Eight.
That’s how many dresses I find in the closet that are like the one I’m wearing. Cute. Pretty. Perfectly innocent.
Chosen by Killian.
I lay them out on the bed and look at them, but something isn’t quite right. I reach down, fingering the dress I’m wearing. It’s wet down the front. When I got into my room, I vomited into the toilet and then brushed my teeth for ten minutes. It didn’t really make me feel any cleaner—not until I take this fucking dress off.
Ripping it off, I stand there in nothing but my underwear, throwing the dress with the others. That feels better, seeing them all lined up like that. I don’t need these anymore—if I ever did at all. Today was the first and last time I dressed to please him.
I only use the scissors to get me started, cutting a notch into the skirt of one of the dresses. After that, I grip it in my hands and pull, ripping it until I can’t anymore. One isn’t enough, so I do it again and again, until the first dress is a pile of sad, limp shreds.
I work my way through the dresses methodically, thinking about what I overheard earlier. The basketball court is right outside my window, and if I crack it the smallest bit, I can hear everything. It’s especially easy to hear when there’s yelling and fighting.
I grunt against a particularly stubborn seam, arms trembling with the struggle. Eventually, it gives, making a satisfying sound as it tears all the way to the neck.
There’s a soft knock at the door before Tristian’s voice comes through. “Story?” He tries the knob, but even if it were unlocked, he wouldn’t be able to get through. The knob goes still. There’s a suspended moment of silence before he adds, “Fine. You don’t need to open the door. Just say something so we know you’re good.”
Good?
I pick up another dress, ripping it down the side. “Something.”
There’s another beat of silence before he answers, “Do you…need anything?” The words sound uncertain and stilted, like he’s testing them out, and maybe he is. His sisters aside, he must not have much experience with things like concern.
I’m just about to tell him to go away when a thought hits me. Clenching my teeth, I rip my blanket from the bed to cover myself with. The desk, which I’d wedged in front of the door, scrapes loudly against the floor when I push it out a few inches—just enough to crack the door.
“There’s something you can do for me,” I answer, peering out the crack at him.
Tristian looks back at me, half startled, half apprehensive. He’s sporting a split lip. “We didn’t know he was going to do that.”
Ignoring that, I continue, “You can get me something to wear that isn’t skin-tight, see-through, short, or in any way marketable for paid internet porn.”
He catches the scraps of dresses I throw at him, unflinching. He looks down at them, inspecting the jagged, frayed fabric, and gives a slow, sure nod. “I’ll see what we can scare up.”
When he turns, heading toward the stairs, I notice that Dimitri is here, too. He’s leaning up against Killian’s closed door, holding an ice pack to his jaw. When he sees me watching, he shoots me a roguish grin. “Should see the other guy, baby.”
I prop myself against the door jamb, knowing my eyes are red. I didn’t let myself cry for long, and it wasn’t like last time. These were bitter, exhausted tears—the remnants of whatever this hard thing inside of me are driving out. “The whole point of this,” I say, kicking the desk in front of the door, “is to avoid that.”
His lips purse. “Finally worked out that he’s got a key, huh?”
“I assume you all do.”
He lowers the ice pack, revealing a large, angry bruise. “Just him. Sneaking into bedrooms isn’t really our style.”
Tristian returns then, a bundle of clothes in his arms. “These are going to be big, but maybe you can make do.” He feeds them through the crack in the door and I grab hold, clutching them to my chest.
I mumble a small, “Thank you,” and step aside, just out of sight. The blanket falls to the floor and I unfold the clothes. Sweatpants, a loose undershirt, and an oversized hooded sweater. Tristian’s right—everything is way too big. It’s a nice change.
“Will you come downstairs?” Tristian asks, sighing. “Have a drink with us, decompress.”
Dimitri adds, “Killer won’t be back tonight.”
Slipping the sweater over my head, I hug my middle, not feeling any warmer. “How do you know?”
Tristian snorts. “He’s doing his own decompressing. Trust me.”
Inching closer to the door, I softly wonder, “Are you going to make me…do things?”
“What?” Tristian sounds unjustly offended. “Of course not.”
Dimitri jumps in. “Look, we’ll be downstairs. If you want to be alone to wallow and stew, fine. If you don’t, come chill. Consider yourself off the clock, either way.” Quieter, to Tristian, he adds, “Come on. Stop hovering, let her work her shit out.”
Their footsteps recede moments later, down the stairs. I peek out of the crack, seeing that I’m alone. Deflating, I try to reconcile two competing forces. Tristian and Dimitri obviously hadn’t been okay with what Killian did to me. They sounded really mad about it, actually. They turned on him—someone they’ve been best friends with since they were just little kids. I didn’t think anything could ever come between them. That means something, doesn’t it?
On the other hand, they’re not blameless. They’ve dished out their own malice, over and over again.
It takes a moment to move the desk far enough that I can slip out of the room. I leave it close, fully planning on moving it back the next time I’m inside. Mostly, I feel stupid. Thinking a lock makes me safe? When has that ever been enough?
The house is quiet when I descend the stairs, following their low voices to the den. This is where they hang out most of the time, but aside from the interview and the party, I haven’t been in here much. It’s a den for wolves, waiting to eat me whole.
Tugging the sleeves over my fists, I warily shuffle into the room.
Killian did leave. I heard the whole fight, so I know that he stormed away. I even heard the sound of his truck as it sped out of the garage. Still, a part of me still expects him to be lurking around a corner and my heart builds to a crazed tempo, racing with the possibility that everyone is still here. I can still remember the sounds of their laughter and jeers, all those cold, heartless men watching my debasement like it was entertainment.
Luckily, it’s just Tristian and Dimitri. They’re mirror images of one another, perched on different sofas, speaking in low tones across a bold-looking coffee table, each holding a tumbler of brown liquid.
They both pause when I walk in, curling my fingers into the large, soft sweater. The sweater, like the sweatpants, has ‘Varsity Swim’ emblazoned on it—a relic from our old high school.
It’s Tristian who stands, moving fluidly to where the glasses and liquor await. He pours a glass and refreshes his own before returning to his seat, sliding mine down the table. “Go easy,” he says, nodding at the glass.
Reluctantly, I perch on the couch farthest from them both, tucking my limbs in close. The booze smells strong and sharp when I lift it to my nose, sniffing suspiciously. Being anything but stone-cold sober in this house is a mistake. I know that. But maybe it’ll help. Maybe it can quiet this chaotic storm that’s tearing up my chest.
Still, I wait for Tristian to take a drink of his before following suit.
Instantly, I start hacking, pulling a face at the contents of the glass. “This is worse than the wheatgrass.”
Dimitri barks a small laugh, but Tristian gives me a look. “That’s fifty-year-old bourbon. It costs more than most people’s rent.”
Grimacing, I say, “You got ripped off.”
“It’s an acquired taste,” Dimitri assures, swirling his around.
I’m not sure it’s a taste I want to acquire, but the burn does begin warming my chest. It spreads outward, a comforting tingle settling in my gut. For a brief moment, I actually feel my muscles relax. Giving it another look, I pinch my nose and throw it back, downing the whole thing in one go.
“I said easy,” Tristian chides, sounding all at once distressed and disappointed. “I can’t believe you’re drinking aged bourbon like it’s cheap tequila. Jesus Christ.”
I set the glass on the table and shudder at the aftertaste. “You always give me the grossest stuff,” I tell Tristian.
He rolls his eyes, taking a much more delicate sip. “If you drank the wheatgrass that enthusiastically, you’d be healthy as a horse.”
I swipe at my mouth, looking around the room. It’s dimly lit and smells of something sharp and sweet. A stuffed buck’s head hangs with prominence over the bar, its bold antlers reaching like skeletal fingers over the room. There’s a stuffed bear’s head, too. A large fish of some kind, mounted on a huge chunk of driftwood. On the mantel rests a large bronze LDZ skull, just like the one on my wrist cuff. In the corner, there’s an enormous vase filled with bare, brittle-looking, vein-like limbs. They reach into the air and spread like a web over the entrance.
This house is full of dead things.
“Do you know anything about Killer’s mom?”
Tristian shoots him a hard look, voice full of warning. “Rath.”
Dimitri holds up a hand. “I’m just asking. I won’t tell her anything.”
Everything’s a little softer and warmer now, the bourbon making my arms feel heavy. “I never met her,” I admit, wading through the comfortable fog to think back to when I lived with him. “They never talked about her much. I know he keeps a picture. She was pretty, I guess.”
“Hm.” Dimitri finishes his glass, setting it on the table like I had. “Guess it doesn’t matter. Killer was out of line.”
I’m curious about her, this Darla Payne, but it’s clear from the look the two of them share that they won’t tell me anything. They might be in a fight with Killian, but they aren’t about to spill his secrets. “What’s going to happen?” The cuff of the sweater rides up, revealing my wrist band. I pick at it like a scab, shoving a finger underneath to rub the sensitive skin.
Tristian’s lips press into a thin line. “Nothing is going to happen. We’re going to go to bed in a minute, then wake up and go to classes, just like we always do.”
I look up at him, pleading, “Can’t I miss a day? Just one?”
He actually looks rueful as he shakes his head. “Things have to stay routine. We can’t let everyone think—”
“All those guys have seen me,” I lament, pressing my fists into my stomach, feeling sick at the prospect of facing them all. Yet again, their words and laughter drift back to me. Not even the booze is enough to dull the flush of shame and humiliation that washes over me. “I recognized some of them from my classes. Everyone will know.” Tears come, unbidden, but I blink them rapidly away.
“It won’t be like that.” Tristian slides down the couch, reaching to touch my knee, but I recoil. He drops his hand, sighing as he leans back. “People like this—” Like me, he doesn’t say, “—they smell chum and they get worked into a frenzy. Hiding from them is like blood in the water. The best thing to do is act like it doesn’t bother you. Isn’t that what you told Izzy and Lizzy?”
I narrow my eyes at him, sniffing back my tears. “That’s not even remotely the fucking same.”
Dimitri pipes in then, “We’ll send everyone a warning. Let them know what’s going to happen if they so much as glance at you.”
Tristian agrees, “They’re assholes, but they’re also sheep. They’ll do what we say.”
I don’t feel comforted by this in the least. If they’ll listen to Tristian and Dimitri, then they’ll listen to Killian, too. “He’s going to be mad when he comes back,” I realize, panic breaking through the bourbon’s haze. “He’ll blame me. He’ll punish me again. He has a key to my room and he’s strong enough to—”
“He’s not coming back tonight.”
“How do you know?” I ask Tristian, feeling on the verge of hysteria. They didn’t know what he was going to do before. Killian is nothing if not unpredictable.
Tristian watches me, those icy blue eyes searching mine. “You can sleep in my room, if you want,” he offers, sounding both hopeful and uncertain. “Killian wouldn’t try anything if you were with one of us.”
The thought makes my stomach churn. It’s not a simple feeling. I’ve always been haunted by that night in the laundry room, but tonight, the memory feels so fresh and raw. Those cold blue eyes might be looking at me differently now—softer, less malicious—but they’re the same eyes that held mine as he forced me to take him inside. As he hurt me. As he used me.
Slowly, I shake my head. “No, thank you.” Tristian nods, looking unsurprised. Without really needing to think about it, I add, “What about Dimitri’s?”
Tristian’s mouth snaps closed. “Rath’s?”
Nodding, I look to Dimitri. “Please?”
He blinks at me, looking startled. “You want to sleep in my room?” At my nod, he gives Tristian a stunned, anxious look. “I’m probably going to practice some before I go to sleep.”
“That’s okay,” I assure, feeling embarrassed at the request. “I like to hear you play.”
Frowning, Tristian says, “I have a couch, too. I can even put on some music for you.”
I wrap my arms around my middle, ducking my head. Softly, I confess, “I want Dimitri.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and I know if I looked up, I’d see them having some sort of conversation with their eyes. Maybe I’ll pay for this—for rejecting one in favor of another. Right now, I just can’t seem to care.
Tristian releases a long sigh, standing from the couch. His voice is a little too even—a bit too casual—when he says, “Alright. I’ll see you both at breakfast,” and leaves the room.
I peek up at Dimitri, who’s giving me a carefully neutral look. “Is he mad?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe. Nothing he won’t get over, though. We’re not—” He pauses, eyebrows knitting together as his dark eyes hold mine. “We’re not like Killian.”
You’re not, I don’t say. Dimitri’s never forced me to my knees for him. He’s callous and impulsive and as prone to tempers as any of them, and he isn’t blameless in anything. But he’s the only one who’s ever asked—ever cared if I wanted it.
It’s a testament to the sad state of my life that Dimitri is the best guy involved in it.
I follow him up the stairs, passing mine and Killian’s room, and then Tristian’s. As soon as I step inside, I know I made the right choice. This room had been the place I’d escaped to in my head as Killian used me. The soft, comfortable lighting. The way everything was a little unkempt. The sounds of the music. The way his bed always looks, warm and inviting.
Dimitri pauses in the middle of the room, reaching up to scratch the nape of his neck. “Uh, I guess…do you want me to sleep on the couch?” He phrases this like a question he finds odious.
I suppose this—handing the decision of his comfort over to me—is probably exactly what that’s like. “I don’t care,” I admit, shuffling my way to the bed. “I think I’d like sleeping beside you.” It’s a difficult thing to give away, but the bourbon has made my tongue a little loose.
Apparently, it did the same for Dimitri. “I had this teacher,” he suddenly says, face shadowed. “Third grade. Mr. Yelchin. My mom worked for months to get me into this academy. The teachers were supposed to be real cream-of-the-crop types.” His eyes grow hazy, as if lost in a memory. “When I had…issues reading, he’d call me names. Tell me I was stupid. Hit me with the ruler. Make me stand up in front of the class and embarrass myself.” His fists clench, jaw tightening. “I still let it get to me sometimes. Pretty fucking stupid, right?” It’s asked like he’s looking for agreement, but there’s something in his eyes—haunted, ashamed—that’s asking for the exact opposite.
I happen to have some experience here. “I don’t think that’s something you can help.”
He nods, like he was expecting that answer. “I hope…” he pauses, frowning. “I hope tonight wasn’t like that. For you.”
Swallowing, I reply, “Me too.”
The look we share says that we both know it will be.
Like a switch flipping off, he turns away, shoulders tensing. “I don’t fucking cuddle.”
I pull the blankets back. “Okay.”
“I mean it,” he says, voice firm as he takes the piano bench. “Don’t be wrapping around me like a goddamn octopus. I need my space.”
The notes reverberate through the room before I can agree, slipping between the sheets. His bed is just as comfortable as it looks, and I settle at the edge, making sure to leave him plenty of space. Houses like this one are drafty and cooler than usual, but I instinctively know that I’m going to wake up sweating buckets if I fall asleep in Tristian’s clothes. After a long moment of internal struggling, I reluctantly decide to take off the hooded sweater and pants, fishing them out of the blankets once I have. I lay them in a tidy lump on the floor beside me, curling up to listen to the music.
It lulls me instantly to sleep.
I’m still hot.
I don’t know what time it is when I surface from a deep, dazed sleep, but the room is dark. All the lamps are off, nothing but the soft glow of a computer screen illuminating the room. One twitch is enough to send my chest into a panicked frenzy.
I can’t move.
I squirm against the thing that’s pinning me down, breaths coming faster, before I realize it’s an arm. Specifically, Dimitri’s arm. Confused, I blink down at the dark dusting of hair covering his forearm. I’m still at the edge of the bed, in the exact same position I’d been in when I fell asleep. I’ve always been a hard sleeper, not prone to tossing and turning, which is why I hadn’t been worried when he warned me against taking his space.
And now here he is, engulfing me in his arms, his steady, even breaths tickling the top of my head as he sleeps.
Not a cuddler, my ass.
I come to find that I don’t really mind it. So much, in fact, that I wriggle back into him, only feeling a brief spike of anxiety at the way he clutches me closer in response, his arm seeming as immovable as steel. It’s a jarring, almost frustrated yank. Apparently, he’s just as greedy and irritable in sleep as he is awake.
It doesn’t take very long for me to succumb to sleep once again, filled with the scent of him, surrounded by the hardness and warmth of his body.
For the first time in a long while, I’m not awoken in the morning by my alarm.
I rise from the fog of sleep slowly, like climbing my way out of a thick cloud. It’s made both easier and more difficult by the gentle groan in my ear, something firm and persistent pressing rhythmically into my backside.
Before I even have the presence of mind to stiffen in worry, I realize that Dimitri isn’t completely awake, either. He’s still curled around me and his movements are slow and uncoordinated, purely instinctual.
I know he’s awake when he falters, stilling.
His fist flexes against my belly, a rough sound escaping his throat. “Ugh,” he croaks, a thread of disappointment present in the sigh that follows. “Sorry. Morning wood.” He goes to roll away, stretching his legs, but I reach out, grabbing his arm to stop him.
Pausing, he haltingly sinks back against me, the feel of his cock obscene and obvious against my ass.
He fingers the hem of my shirt, voice still soft with sleep when he whispers a surprised, eager, “Yeah?” into my neck. He presses a gentle, uncertain kiss to the skin there, thrusting against me. “You want it?”
Swallowing, I give him a nod, even though I don’t know what I’m agreeing to. I just know that it feels good—that the only time any of this has felt good, completely absent of shame or hurt or regret, is in this room, with him. I want to touch someone—be touched by someone—who I’m choosing. I want to wash the memory of last night away with something that’s not tainted and twisted.
I want to take my body back for one godforsaken moment.
There’s a new energy in the way his fingertips dip beneath my shirt, inching up. It may be stupid of me, but his motions seem slow and dubious enough that it fills me with the oddest assurance.
Like maybe he’d stop if I asked him to.
His hand finds my breast, fingertips brushing over the warm flesh before engulfing it in his palm and squeezing. “Fuck,” he breathes, driving his hips into mine. His thumb finds my nipple, sending a shockwave of electricity right between my legs. “Like this?” he asks when I gasp, stretching my neck.
I go easily when he rolls me to my back, shucking my shirt up. His eyes are still glazed with sleep when he looks down on me, taking in my exposed breasts. He watches his hand on them, gathering one up into his warm palm before ducking his head to suck at it.
My head digs back into the pillow, body writhing at the sensation. His mouth is an impossible point of fire, tongue flicking lazily at my peaked nipple. Even when it’s just his lips, his lip rings rub against me in a novel way, making my back arch in response. The moan I give sends him into motion, frantically shoving the blankets away as his palm rubs down my thigh. He grabs below my knee to hook my leg over his hip, jostling until he’s settled in the cradle of my thighs, thrusting his hardness against the cotton of my panties.
It’s all a little too fast, rapidly becoming devoid of the slow, sleepy aura it began with. But the sharp zings to my center from the way his cock grinds against me are making me not really care. I scrabble at the warm skin of his shoulders, which I’m realizing now are bare. Dimitri is shirtless, clad in only a pair of loose boxer shorts. His back is warm beneath my hands, muscles rippling with the way he surges into me.
His kiss is impatient and demanding, but strangely comforting. The pointed jerk of his body as he grinds against me, the restless sweeps of his palm on my breasts, the sharp, deep kisses are all proof of his eagerness. For the first time, I finally understand everyone’s words. Ms. Crane. Tristian.
Eventually, you might learn to use that thing between your legs…
Your problem is that you haven’t embraced your sex appeal…
There’s power here, I realize, seeing the pinched, hard look on Dimitri’s face when he pulls back. There’s weakness in the crush of his brow as his eyes take in my body. When I sweep my hands down his muscled back, he arches against them, chasing the touch, mouth parted as he rocks into my thighs.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asks, breaths coming harder. “You like how my dick feels.”
He doesn’t go beneath my panties, keeping the barrier up. It’s surprising he doesn’t go further. He could, and the big secret is that I’d probably let him. But I don’t need it. Neither does he. I can feel it in the hardness sending my clit into a frenzy. I can feel it in his movements, impatient and hungry.
Nodding, I wet my lips, bucking my hips into him. “Yes.”
His eyes flash in a sharp satisfaction. “God, I can’t wait to fuck you. I bet you’d get so wet for my dick.” He ducks his head to watch our hips moving together.
Unthinkingly, I follow his gaze, belly seizing at what I see. The head of his cock has completely escaped the waistband of his boxers, a bead of clear fluid falling from the tip as it drags against my panties. I grind up into it, desperate for the friction.
Groaning, he adds, “Fuck, sometimes it’s all I can think about. Getting my dick inside you. Drives me fucking crazy.” I know he’s babbling now, lost in the same mindlessness that’s driving our hips together. “Want to bend you over and fuck you hard. Make you scream my name.” He puts his mouth to mine, hovering there as his jaw clenches. “Say it,” he demands, his thrusts growing urgent and a little too hard.
Digging my fingertips into his shoulder blades, I’m momentarily lost in the chase. This ball of electricity building in my belly is so close to exploding that my knees are trembling against his thighs. He’s got me pinned to the bed by nothing more than the press of his dick.
“Say it,” he growls, hips rolling. “Say my fucking name, Story.”
It hits me like a tidal wave as I fall from the precipice. My strained, “Dimitri,” is some crooked combination of gasp and yelp, but it makes him grunt hard in response, his hard cock slamming against me. There’s no invasion, just two bodies working together. Shifting, rubbing, quivering.
He holds his hips against mine and I can feel it. The twitch. The shift of his flexing muscles. The warmth against my belly as he erupts. It makes the orgasm that much sweeter, the way his palm cups my cheek as he breathes quick and damp into my neck. It feels kind of like gratitude.
Yes.
There is definitely power here.
I leave while Dimitri showers, still feeling weak-legged from our…encounter. I’m only halfway out of that dazed headspace when I run into Tristian on the second-floor landing.
His eyes jump down to my chest, the hooded sweatshirt back in place. Something hard and pleased crosses his features before it’s erased. “Good morning,” he says, shifting his grip on the bags he’s carrying. “I was just about to come see if you two were up. I didn’t know if you had your phone and Rath is always forgetting to set his alarm.” Much like Dimitri’s jaw, Tristian’s lip looks worse in the light of day—swollen and scabbed.
“We, uh,” I can’t contain the hot flush that instantly comes over me, “woke up.”
“Oh,” Tristian says, realization clear in the blink of his eyes. He gives me a look. “Is this something I need to hassle him about, or…”
I shake my head, eyes widening. “No! Not like that.”
Not like Killian.
“I see,” he answers, face going carefully blank. “Can we get in there?”
I follow his nod to my door, easily slipping through the crack I’d made. Tristian is wide, however. I have to scoot the desk out some more to make space for him to enter.
When he does, he eyes the remaining dress scraps still left on my bed. “I guess we’re done with the sun dresses.” He moves them aside to dump the bags on my bed in their place. “That’s okay. I went out early to pick up some things.”
My stomach fills with dread. “Like what?”
To my shock, he begins laying out pairs of jeans. They look snug, but not unbearably so. Then, he produces some shirts. Not halters or tanks or anything ridiculous. Just shirts. There’s a cardigan, too. A pullover sweater. Loose pajamas. A pair of comfortable-looking shoes.
He gestures to the choices, reaching up to rub at his neck. “It’s not a lot, and you’ll still be expected to look a certain way most of the time, but you should have something…else. Sometimes.” Turning to smirk at me, he adds, “Not that I don’t enjoy seeing you in my clothes, because that’s pretty fucking hot, Cherry.”
I finger at one of the shirts. “Tristian, this is…” Nice is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m not so sure it’s merited. Letting me wear clothes I’m comfortable in sometimes shouldn’t be something to gush about.
He doesn’t let me finish anyway. “Oh, and there’s more.” He reaches into another bag, pulling out a fresh bouquet of daisies and extending them to me.
I eye them suspiciously, confused. “Flowers?”
His smile grows stiff. “Well, I noticed you liked the paper one I got for you, so I thought I’d try the real thing.” Slowly, I take them, the plastic wrapping crinkling as I give the bouquet a dubious sniff. “I also got you this,” he adds, pulling a smaller paper bag from inside the larger one.
When I open it up, I find a huge cherry Danish waiting within. It’s still warm. Warm and full of sugar and processed preservatives and whatever else he hates.
I look up at him—at that stiff smile on his handsome face—and level him with a slow, “Tristian.”
His smile flattens. “You’re mad at me. I get it. I told you I wouldn’t let him hurt you again, but I had to stand there while he did that.” Running his fingers through his hair, he looks away, agitated. “I couldn’t do anything. We have to project a united front. It’s dumb frat-house bullshit, but it’s important.”
I set the bag and flowers down, dragging in a hard breath. “I was never naïve enough to think you’d stop Killian from hurting me. Dimitri, either.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You don’t seem to be holding it against Rath.”
“And I’m not holding it against you.” I find that it’s true. I’ve known the score here, ever since I walked in that door. I’ve never been stupid enough to think otherwise.
“Then why are you so cool with him, but—” He instantly freezes, expressions flattening into something hard. “It’s because I did it, too.”
I don’t bother denying it, reaching down to skim a finger over a daisy’s soft petals. “It brought back a lot of memories.” I head what Killian said to him out there.
“Making her suck a dick in front of our brothers wasn’t a concept you had a problem with three years ago.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Tristian is silent for a long moment, standing stiffly in the middle of my room. He shifts, burying his fists in his pockets. “Would it help if I said I was sorry?” Scoffing, he adds, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”
I shove the daisies aside, meeting his gaze with as much steel as I can muster. “You can say you’re sorry. You can tell me you regret it. You can ask my forgiveness. Say what you like, it still happened.”
He shrugs, saying matter-of-factly, “I don’t believe in regret. And I believe in forgiveness even less than that. But I do believe in owning up to my shit.” He walks closer, those blue eyes pinning me. “I was in a bad place. I’m not going to bullshit you by saying I’ve turned a new leaf, or that I didn’t enjoy it. I never really thought of you outside of that. I never wondered about what it must have been like for you. How badly I made you feel. To be honest, I just didn’t care.”
I give an inelegant snort. “What, and now you do?”
“Well…yeah,” he says, like this should be obvious. “I’m taking care of you now. I don’t want to see you like that.”
“Like what?” I press, half-appalled, but half-curious.
His expression turns thoughtful. “Diminished, I suppose. Hurt. Upset.”
Blandly, I guess, “Because I’m your property.”
“That’s a part of it,” he admits, unabashed. “But there’s also this other part. I’m not really sure I understand it yet, but I know that it’s making me say this.” He touches my chin, tipping my face up, eyes holding mine. His voice is quiet but firm, completely void of artifice. “I’m sorry, Story.”
He pitches forward to press a gentle kiss to my head, walking out of the room before he can see the stunned tears in my eyes.
