Page 47 of Pretty Broken Wings
“I’ll make sure you won’t miss work.”
She heaves in a breath, her face snapping back to fear. She backs up, putting the bed between us.
Good. I want her to make herself comfortable.
“I’m calling the cops! You’ll go to prison!” She digs in the bedside drawer and then paces between the bed and the wall. “Call Gage!”
I keep my mouth shut.
“Call Gage!” she screams, throwing pillows at me. They don’t hit hard, and that seems to make her even more mad. She rips all the bedding off the bed, screaming and screaming.
Raven is so afraid. I close my eyes, dropping my head against the door. Every creature Gage saved was afraid. They fought him, even bit and scratched. But they came around.
Just like Raven will.
My little bird with the broken wings.
All mine.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
6 Months Ago
Something wakes me up. I moan, blinking in the darkness of the room. I’m warm and comfortable, and I almost fall back asleep before the movement starts again.
It’s Max’s hand between my legs.
Slowly, disappointment and dread creep into my tired brain. I told Max a while ago that he could mess with me while I slept. Ithought it would be hot until he started doing it multiple times a week, mostly on days that I said I was tired or didn’t want to fuck him before bed. And he’d never get me off.
Max is still, and I wonder if he went back to sleep. Maybe he did. Maybe he could feel the stiffness in my body. Slowly, the exhaustion pulls me under until, again, his hand moves. Up and down, up and down, waking me up.
I roll over, exhaustion muddling my brain. I can’t think clearly. I can’t even think when I’m awake. I’m just tired. So fucking tired. Work has been a lot. I’ve tried to tell Max that. Tried to let him see the depression in my eyes. All I want is to sleep.
Max stays still long enough that I start to drift off again, and then again, his hand moves between my legs. He’s rubbing.
I groan and flip over aggressively. Why won’t he let me sleep?
About five minutes later, Max starts again. I shove his hand away.
Another five minutes later, it starts again. This time, I just let him. I know he won’t stop until he gets off, and I’m tired. I feel the bed shake rhythmically, and his breathing starts to pick up. Finally, it stops. He rolls out of bed to go to the bathroom, and I hear the faucet turn on. Then, he comes back, and his breathing evens out almost immediately.
I can’t fall back asleep, but I don’t open my eyes. If I do, it means I’m admitting defeat. Why is it so hot in here? I toss, hoping my movement wakes him up. Max’s snores soften for a second, then pick back up.
I toss for hours, sweaty and angry, planning my fight with Max for the morning.
The next day, I’m exhausted. Exhausted and pissed off. I’ve had a bad feeling all day. As I rage clean the dishes, I drop the soap bottle into the water a second time.
“Fucking stupid fucking soap.”
The garage door opens, and I know Max is home. I stiffen, the feeling of dread not going away. One of two things is gonna happen. He’s gonna brush me off or get angry. I slam the soap bottle back on the counter.
I dare him to try and beat my ass. Fucking dare him. I have years of pent-up rage, and it may as well go somewhere.
The door opens, and he steps inside with a swish of his clothes. “Hey.”
I ignore him, continuing to wash dishes. There’s a beat of silence, and then he continues inside, putting his stuff on the dining room table. He doesn’t say anything else; he just moves around, putting things away, and then goes upstairs to change. When he comes back down, I hear him put the TV on.
Oh, so he’s gonna pretend like everything is fine.
