Page 25 of My Dark Divine
I’m rooted to the spot when she catches up with me. Black streaks of mascara run down her cheeks, and a hot surge of anger washes over me at the thought that someone made her like this. That anger melts away the paralysis gripping my body.
“What the fuck happened?” I ask, hands grabbing her shoulders. “Why did you run away?”
She sniffs and shrugs off my hands, annoyance flaring across her features. “I’m not a dog to be commanded to stay with you, okay?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Why are you throwing that in my face?” I snap. “I told you we?—”
“I went to the bathroom,” she cuts in, but my worry doesn’t dissipate at her statement. “I wanted to pee.”
I pause, unsure how to respond. “Uh—Whatever. Come on, we can go now.”
I take a step closer to her, my hand stretched out, but she recoils, shaking her head at me. “I can’t. I haven’t peed, and I feel like my bladder is going to pop.”
I inhale deeply, trying to calm myself, though it’s a struggle. What the fuck is wrong with this woman? “Go do what you need, but quickly. I’ll be right near the door.”
“You don’t understand.” She clutches her skirt and lifts it slightly. “I can’t pee in this dress.”
Disbelief settles in as the realization begins to sink in. “Wait. You’ve been crying because you can’t fucking pee in this dress? Are you serious, Venetia?”
Her lips tremble, and she bows her head, a sob wracking her body. She must have drunk too much—sober Venetia would never say something like this, let alone cry over it. “I need you to hold it for me,” she whispers, her voice heavy with defeat. “I need your help.”
“What? No,” I protest, struggling to process this absurd request.
“I don’t have anyone else to ask,” she snaps, and a sense of discomfort floods through me. She sounds as if someone in her family has died, on the verge of fucking hysteria just because she can’t pee. “Please, West.”
Without thinking, I grab her hand and drag her back toward the bathroom. The sooner we do this, the better. I don’t wantto be involved—I’m not even her fucking friend—but I can’t just leave her like this. The emptiness in my chest screams with agony when I look at her face, which is almost green from how badly she needs to go.
I slam the doors wide open, letting her inside before following suit and locking them behind us. Someone definitely saw us, and they’ll probably assume we’re up to something more scandalous. Honestly, I’d prefer it that way. If anyone finds out we came in here just to pee, our reputation will take a serious hit.
She heads to the cabin and plops down on the seat, while I move closer, completely unsure of how to handle this situation. I can feel shame radiating from her, and when she sniffs again, I realize I need to take charge to spare her further embarrassment. Lowering myself to my knees, I slide my hands under the cursed skirt, gripping the edges and lifting it.
“Who the fuck made you wear this shit?” I ask, irritation seeping into my tone. “It looks like a prom dress gone horribly wrong.”
A frown creases her brow, her eyes blazing as she glares at me. “Such a gentleman, West. Thank you for the compliment.”
“Iama gentleman,” I retort. “Or do you think an asshole would bother with this kind of nonsense?”
Her lips press into a thin line as she turns her gaze toward the wall, clearly trying to distract herself from the fact that she’s lost this argument. “My dad wanted me to wear this. And it’s pretty.”
Of course. Her dad shares a common trait with mine—they don’t give a fuck about their kids. “It’s only pretty if you’re blind,” I say, earning an annoyed grunt from her. “I prefer your matching suits or those tight dresses you wear.”
Venetia turns to me, her face reflecting sheer shock. “Tight dresses?”
I bow my head and bury my face in the itchy material. God, how the fuck did she wear this torture fabric all night? Nowonder she was acting so strange. “These fucking… I don’t know what they’re called, Netia. I’m not an expert.”
“Bodycon,” she replies, and I lift my head. “A bodycon dress. It’s the type.”
“Okay,” I say, muttering that word a couple of times under my breath, trying to memorize it for some dumb fucking reason. “Jesus Christ, woman, I thought you wanted to pee.”
“I can’t do it when you’re talking to me,” she whines. “Or watching me.”
“Where am I supposed to look then?”
“I don’t know,” she stutters. “Not at my face, certainly.”
I roll my eyes up to the ceiling, and a ragged breath of relief escapes her. But she just sits there, frozen. “Do you want me to run the fucking water or something?”
“Shut up, West. Just shut up. Shut your fucking mouth.”
