Page 132 of The Colour of Revenge
I try to explain the best I can, keeping things vague. I don’t tell them the truth. This is a test. My father wanting to see if I’ll crack. This is why he has his insurance policy. He knows I’ll never do anything that could harm Nate.
It’s not as if I could tell the truth, anyway. If they knew who had bought me, all the men that owned my body, then that would lead to more questions. Questions I can’t answer.
So, I make it sound like it was one man. That I never saw his face.
I tell them that I changed my name after I escaped. That I’ve been living in London for the past few months.
I didn’t go to the police because I was scared.
When it's over, the ride back is suffocating. My father leaves first, and his absence brings no relief. The moment Lucian's house swallows me again, I know.
I am not free. I was never free.
"You did well today," Lucian says suddenly, his tone softer than I expect.
The words take me off guard, and I glance at him, searching for the trap.
"Thank you," I mutter, the words foreign on my tongue.
He steps closer, the air shifting as his presence looms. His hand brushes my hip, sliding lower, and I stiffen. The touch is deliberate, possessive.
"You're learning," he murmurs, his voice dark, almost pleased.
I try to step back, but his grip tightens, holding me in place. His other hand moves upward, cupping my breast, his fingers squeezing hard enough to make me flinch.
"Soon, you'll be my wife," he says, his lips ghosting over my ear. "And then, you'll be mine entirely."
His hand trails down, fingers slipping beneath the lace of my lingerie. I freeze, panic clawing at my throat as he explores me with calculated precision.
My body betrays me. I can't stop the involuntary response, the heat building where I don't want it. He notices, of course. His chuckle is low and triumphant, his fingers moving faster, pushing me toward a release I don't want to give him.
I want to die.
When it happens, I bite back the broken sound that escapes my lips, hating myself more than I have ever hated him.
He steps back, triumph gleaming in his eyes. "Good girl," he says, his tone condescending. "Now go to your room."
I don't look at him as I turn and walk away, my legs unsteady beneath me.
My skin crawls, the phantom weight of his touch lingering long after he's gone.
Upstairs, I collapse onto the bed, my body trembling with a cocktail of rage, shame, and helplessness.
I am strong.
I remind myself of that with every breath.
But tonight, I feel like a hollow shell of the girl I once was, each piece of me chipped away by their cruelty.
35
I’ll Burn Their World To The Ground
Hypothetical Question: If you could swap bodies with a corpse and pretend to be dead for a day, would you have some fun with their family or just let them grieve? Maybe show up at their funeral wearing their skin?
Nate
Twomonths.
