Page 77 of My Dark Divine
“Do you know why I did that to your sister?” I ask, keeping a pace that gradually helps dissolve the tension radiating from him. I adapt to the slightest movements in his body, intent on pushing further. Though I’m drunk, I can still recall how he brushed my hair and saved me from breaking further. He saw it, and he helped.
Now, I want to help him in return.
“Because I see it. I see the man your father forces you to be while you carry everything on your own. I see how nobody appreciates it.” Leaning in, I place my lips against one of hisscars, earning a barely audible moan of pleasure that he tries to stifle. “I see you because that’s what I’m going through too.”
As I’ve said before, it doesn’t take a genius to understand West. To others—and to me, before I got closer to him—he’s just a madman with anger issues, a venomous presence who lurks around, seeking new victims. People are afraid of what he might do if he loses his temper. Nobody truly sees the bigger picture. He’s completely alone—an abandoned child who never fully grew up. I can tell his dad constantly convinces him he’s a failure, and that he’s worth nothing. I see the judgment in his eyes whenever they’re together, the energy he radiates, the disdain toward his son.
No matter how tough and strong West pretends to be, deep down, all he wants is to make his father proud. He yearns for him to see his efforts, to acknowledge them, to say he’s doing a good job, to pat him on the back. He may never show it, but I can see it—a loner, a broken soul. I’m certain nobody has ever told him they’re proud of him or how much they love him.
We are alike in this.
“I wish I’d never had to know you,” I whisper against his skin, my lips trailing kisses down his back. After finishing the map of his scars with my lips, I push him onto the bed and straddle him, shifting my attention to his chest. I glide my palms over the rough, hard surface of his abs, tracing a path down his chest. “But I can’t deny I’m impressed by everything you’ve accomplished.Proudof everything you’ve endured.”
“Proud?” he echoes skeptically. “You don’t know shit about me, Venetia.”
“I don’t need the details,” I respond, leaning in with deliberate slowness. He swallows, his tough exterior faltering beneath the weight of my words and movements. “I know they’ll never see you the way I do.”
Starting at his shoulders, I kiss the scars I haven’t touched yet, the thick, bulging veins, and the small moles that decorate his skin. He’s unlawfully beautiful, and I want to show him this.
“Fuck,” he rasps as his arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place. The warmth from his touch mingles with the one my lips give him, and I dissociate. “How are you not disgusted by me?”
I fight the impulse to pause and meet his gaze, a tide of bitterness rising in my chest at his question. His voice, vulnerable and unfamiliar, makes me wonder who could’ve called his scars disgusting. To me, they’re the most stunning imperfections—raw and tragic, drawing me in. My throat constricts, and I feel my eyes start to glisten. My heart tightens like a vise, and I allow myself to think that, perhaps, he was once kind and pure, and that his integrity was shattered, trampled underfoot, molding him into the person he is now.
Perhaps he was just like me.
What the fuck is happening to me?
It’s probably the alcohol. Everything feels warm, soft, and comfortable. I want to touch him more, to explore and uncover the real stories behind his scars, but I know my pride won’t let me ask aloud.
“You might be good, West,” I murmur, pausing to savor the shudders that ripple through him with each brush of my lips and fingers. “In your own, fucked-up way, but you might be.”
His quiet whimper stirs a sense of pride deep inside me. Finally, I raise my head, our eyes locking, and the intensity in his gaze draws me in with an irresistible pull.
“How can you trust me?”
“I can’t,” I lie, my voice betraying a tremor. My hand reaches up to cup the side of his face, my eyes savoring the beauty up close. The crystal-clear eyes, the small freckles, the slightly crooked nose—a breathtaking face, just like the rest ofhim. Jagged, imperfect, broken, but oh, so magnificent. “And I won’t,” I add, brushing my thumb across his cheek.
“Liar.” He threads his fingers through my hair, and I brace myself for the sting that usually follows. But it never comes. Instead, he holds me close, his fingers moving in a soothing motion back and forth, treating me like the most prized possession in his arms. “What an annoyingly beautiful little liar you are, Venetia.”
Warmth gathers and erupts in my belly, the spark ascending to my ribcage and wrapping around my heart. I feel as if I’m melting away, my soul unraveling piece by piece while he keeps me so close yet so distant.
I wait for him to kiss me, to flip me over and strip away my clothes, but he doesn’t. I know he wants to. Hemustwant this. Why else would he keep me so close?
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, transforming the warmth into a blazing inferno of conflicting emotions. I’m confused and lost, just as he was moments ago. This feels too intimate—like something only people who truly love each other could share. But West and I will never love each other. No, we’ll break each other apart, setting the pieces on fire before starting all over again. We’ll tear each other’s souls to shreds and laugh as we do it.
But why does this feel like love? Searing warmth pulses through my veins, butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I can feel the same stirring within him. My throat feels tight, as though something is cutting off my breath. Panic rises as I realize we’re doing something we shouldn’t—something that doesn’t align with who we are.
And I was the one who initiated this.
Before it’s too late, I take matters into my own hands. I press my mouth against his, kissing him so deeply that myconsciousness begins to dissolve into his. The world spins as I cup his face, trying to deepen the kiss, but I can’t.
He doesn’t kiss me back.
“Kiss me,” I plead, pressing my mouth to his again and again, but he remains still. “I want to feel sick of you. I want to destroy this because it’s not right between us.”
“Stop it,” he says in between my attempts, pulling his hand from my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut as a tear rolls down my cheek, leaving a trail of raw sorrow across my flushed skin. “You will?—”
“I hate you already, West,” I insist, my hands reaching for his waistband. “I hate you so much that I want this.”
