Page 54 of The Devils Melody
Go away, go away, go away…
Can anyone hear me?
Please. Please. Please?—
Ijolt upright, choking on air. My throat burns like something has its hand around my throat squeezing the life out of me, and my stomach lurches. I barely make it to the bathroom before I drop to my knees and vomit into the toilet, violent and raw like my body was purging the past, one memory at a time.
The tile is cold under my palms, my hair stuck to my face. I spit, cough, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My eyes are wet, but I don’t cry. I don’t even breathe right. I’m still there. Still six. Still gagging on the smell of beer and old man sweat.
I press my forehead to the rim of the tub, the cool porcelain a poor substitute for peace. My nightmares never truly stop, but this is the first time in a long while they’ve come this often. One after another, relentless and clinging, the way nicotine seeps into your clothes and skin no matter how many times you wash them clean.
I count my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. It doesn’t help much. The air still feels thick, like I’m trying to breathe through crushed windpipes.
I open my eyes and stare at the tiny cracked tile beneath me. A small spider moves along the grout, undisturbed bymy sickly presence. I envy that kind of calm. That kind of small, predictable life.
The silence presses in, dense and unkind, forcing me to relive the nightmare over and over. I should get up. I should shower, change, maybe try to eat something. But my body doesn’t care about logic right now. It wants stillness. It wants to disappear, similar to how I wanted to disappear that night.
The mirror above the sink dares me to look, but I don’t. Instead, I reach up for the faucet and turn it on, splashing cold water on my face, desperately trying to wash the memories away. It doesn’t help.
Nothing fucking helps.
By the time I drag myself up to my feet, I’m shaking. My knees buckle, and I grip the counter, practically trying to hold onto reality itself. That dream, it wasn’t just any old nightmare. It was him. Edward. My father. Every twisted inch of him, alive in the darkest recesses of my brain.
God, I thought I buried this. I thought it was finally fucking over.
I stare at my reflection. Pale, slick with sweat, hollow eyes rimmed in red. There's a smear of dried mascara on my cheekbone, but that’s not what draws my attention. It’s the bruise. Ugly and dark, spreading like ink beneath my skin.
I lift trembling fingers to it, brushing it lightly and wince at the pain. It’s already blossomed—angry, tender, and impossible to hide.
Richard. That son of a bitch.
It all slams into me at once. His voice, shouting. His hand, flying. That sharp crack of contact. The humiliation of falling in front of all those people. The way I tried to act as if none of it mattered, like I wasn’t fucking dying on the inside.
But the truth is, I was, and it still kind of feels like I am.
My stomach twists again. Not from the nausea this time, but from something deeper. Shame, rage, and disgust that I was ever with a man that did the shit he did. That I sunk so fucking low. I should have seen all the signs before it got to this point.
Wait a minute.How the fuck did I get here?
Bits and pieces of the night before flash through my head like film reels. Kage’s arms around me. Lennox’s lips at my ear. The office. The tension. The fire.Their hands on me. On each other.
The sound I made when Kage dropped to his knees. God, that heat. That need. The memory hits so hard I forget to breathe. My thighs press together on instinct, aching in the aftermath. I close my eyes and let the flashes come over me. I remember Lennox’s eyes on us, stroking his cock like watching us was the only thing that could ever bring him pleasure. The way they looked at me, like I was something sacred and sinful all at once. The way they looked at each other. The way Kage gently washed my hair after I saw his little surprise for me, careful not to push me too far.
I wanted him. I wanted him so fucking bad. Those beads embedded into his skin, I could almost feel the way they would rub all the right places inside me.
My cheeks flush, not just from embarrassment, but from wanting them again. Craving them. I’ve never felt more exposed and vulnerable.
I’ve never felt morealive.
Will I see them again? Do they regret it?Do I?
Before I can spiral too deep, my phone buzzes once and then again just a few seconds later. A shrill, obnoxious vibration against the vanity. I freeze, because my gut tellsme exactly who it is before I even look at it. Somehow, I can sense it.
I drag myself towards the bedroom, carefully grab the phone up off the nightstand like it’s a bomb I forgot to disarm, and glance at the screen.
Richard. Of fucking course.
16 missed calls. 23 texts.
