Page 9 of Better Run
I take my chain and hit it to the bedpost. It gives a delicious clank in the quiet. I throw myself into hitting it over and over. Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank.
I hit for what feels like thirty minutes, but it could be shorter or longer. I have no way of knowing for sure. I go through the full range of emotions as I do. Sometimes I think about yelling an apology and never making another sound. Sometimes I imagine his fingers in between the cuff and the metal post and I hit harder. My arm is tired, and my fingers hurt from the constant small impacts.
“That’s enough, kitten.” His voice demands from right outside my door. I jump. I hadn’t heard him approach.
The silence is loud. All I hear is the static in my head.
I wait for a while. Longer than I think it should take for him to walk back to bed. And then I wait some more.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
My door bursts open.
He stands there, looking tall and angry. The shadow is deeper on his face. His jaw ticks as he looks at me.
I smile sweetly.
In the blink of an eye, he’s by my bed, uncuffing me and tossing me over his shoulder. I beat on his back, looking down at his ass and the floor as he marches me out.
“Let me go, you ogre! You ugly-ass, unwashed shaft of a —” He marches me up the spiral staircase, and I bounce, the breath getting pushed out of my lungs.
He tosses me through the air, and I land on a king-sized bed. We’re in the loft. I try to catch my breath. I scramble to get up, and he cocks an eyebrow. “Get up, and I’ll spank your ass raw.”
I pause.
He looks deadly serious.
“Since you can’t behave on your own, you’re going to sleep here with me, and you’re going to be a good girl and keep quiet till morning.”
I open my mouth, and he shoots me another look.
“Lay down, Mary.”
I sit, frozen, eyeing his massive body. My mouth goes dry. What was he going to do to me?
“I’m not getting undressed.”
He lays on the right side of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. “I didn’t tell you to.”
I sit rigid for a few minutes. This is far more dangerous than being downstairs.
He looks at me with demand in his eyes. “Lay. Down.” He hasn’t moved from his side of the bed.
I scoot as far from him as I can and lay on my back on top of the blankets. I refuse to look at him. My right asscheek smarts as I lay on it.
There’s nothing but quiet breathing from his side. He’s so close. I want to kill him. To smother him in his sleep.
I lay for as long as I could stand it, stiff and hurting. Finally, I’m forced to roll to my left side to face him. The relief is sweet.
I glare at his profile. He’s lying on his back, arms above the covers, eyes closed. His dark lashes are stark against his skin. An angry red scratch flares down his cheek from our fight earlier. He breathes evenly and deeply. It smells masculine up here. A hint of musk and oil.
“Sleep, Mary.”
I jump.
“My name isn’t Mary,” I grumble. But it is. And it scares me that he knows that. Did he talk to my parents? Did he hurt them?
Thoughts bounce in my head all night. I can’t tell if he’s asleep, and I don’t want to risk him beating my ass because he would. I lay awake until the sunlight creeps into the loft, and I allow myself a moment. Emotions go rolling through me. Fear, loneliness, sadness, vulnerability. I let a single tear roll down my cheek and then lock it all up again.
