Page 20 of Dark Knight

“Do me a favor and stop acting like you give a shit about me healing or whatever it is you’ve taken an interest in me for. We both know you're just my father's lap dog, and you're here just following orders.”

Her father’s dog.The words shouldn’t cut me the way they do–they’re just words flung at me by an angry, scared, spoiled little nobody. I can’t ignore their sting any more than I can ignore the steadyplink, plink, plinkof water dripping from the faucet. It’s the only sound in the room besides our breathing for what feels like an eternity.

Long enough for me to imagine walking away. I don’t need this. I have more than enough money saved to start a new life anywhere I want. She can fend for herself–we’ll see how far she gets. It’s a nice fantasy, but that’s all it is.

Callum wouldn’t stop until he tracked me down like the dog his daughter thinks I am. She’d go back to him, and he would support her rather than let her flounder the way she deserves. She doesn’t have the first clue what it means to fight for survival. To come home to a war-torn battlefield every day, to hold her breath when she hears footsteps overhead, to put herself in front of a flying fist for someone else’s protection.

She does, however, flinch when her phone buzzes. It’s been sitting on the counter all this time, face-up, and from where I’m standing, I can easily read the message in capital letters.

Jefferson: WHAT ARE YOU HIDING?? I’M GOING TO FIND YOU AND MAKE YOU WISH YOU HAD TOLD ME THE TRUTH A LONG TIME AGO!!!

“Why the hell didn’t you block his number yet?” I growl, reaching for the phone. However, she grabs it first and clutches it tight in her shaking hand.

“I don’t know.” I can barely hear her, she’s whispering so softly. I’m reminded instantly of what she’s fought against and that she has ghosts of her own she still battles. I’m not the only one in this house who knows the feeling of holding their breath for fear of what’s coming next.

“Do it now.” I cover her hand with one of mine, trying my best to soothe the ache I know she’s feeling. “There’s no need to put yourself through his torment. Let his screams and threats fall into the void.”

“You’re right.” She swipes at the tears that have begun to fall with her free and then goes through the motions of blocking that asshole’s number. Part of me wonders then that if she knew the truth, if she knew that I slit that bastard's throat for her sake, would she still think of me as the heartless asshole?

CHAPTER8

TATUM

Itake it back—all of it. I thought life was boring back at the mansion. Sitting in my room, watching TV, drifting in and out of sleep. That was my choice, though. It was how I needed to live. I didn't have it in me to put on a happy face and pretend everything was okay. Not only that, but I felt dirty, used, and ashamed.

I thought that if I was feeling this way, everyone else could see it, too. I was trying to hide from the world. I wanted solitude, silence. I couldn't handle the emotional exhaustion of being who I used to be, no matter how much I wanted to be her. I still do, even though I'm pretty sure that part of me died.

After wasting the last few months on my depression, anxiety, and fear, the last thing I want to do is spend the rest of however long we're going to be here hiding in the house. Romero wants me to heal? That's not going to happen. Not within these four walls, especially since I can barely do anything in this house without running into him.

I've been thinking about it ever since Austin and Dex came over a few nights ago. No, it's not like I meant it when I said I wanted to get a job. I was just trying to get under Romero's skin, to shake him up a little bit. I'm sick to death of his calm, cool, untouchable attitude. It's like nails running down a chalkboard, but a million times worse. My entire soul cringes at how self-assured and closed off he is.

I smile, thinking back at the icy glare he threw my way. I definitely got to him, crawled right under his skin and took a shit. I also know him well enough to recognize it's not enough to threaten him. I need to follow through, or else he's never going to take me seriously, and I want him to take me seriously.

I want him to see the real me, the broken, cracked, beyond-repair pieces; because through it all, Romero has never looked at me with pity. He’s never tried to make me feel like what happened was something I’d just forget. He’s the only one that seems to understand, and while his understanding is great, it’s also annoying as fuck. But do I really want some low-level, low-paying job? I'm a college graduate. That should count for something. Then again, many people are leaving college with no job prospects. I'm not completely out of touch, no matter what certain people think about me.

I think back to how he said he didn’t want me going around town by myself.Fine.Then he can come with me, like he said he would. I’m not going to spend another full day in this god-forsaken house. I need to get outside, socialize, smell a flower, and touch the grass.

He's upstairs, having just finished a workout in the basement. There's no equipment down there besides a heavy bag and a few free weights, and I lost track of how long he was punching that damn thing this morning. I only know it's amazing that he can use his hands afterward. You’d think repeatedly hitting that bag for fifteen or twenty minutes would be a problem.

Hell, you would think it would improve his mood a little. Then again, maybe it does. Perhaps the version of Romero I can barely coexist with is the nice version.The friendlier version.I shudder to think how much worse he could get—a monster lurking just beneath the surface.

I don't know what I'm thinking. Maybe I'm not thinking, and that's the problem. Perhaps I'm too busy already fighting with him in my head to take a second and catch up with what my body is doing. I trot up the stairs, ready to battle it out the way we always do, before coming to a stop at the partially open bathroom door. The steam drifting out tells me he’s taking a shower, but for some reason that doesn't compute in my brain fast enough to stop me, and I march right up to the door. I'm about to push it open the rest of the way and demand he come out with me... when a noise fills my ears.

At first, what I’m hearing doesn’t register in my mind. I’m listening to it, but I can't figure out what I’m actually hearing. His soft pants make me think he's stretching or doing squats or something, and I want to tell him to give it a rest already. Like, I get it. You are devoted to physical fitness, but that's not what this is.

From this angle, I can catch his reflection in the mirror over the sink. It reflects the shower, or rather what's going on behind the partially frosted vinyl curtain. I can't make out the details of him or his body, but I can see enough to realize he’s jerking off.

My gasp is barely muffled by the hand I clamp over my mouth.Idiot.I don't even know why I’m gasping. He's a human male with sexual urges, even if he likes to act like he's some untouchable robot. Still, there's something shocking and confusing about standing here, staring at the mirror, secretly hoping it doesn't fog up. His soft grunts grow louder and make my heart skip a beat. A warm flush awakens my senses as my skin starts to feel warm.

I need to stop. This is an invasion of privacy and wrong on so many levels, but my feet have grown roots. There's not much in the world that could drag me away from this spot.

His head falls back and he grunts again. Even when I stand on my tiptoes, I can't see much of him below his midsection. I would have to push the door open further and poke my head inside the door to get a better view and no way would end well. All I can do is let my imagination run free. His hand wrapped around his shaft, pumping up and down, going faster and faster. The way I'm sure his jaw tightens and his nostrils flare while his blue eyes close as pleasure takes over. I wonder if he looks as pissed off when he comes as he does when he’s talking to someone?

“Fuck...” The word is a broken whisper, and it’s that deep, gravelly tone that has the effect of tightening my nipples and spreading heat through my core. Suddenly, my insides are molten, swirling and seething, and I want.I want. For the first time in months, desire is bubbling up inside me. Not because I feel like there should be or because I feel like I need to try like I did with the guy in the hotel. No, this is different. My body is reacting on its own so strongly that I think I might be broken. I guess that’s not really a shock at this point.

Romero’s breathing becomes harsh.Faster.He’s getting close. I need to walk away, to stop watching, and I should absolutely not be listening. There’s no coming back from something like this—I’ll never be able to look at him the same way again, but there’s no walking away either. My body is literally requiring me to finish this through.

“Oh… oh… fuck…!” His heavy, ragged breaths and soft groans steal the air from my lungs and the thudding of my own heartbeat swooshes in my ears.It’s so loud I can barely hear him anymore.What is wrong with me?I can’t believe I’m still standing here, watching, listening.I’m supposed to hate this man, despise him, and yet…

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