Page 44 of My Dark Divine
Why does he have such an effect on me? I’ve never envisioned anything like this with another man, and neverwanted to. My entire life, I’ve struggled to find anyone who could satisfy me, always taking matters into my own hands.
Yet this asshole managed not only to make me come multiple times in just a few days, but he also left a lingering sensation that persists for hours. It’s as if his tainted soul has seeped into mine, leaving a dangerous aftertaste that feels anything but natural.
“I’m going for a smoke, and then I’ll get us breakfast,” he says casually, glancing away from me. A heavy sense of disappointment settles in my chest, and I instinctively lower my gaze. “There’s a nice Italian restaurant down the hotel. We should eat outside, in case any paparazzi are lurking around.”
His words deepen my dismay, transforming it into something more profound. I struggle to grasp the source of this feeling. It’s just...oddhow he sidesteps any mention of what happened between us and so nonchalantly returns to our usual, irritating routine—like an engaged, polished, fake couple.
“Sure,” I manage to choke out, failing to mask the bitterness in my tone. It seeps out, and for a second, it feels like he notices.
But no matter what it is, he pretends to ignore it. Without sparing me a glance, West walks toward the corridor, bending down to put on his shoes.
Why does he avoid eye contact? Is he embarrassed by what we did?
“Have you taken any painkillers with you?” he asks, catching me off guard with the abrupt change of subject. “My head is about to fucking explode.”
The muscle under my eye twitches as I realize the real reason for his discomfort—his craving for cocaine, that’s what it is. A sharp retort wells up on the tip of my tongue, and for a moment, I just stare at him, weighing whether to unleash it or not. He seems carefree, almost unbothered, while I’m hurt by his avoidance. I want to make him feel as I do, or even worse.
But instead, I swallow my anger and nod. “Yes. I have Tylenol,” I mumble, rising from the bed and walking over to my suitcase. I grab my medical kit and unzip it, shielding it from his view so he won’t see the Xanax I’ve stashed away. “But there’s no point in taking it now. Save it.”
His expression turns perplexed as I approach him, handing over the pills. “What is that supposed to mean?” he barks, tension radiating from his body.
I roll my eyes, trying to figure out if he’s fucking with me or genuinely clueless about how to take painkillers. “It means—” I trail off, sensing something strange stirring inside me. This isn’t like me—explaining something so basic to West. “You have to eat and wait at least seven minutes before taking it. No painkiller works on an empty stomach.”
He takes the pills from my hand, and his fingertips brush against mine—whether accidentally or intentionally, I can’t tell. The touch lingers for a moment, and suddenly, I’m back under him, pushing against those very fingers, chasing my high.
Well,fuck.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know this basic rule,” I blurt out, desperate to push those inappropriate memories aside. Now is not the time for this.
“I didn’t,” he replies, his tone noticeably lighter than it was a moment ago. He sounds so different that my eyes snap back to his, confusion flaring within me.
An ache grips my chest as I remember that he grew up without a mother—someone who usually teaches their child these basic things. My mother was a piece of work, but at least she prepared me and taught me the basics.
“Oh. Well?—”
I’m cut off when he turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. It takes me a moment to register that he just left without a word, the door closing inches from myface. A spark of irritation flares inside me—a familiar emotion that burns away the confusion and other strange feelings he stirred up.
Fuck him. He’s always been an asshole, and today is no different. I helped him when I could have easily said no, and now he dares to storm out like this without a word.
I head to the bathroom, ready to follow my usual routine. I need to push these thoughts aside quickly, and nothing helps me do that better than getting myself ready for the day.
I bringmy palm to the heated hair curler, checking twice to make sure it’s hot enough. Feeling the warmth radiating from it, I sit down in the chair, ready to complete the final stage of my look.
West should be back any minute, and I need to be ready to head out for breakfast. If it were up to me, I’d order room service, but I don’t want to argue with him—not now, anyway. I’m too confused and exhausted after last night to start fighting again.
Slowly, I begin the familiar process of curling my hair, taking one strand after another. But after the fifth attempt, I narrow my eyes at my reflection and realize my hair looks the same as it did before. I glance at the temperature on the screen, convincing myself it’s fine. Maybe I’m just pulling back too quickly.
I wait a moment before grabbing one of the still-warm strands and repeating the process, holding the curler for a few seconds longer this time. My arms ache from the strain, and I hunch over, weariness crashing over me like an avalanche. An unintentional whimper escapes my lips, and my stomach growls,slicing through the silence in the room. I didn’t realize how hungry I actually am until now.
Letting go of the strand, I raise my eyes to assess my work, only to see that my hair not only remains the same but some strands are tangled, and the ends look worse than before. I accidentally curled some of them in the wrong way, which means I have to start the process all over again.
I focus on my reflection in the mirror, pausing with the curler still in hand to check my makeup. The concealer has creased under my eyes, the blush looks too dark, and the corner of the false lash on my right eye has come unglued, sticking up awkwardly.
Deciding to tackle my face first, I set the curler aside, grab my beauty blender, and try to fix the concealer. But when I pull it away and see that I’ve made it worse, I fucking snap.
Slapping my hands onto my face, I smear the makeup, feeling its smooth, creamy texture as I drag it across my skin. I rub my eyes hard, ripping off the lashes, which sends sharp stings across my face and only intensifies my urge to wipe it all away.
I want to rip my fucking skin off.
