Then it all came rushing back in a hot haze of defeat and submission.
The finality of what happened, and my resolve to see everyone involved, including myself, dead for causing it, flashed through my head. Tears clouded my vision, and I curled up on my prisoner’s bed, mulling it over. Night had fallen, darkening my already burning self-hatred.
Not that the fire needed much stoking.
I just hoped that somewhere Nash turned a blind eye to the way I’d pissed all over his name.
Flinging myself onto my back, I counted eighteen water-stained dots on the ceiling before visions of Val’s body slamming into mine had me squirming in place.
I knew it was wrong. Every bone in my body knew it was wrong, but my mouth refused to say ‘no.’ Powerful physical attraction, coupled with admitted defeat, broke me. But what tore me up inside the most was that I wanted more than anything to hate him for it.
Instead, I hated myself because I didn’t.
The only time I didn’t feel like drowning was when I was with him. The correlation between the two made no sense, and I didn’t care to think about what kind of fucked up Stockholm Syndrome I’d developed long enough to figure it out.
My father used to say that mistakes were life’s necessary evils. Without them, there’d be no way for a person to see the error of their ways and know the right path for the next time.
Val Carrera was an evil mistake, but far from necessary. Righteousness wouldn’t be a moral dilemma again. There wouldn’t be a next time.
Rubbing my tender wrist, I thanked small miracles that Val didn’t cuff me before he left. I had no concept of time without my phone, but I guessed it to be sometime after nine or ten. Refusing food and water had been a stupid move. All my body wanted was sleep to conserve energy after my pathetic attempt at utensil retaliation.
My whole life had been a psychiatrist’s wet dream. At fourteen years old, I’d gotten caught with a senior behind the football field. My therapist called it “Impulsive/Undisciplined Child Therapy” and shoved antidepressants in my face. I didn’t need drugs. I was just pissed I’d found out my father had been lying to me my entire life about my mother. She hadn’t died. Three days after my birth, she decided being a mom was too much of a hassle and took off.
I didn’t need drug therapy. I needed dick therapy.
Then, when I was twenty-four, after three years of changing who I was to conform to someone else’s ideal, my husband sank a knife into my back and his dick into my best friend. I swore the day I found them I’d never put my trust in another human being and slept with as many men as possible. My therapist called it “Detached Overcompensating Behavior Therapy” and shoved antidepressants down my throat.
I didn’t need drug therapy then either. I needed dick therapy.
Lying in the small prison with four walls and a mattress, a sadistic chuckle fell from my chest. The one person that meant anything to me was gone. There was no therapist here to label me or shove pills at me, yet somehow, I’d still managed to find dick therapy.
Running my hands down my face, my eyes landed on small droplets of blood on the floor. I knew they weren’t mine and reminded me that once Val’s post orgasmic sex high wore off, he probably spent the afternoon figuring out the best way to kill me with the least amount of exertion.
A full body shiver ran through me. Even after sleeping for an hour, exhaustion had permanently set in. My body ached, and the pain in my arm radiated up my shoulder. Cradling my elbow against my chest, I cleared the few steps from the bed to the door. Logically, I knew it was pointless; however, I still closed my fingers around the doorknob, jerking furiously.
Nothing.
“Val! Open the door. You can’t keep me in here. Val!” Releasing the knob, I slammed my hand against the wood. “Val!” Pounding until my palm stung, a strangled cry tore from my throat as I slid to the floor.
Touching the St. Michael medallion, I closed my eyes, and leaned my forehead against the doorframe. Heaviness gathered in the corners of my eyes as a wave of fatigue threatened to pull me under again. Haze clouded my vision, and I welcomed the blackness, surrendering to it.
The peaceful calm had almost claimed me under when apop pop popfrom outside the bedroom wall jolted me back into consciousness. Fear paralyzed me as I recognized the sound. They weren’t fireworks. I’d heard the same sound in a pantry closet while Nash took his last breath. Peace flew out the window and panic overtook me.
“Val!” Scrambling to my knees, I pounded on the door with renewed force. “Val, open the door! Please!” Tears ran from my eyes as I beat the door with both fists.
Several blasts ripped through the house, and the force knocked me back onto my palms. Within seconds, the door flew open, and Val burst in, his eyes wide and wild. Dressed in black athletic pants and a thin white t-shirt, his unkempt hair dusted over his eyes as he bent down and hooked a muscular arm around my upper back.
“Get up!” he hissed. “We have to go.”
“What’s happening?” I felt myself panicking.
“We’re under attack, no time!” Jerking me up, he pushed us both toward the door. In a daze, I resisted, staring blankly back into the bare room. “Eden!” he commanded.
He never used my given name. That got my attention.
I stumbled into the hallway, and Val’s hand braced the base of my spine as men dressed in black clothing flanked us. It was too dark to get a look at their faces, and honestly, I didn’t care to see them anyway. Val’s hand tightened around mine as he dragged me through the house.
He moved his hand to my neck and shoved my face toward his chest “Keep your head down!”
