Page 8 of The Order of Disorder
“Fucking perfect,” he mutters, dropping his head back against the couch. “A fucking perfect little cunt.”
I slide off him without a word and pull on my shorts. My thighs are sticky. I don’t bother picking my shirt up from the floor.
What’s the point?
Billy pulls his jeans back up, tucking himself away, and drops his head back against the couch again, still breathing heavily.
“Good girl,” he says, rolling his head to the side and giving me a doe-eyed, intimate smile.
I look away, and my eyes land on Silas again. Still watching, black eyes burning. He tips his drink back, and then sets it down on a table, his lips curling into a knowing smile.
A shiver crawls down my spine. I blink and look down at the floor, swallowing against the rising bile in my throat.
I hate him. God, I hate him.
I didn’t think I could hate anyone more than Billy. But Silas—
Silas murdered Ryder. He’s the reason Ryder is gone. The reason I’m alone.
And now he gets to watch me in the most intimate act like it’s a show just for him.
Billy hasn’t let him have me—not yet. But he uses the threat of it to get what he wants, to get me to comply on nights like this. And what’s the difference really? Silas gets to see every part of me. To get something from me I don’t want to give.
There’s nowhere I can go. No one’s coming to save me.
This is my life now.
And they’re never going to let me go.
CHAPTER THREE
I WAKE UP with a weight on my chest that takes a second to place.
It’s not the ache of grief—though that’s always there, humming in my veins—but a literal weight. A heavy arm flung across my ribs. A thigh pressed to mine. Warmth at my back.
Billy.
His breath saws in and out behind me, shallow and steady. He’s still asleep.
Every morning is a disappointment. Every morning, for a split second, I forget where I am, and then reality catches up, and the ache sets in.
But the mornings I wake up in Billy’s bed are the worst. His closeness is a physical reminder of everything I’ve lost. The warmth of someone’s body against mine, and then realizing it’s not one of them.I’m so much more aware that I’m imprisoned when I wake for a moment thinking I’m free.
I’m exhausted. Bone tired. For the past few nights, ever since the party where he fucked me in front of everybody, it’sme he’s wanted in his bed. No other girls to show off in front of me, just me. He’s still riding high off that performance, but alone between us, it’s been something even worse. Clumsy and intimate.
“Max,” he kept whispering last night as he fucked me, between long, deep kisses where he forced his tongue into my mouth. “Oh, Max. Oh, Max.”
Now his leg is tangled with mine, his hand curled just under my breast.
I stare at the ceiling and count rust spots in the metal. He smells the same as always—a kind of leather and stale beer smell that used to mean home.
Now it makes my stomach turn.
I inch my fingers toward the edge of the blanket and tug it higher over my chest. My skin feels raw this morning. I feel exposed when I’m near him, even if I’m covered.
I can’t believe I used to crave his touch. His voice. His affection. Now, even asleep, just being close to him is suffocating.
He shifts beside me, mumbling something. His fingers twitch against my stomach. I hold my breath and close my eyes, praying that I get a few more minutes of silence before he wakes up.
