Page 29 of My Dark Divine
I’m cut off when he grabs my hips and spins me around to face him. Our eyes lock, and a warm sensation surges through my heart as I catch a glimpse of something new in his gaze. With force, his hands slip between mine, breaking through my small protective barrier and allowing the fabric to fall away, exposing my battered skin to him. I’m still in my bra, but I feel completely naked.
“If I see you wearing shit like this again, I’m going to break into your house, find all of it, and burn it down. Do you understand?”
“You won’t decide for me,” I retort, forcing defiance into my voice. I can’t deny that a part of me enjoys his possessiveness and the way he cares.
“Don’t give me this.” I close my eyes, welcoming the comforting warmth of his touch. “You’re a smart girl, Venetia, and you know exactly what I mean. Wear whatever the fuck you want, but not the shit you can’t even breathe in. Your body is perfect just the way it is.”
There’s no way he just said that last sentence.
I’m stunned into silence, forgetting every single word in the English language as I gape at him. With each passing second I’m trapped with him, fear swelling inside me, and sweat beading atthe side of my head. It feels as though the walls are closing in, squeezing me from every angle.
“What is this?” he asks, pressing his fingertip into the bruise on my liver. The fog begins to lift, and with it, I sense logic clashing with the effect of his presence, finally realizing that he’s asking about the bruiseheleft.
A wave of revulsion crashes over me as I retort, “Like you don’t know. The result of your job, West.”
The dull ache pulses in waves, intertwining with an unexpected pleasure as he explores the spot with his finger. “Ah. I see.”
A sharp retort dies on my tongue as I watch him move down to my bruise. I nearly choke when he presses his lips against the mark, my eyes fluttering shut, while his hand lingers on my hip. Stars dance behind my closed eyelids as the kiss hangs in the air, the softness of his mouth a jarring contrast to the abuse that caused this very bruise on me.
When he pulls away, it feels like a cruel, painful punch to my gut. Just like that, he stands over me again, the air around us thick with the weight of his power. “Take the rest off and change into something decent. Chloe’s room is to the left; pick anything you want.”
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving the door cracked open behind him. I blink a few times, trying to shake off the paralysis.
What the fuck was that?
I can breathe easier now that he’s not so close, but my body still trembles with aftershocks. Standing here half-naked isn’t appealing, so I sprint from the spot as if the floor is on fire and rush to his sister’s room. I’ll take whatever I can find—anything to stop this feeling of exposure.
And vulnerability.
Thefuckingvulnerability.
Flashback
Age 15
“Are you excited?” Mom asks as she puts the finishing touches on my hair, her fingers moving through my locks before she adds the glitter spray.
Excitement barely scratches the surface of what I feel. I fidget in my seat, unable to contain my emotions. Smiles flash across my face, causing her to laugh. She sets the spray down, and I inhale the chemical scent that makes my stomach churn and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
This smell… I fear I’ll carry it with me into the afterlife.
Today is the day I’m meeting a friend. I don’t have any, either at school or outside of it, and when Mom told me about a boy who wants to be friends with me, I nearly passed out from anxiety. I can’t believe I’m finally going to have someone to talk to. Well, I have my parents, of course, but I can’t discuss the things people my age understand with them. It feels too intimate, so I keep those thoughts to myself.
To be honest, I’m weary of bottling everything up. At times, it feels like I’m on the verge of throwing up from the emotions I keep inside—a snowball of feelings that keeps growing and intensifying. Right now, it’s lodged in my throat.
From this day forward, it won’t be like this anymore. I will finally have someone I can trust and share my thoughts with.
The boy my parents want me to meet is the son of Dad’s friend. They organized this whole meeting for us, and I can hardly believe the lengths to which my father went to find me a friend. We’re not close—he works all the time, and when he’s home, he prefers watching TV or doing other things that don’t involve me.
I know he cares about me. He’s a busy man, but he loves me. A father who doesn’t love his child wouldn’t go through all this trouble to find her a friend.
Mom wraps her arms around my shoulders, pressing her cheek against mine as we look at each other in the mirror. She seems more tired than usual—her eyes are vacant, and dark bags linger beneath them. The foundation on her face is thick and creased in spots, a telltale sign of dehydration. I know my mom well; she wouldn’t leave the room until she looked perfect in every sense. If she looks like this now, it means she’s struggling.
While she always dodges the question, I can tell she’s sick. I’m not sure how yet, but I know she is.
That realization scares me. Mom is my only anchor, the one person I can fully trust without fear of betrayal. She’s been through everything with me.
I don’t want her to feel like this.
