Page 4 of True Bastard
“Get out of here, Jessup, now. Or I swear I’ll call the cops and tell them exactly what you did to me.” My threat, though hollow, seemed to strike a nerve.
His eyes narrowed, and something menacing flickered in his gaze just as he lunged at me before I had chance to close the door.
He grabbed my wrist again, his grip like iron. My breath hitched as I braced for another blow, another shove. But instead of hitting me, he pulled me forward, slamming me against the doorframe. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and I gasped, my eyes watering. “You think you can just shut me out?” he rasped, his face inches from mine. “You think you can justwalk away from this? After everything we had?” The reek of stale beer was suffocating, a physical manifestation of the rot that had infested our brief but fucked-up relationship.
A piercing scream tore from my throat as I fought against his hold. My nails raked across his arm, searching for any weakness. He flinched, his grip tightening as his fist connected with my stomach, robbing me of air. Yanking me further inside, he kicked the front door shut and smiled as he reached for the buckle of his belt.
The sound of my own choked gasp echoed in the sudden quiet of the house.
Jessup, a man I thought I knew, was now a monster in my hallway, his eyes wild with a desperation that was more terrifying than any rage. His grip on my wrist was a brand, a testament to his possessiveness, his refusal to accept that he was no longer welcome.
I bucked against him and cringed as the feel of his rough denim jeans scraped against my skin. The smell of cheap liquor and something far more dangerous filled my lungs. My mind raced, searching for an escape, a way to break free from this nightmare he’d so readily brought crashing back into my life.
He was all wrong.
This wasn’t the Jessup I’d met, the charming façade he’d so carefully constructed. This was the ugliness that festered beneath rot, the entitlement that he demanded—no, believed was his.
My nails, still stained faintly with paint from my latest project, found purchase on his forearm, a desperate, futile attempt to break his hold. He grunted, a low, guttural sound, and his fist connected with my face, causing my eyes to water.
He pulled me further inside, as a triumphant, sickening smile spread across his face while he fumbled with his belt, and I knew right then, he was nowhere near done with me.
Panic surged as a cold wave washed over me.
This wasn’t a fight I could win head-on. My gaze flickered around the hallway, searching for anything, a weapon, an escape route, a flicker of the old Jessup that might still be buried somewhere beneath the drunken rage.
But there was nothing. Just the suffocating presence of a man who refused to let go, who believed he was owed something he could never truly claim.
Ripping my top from my body, his grip tightened as his other hand roughly grabbed my breast, squeezing hard.
My vision swam, the pain a dull roar behind my eyes. He ripped away the last vestiges of my shirt, his breath hot and foul against my skin. The scent of stale beer and blood filled my nostrils. I felt a desperate, primal surge, a refusal to be broken, to be consumed by this twisted version of a man I’d once tried to love. My nails, still caked with dried paint, found the soft underside of his jaw, raking down in a desperate attempt to create distance. He roared, a beast unchained, and his fist, a solid, brutal weight, slammed into my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs in a ragged gasp.
The cheap floral couch, once a source of comfort, now seemed like a mocking reminder of a life that was rapidly being torn apart. He shoved me onto it, the springs groaning in protest, and straddled me, as his weight pinned me down. His eyes, wild and unfocused, were fixed on me with an unnerving intensity, a terrifying blend of rage and desperate possessiveness. He clawed at my shorts, ripping them from my body before he backhanded me again.
A choked sob escaped my lips, a pathetic sound in the face of his brutal assault as he fumbled with the zipper of his jeans.
“Jessup,” I muttered weakly through the pain. “Don’t.”
Grabbing my legs, he yanked them roughly apart right before he slammed into me.
I screamed as his fingers gripped, tugged, pulled, and pinched at my skin, all while ramming his cock into my pussy. His acrid breath roamed over my flesh as he bit, kissed, and scraped my neck raw. My body was a battlefield, each breath a ragged tear in the silence. His weight was crushing, a suffocating blanket of entitlement and rage as his cock tore into me with a vengeance. I could feel the slickness of sweat, the dampness of his violation, and a searing, blinding pain as he continued his assault.
With a final shove and grunt, he stilled over me, panting before he finally pushed off me, leaving me gasping on the torn upholstery of my couch.
The silence that followed was more terrifying than his grunts and curses, punctuated only by my own ragged breathing. My gaze drifted to the shattered remains of my shirt, the raw marks on my skin. The stench of cheap liquor and something far worse now seeped between my legs, a testament to his depravity. He pulled himself up, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he fumbled with his jacket, reaching for a pack of smokes. Lighting one, he exhaled and then smiled, a twisted, triumphant smirk plastered on his face, his pants still around his ankles, his now limp dick still slick with cum staring me in the face.
“You should know by now,” he slurred, his eyes still unfocused, “you will never win against me, Kyllian. You are mine anytime I want.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckled as he pulled up his pants, stumbling toward the door. “See ya next week, babe! Thanks for the fuck,” he said before the door slammed shut, the sound echoing the finality of his departure.
He was gone, but the violation, the sickening violation, remained.
Carefully getting up from my couch, I tried not to wince as I walked over to the front door and locked it before heading back upstairs to my bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me.
The next afternoon...
“Kyllian Ward, I need to talk to you, young lady,” Shelly Butler, my cranky, bitchy, busybody next-door neighbor, huffed as she trudged across the yard toward me with her annoying varmint, Mr. Kibbles, in her arms. “Now you look here, missy. I have said nothing about all those men you have traipsing in and out of your home. How you choose to spend your free time is up to you, but I will not stand for the loud ruckus in the dead of night. You woke poor Mr. Kibbles up. I had half a mind to call the cops last night with all that banging and screaming going on.”
