sure whether I’m justifying his actions or pointing out the failure in his logic. There was nothing controlled about what he did. He lashed out purely on instinct. In rage.
He frowns, letting his hand fall from me. “He did,” he admits. “And he fucking deserved a fist to the face for that. But using that logic, what did you do, huh? It must have been pretty fucking bad, bunny.” He eyes me again in that indiscernible way, making my breathing hitch. “I wanted to shut Gino’s ass up and teach the fucker a lesson. But whathedid to you? He wanted to hurt you—”
“Stop.”
“You know what Gino does to the girls who work for him?” he adds. “He treats them like shit. Makes them turn tricks to curry favor with whoever he wants. Rich fuckers. Businessmen. Even the cops. Someone likethatdeserves to be beaten so badly he can barely fucking walk, not—”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh?” He rears back, an eyebrow cocked. His thumb finds my chin, manipulating my face so that he can view me from a different angle. “Fine,” he echoes harshly. “You know that journal of yours… One of those little stories you wrote? Deceiver, I think you called it.”
Alarm prickles down my spine. That story got me my first ever feature, submitted to a paper on a whim. I try to turn away, but his grip tightens just enough to keep me trapped without causing more pain. “S-Stop.”
“It was really morbid shit, bunny,” he tells me, snatching a fresh paper towel to dab at my lip with. “About someone haunted by a monster. One who got inside her head and threatened to destroy her from the inside out. The only way to save herself? Deceive someone else into becoming his prey—”
“It’s just a story.”
“I doubt that,” he replies, sounding confident. “In fact, I think it’s the realest thing you’ve scribbled in that little journal of yours. The one time you admitted it to yourself—you’re afraid. Not of just him, but of the things he’s done to you. Whatever twisted shit being with him has made you do—”
“Please stop.” I squeeze my eyes shut, steeling myself for more. More anger. More vicious words. More of the truth…
He sighs. “Eat.”
I open my eyes as another spoonful of peanut butter appears beneath my nose. His version of a truce? I’m too grateful for the distraction to care. Parting my lips, I let him shovel a spoonful inside. And then another.
He watches me swallow, his expression unreadable. When I’ve eaten enough to satisfy him, he rocks back on his heels, and I grip the edge of the counter, preparing to stand.
“I should go—”
“Stay.” He grits his teeth, and I can practically see him wrestling with the decision to voice the next words to leave his mouth. “You should stay. Get some sleep.”
He makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like he’s granting a request I never asked out loud. Regardless, he’s already tugging off my sandals without waiting for an answer. He tosses them into a corner near the couch, and then palms my hips, easing me down from the counter.
“I have to work,” he says before pulling away, heading toward the door to the stairs. “In the meantime, you can come up with a good ass lie to explain your face before you go back to him.”
My face? I watch him go, then I turn on my heel and find myself creeping toward his bathroom. It’s dark enough inside it that I have to flip the light switch just to be able to make out my reflection.
But a monster stares back. Her eyes are bloodshot—one partially swollen shut. Bruises in various shades of purple discolor her skin. A gash slices beneath her cheek, dangerously close to her eye, and her neck is a patchwork of discoloration.
I can see that my mouth is open and my eyes wide, but I don’t hear anything, just my surging heartbeat. It hammers against my eardrums, deafening me to anything else.
Until the door flies open, smacking off the adjacent wall. The figure behind it looks at me, his brows knitted in concern, his chest heaving as though he ran all the way here. I can finally name that elusive emotion creeping across his features.Pity.
He steps forward without a word, impossible to outrun. I’m in his arms before I can even think to react, burning alive in his heat.
And all I can do is surrender to the inferno.
