Page 86 of Dark Little Game
He took a shower after he fucked my mouth, and now his hair is still a little damp, sticking in a million different directions. I want to go run my fingers through it, but that would just distract me.
Because I’m going to tell him the truth.
The whiskey in my blood is affecting me more than it should.
And yet again, Rayne’s clawed his way right past every last shred of willpower I have left in me.
“Talk,” he says to me.
“Impatient much?”
“Yes. I’m impatient. First of all, tell me what the fuck youwant.”
At first I don’t respond.
I like that I got to him, but I don’t like the question.
What do I want?
I want to be alone.
I cannot even picture a life where I am not completely alone.
And my whole lifetime, people have been hell-bent on making that impossible.
“In life, you’re forced into almost everything,” I tell Rayne, my tone coming out lifeless. “School first, from preschool to elementary into middle and high school. Then, it doesn’t end. College is next, and if you have a father like mine, he tries to shove you into the same one he attended. I escaped that, going to London, but now look at me. Here at Crimson.”
“Crimson is a great college.”
“I’m aware of that,” I tell him. “But I just want to bealone. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of. I salivate about the day I get my inheritance and I can buy a plot of land where no one can ever find me again. I’m not meant for this world, Rayne.”
“How veryedgyof you,” Rayne says, and he’s clearly unimpressed.
But I don’t expect him to understand.
People never do.
They assume I want to be alone because I’m on some high ivory tower, or that I believe I’m above it all.
But it’s not that. Because I’m well aware of another thing, too: their world is worse withmein it. I also want to be alone so that I’m not inflicting myself on everyone around me. My urges. My chaotic rage.
The way fights always end up with my hand on someone’s neck, cutting off their breath, or my knife on their skin, threatening them until they beg me to stop.
But I never want to stop.
I always end up hurting people.
Endangering them.
So if I can’t stop what’s inside me, I need to be alone. Atleast then I won’t have to hold myself back from wanting to fucking strangle every living person who’s ever wronged me.
“Tell me something real, now,” he demands. “How did you end up in a mafia family?”
I pull in a lungful of air. “I didn’t seek out the Thornwick crime family in London. They found me. I had a part time job at a pub in a bad part of town. Bad people came to that pub, and I served them liquor.”
“You and Weston don’t need jobs. You have access to giant bank accounts, and when you turn 25 you’ll have inheritances worth millions. Why work at a bar?”
“People in bars get violent. Moth, meet flame.”
