Page 9 of Reaper
He ambles toward me like he’s the king of his castle, and I guess here, he is since his father gives him free rein to do whatever the hell he wants.
“What’s that shit on your face?”
And at that moment I know I’ve made a mistake.
Shit!
He downs the tumbler of whiskey in his hand and sniffs, wiping at his nose as he stalks toward me. Great! He’s probably already smashed and high off his ass. He becomes much worse when he’s been drinking or snorting coke. It’s ten times worse when he’s done both.
That sinister look he always wears is proudly glaring back at me. Lately, he’s been taking his anger out on me more than usual. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve been doing all I can to keep him from killing me.
I want to roll my eyes, but if I do, I can look forward to nursing more bruises for at least a week. I’m just now recovering from the last time he laid his hands on me. It took me over an hour to cover the bruise on my face and the handprint around my neck.
“It’s the lipstick you said you loved, Nikita. Remember? I thought it paired well with the dress you picked out.”
I try to soothe the man’s ego like he’s a fucking child. However, I hate all of it. The dress, the makeup, his eyes on me. All of it. It makes me feel cheap.
His cologne filters inside my nose, causing my stomach to lurch. It’s a smell I’ll never forget for as long as I live. It’s some thousand-dollar cologne that smells like incense and piss.
I do everything to push down the nausea determined to make an appearance. If I so much as sneeze on him, he’ll backhand me or choke me, swearing I ruined his suit on purpose. I hate to see what he’ll do to me, no matter how much I’d love to see him covered in vomit. It’s what he deserves.
He presses his thumb against my lips and wipes it off, smearing it across my cheek. Then he grips my jaw so tightly it causes me to whimper.
“I didn’t say that shit, Paris!” he screams even though he did say it. It’s the same shade I wore last night to his business meeting. That’s why I thought it was a safe choice. “You shouldn’t think, you dumb cunt.”
He squeezes my face harder. The tips of his fingers dig into my chin and cheeks. Tears gather in my eyes, and I see the gleam in his as they fill with desire.
He likes my fear. But he loves my pain. Whenever I cry, the more brutal he becomes. However, I refuse to let my tears fall. The more tears I shed, the more he wants to fuck me. He wants to keep me in a cycle of fear and pain, so he can fuck me some more. I do the best I can to control both, and he’ll just leave me the hell alone. So, he can’t use me to get his rocks off.
“Take. It. Off. Now,” he seethes. “Are you trying to embarrass me?”
I shake my head before he lets go of my face, shoving me away from him. I stumble, twisting my ankle and wince when my back collides against the edge of the vanity. No doubt I’ll have a bruise across the lower part of my back. It wouldn’t surprise me if my ankle is swollen. But it won’t matter to him. If it is, that means I’ll have to conceal my limp to keep from embarrassing him.
Bottles of expensive perfume, makeup, and all the other shit he insists I wear tumbles across the vanity, some spilling onto the floor.
“No, Nikita. I’m not trying to embarrass you.”
Gingerly, I face the vanity hiding the pain as much as I can, then grab a makeup wipe. I remove the lipstick from my lips and cheek where he smeared it. Then, I pick up the only other shades of lipstick I have. Nude and red. Then face him trying to stave off the trembling in my hands as pain moves through my body.
“Which one would you like me to wear?”
I try to push down my anger and my embarrassment for being in this situation. I know better. I should’ve waited until he picked the color before I even put anything on. It doesn’t matter if he likes it or not, he has to be the one to choose everything for me. Control every goddamn thing I do. He even chose this piece of fabric he calls a dress, these shoes I can barely walk in, and even how I’m wearing my hair.
“Red.”
Of course.
I turn back to the mirror, then trace my lips with the deep crimson color. I hate red. It stands out too much against my dark skin. No matter how much he likes to show me around to his friends, family, or random people he doesn’t even know, I don’t like to be seen. And once they gawk at me like I’m their next meal, or some kind of exotic anomaly they would love to touch, he gets pissed at me. Like I’m inviting their attention. The attention he wants me to have until he doesn’t want me to have it. It’s the same stupid shit I’ve dealt with since they kidnapped me.
I shudder when I feel him move behind me. His hands grip my hips as he yanks me close to his body, pressing his dick against my backside. He’s so close, his breath tickles the back of my neck making my hair stand on end. Not from desire but from pure disgust.
Even though it’s hard to do, I make myself not recoil away from him, rooting myself in place. A lesson I’ve learned the hard way. Don’t show any revulsion for him because according to himI’m lucky he’s even showing me any attention at all. I’m lucky he’s in my life so he can show me how a real man treats his woman.
A bunch of bullshit of course.
He drags his hands up the sides of my body, then across my breasts. I breathe a sigh of relief although momentarily, when he removes his hand, then grips my shoulders, his blunt nails digging into my skin. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from hissing from the pain of his fingers burrowing into my skin.
Another place I’ll be bruised tomorrow.
