Page 614 of Cheaters: A Dark Romance Anthology

Still, the tears fall.

Nothing is all right. He’s taking me to him.

* * *

I turn the coat hanger over in my hands. The cool metal rod feels like nothing. I wish I felt nothing. Instead, pain radiates from my head. I can't remember the last time I slept, the last time I went five hours without throwing up.

A few more tears fall. It's been a never-ending waterfall. Ever since it happened. I shake my head, refusing to look at all the clothes surrounding me.

I need to focus.

Tugging open the bottom drawer on one of my dressers, I dig through the neatly folded stacks of pajamas, until my hand grasps the smooth, glass bottle. Exhaling, I slide the drawer shut and lean against it. Not wasting any time, I twist off the cap of the vodka and take a few gulps.

It burns, tastes like rubbing alcohol. But it numbs the pain, at least partially. The fifth is all I could sneak in here. I’ve been on lockdown, near constant supervision, ever since Damien saw the tests. No one has said those words, but that’s what this is. No leaving without Kane chaperoning me. No going anywhere unless Damien has ‘cleaned’ the area first.

He doesn’t trust me.

I don’t trust me.

The voices are too loud not to listen to them.

I take another swig, then pick up the coat hanger I found in the garbage after the maids brought the dry cleaning. Wrapping one hand around the hook, I slowly bend it, straightening it out.

“Oi,” Dorian’s voice filters through my changing room, “my braddah been looking foa you.”

I didn’t even hear the door open. I jerk my head up, dropping the metal wire. He’s standing in the doorway, wearing his usual shorts and wife beater. I haven’t seen him in almost two months.

He stares for a long moment, his eyes gravitating toward my stomach. “It true, den?”

I cry harder.

He runs his hands through his hair, the act so much like his older brother it brings more tears. So similar. Yet so different. For once, he actually looks like the teenager he is.

My stomach turns.

“I’m not one faddah.” A deep vulnerability passes across his eyes.

“It’s-it’s not yours.” The words sting the back of my throat.

“Aurite. Das good.” He nods several times before his eyes land on the coat hanger. “What dat?”

I toss the mangled scrap of metal behind me. “I-I . . .”

“Girl, you mo lolo den my braddah tink.” He shakes his head. “He tink it him. All dis.” He waves his hands around my changing room. “What he does dat has you all da kine. But no, dis all you. You got every one screw loose up dea, yeah.” He taps his head.

My eyes blur. I reach for the vodka. “I-I can’t–”

He kneels down in front of me. “Dis no one fix.”

“I can’t have it.”

“You sked?”

I sniffle, a hiccup escaping. “I can’t do it.” I gesture between my legs. “I can’t . . . There’s too much . . .” I can’t finish, heaving sobs rack through my body as I shake back and forth. There’s too much scarring. It’s all too broken down there. Daddy made sure of that.

He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, nodding before running his hand over his face. “Kay den. Dis still no one fix. You tell him. An you go one doctor.” He grabs my bottle and heads out of the room.

A second later, I hear the sink, followed by his footsteps.

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