Page 40 of Shattered In Darkness

Brody was never a gentle lover, but he always kept boundaries. He always made sure I felt safe. He always blended his rough dominance with possessive, sweet love.

That version of Brody feels like an ancient relic.

Marcus is coming home today and I need to cover the marks. I need to put myself back together for him. But I am still shaking from my encounter with Brody in my room last night. The anger in his eyes. The hunger. The cold hatefulness. What did I do to deserve that?

He interrogated me about something crazy with a psychotic look in his eyes. Something that strikes fear in my blood, turning my skin to ice.

But there is also a fire burning, a fire that is still burning.

The house is completely still, silence cascades in every room. I like it when there’s no chaos or noise. Just stillness, and the lightweight feeling of serenity. I can pretend I am free.

In time, the lock rattles. My neck goes cold and I sit up straight, smoothing my hair, and pretend that my hands aren’t shaking. I smile sweetly like a good girl. Like there’s nothing wrong at all.

The door flies open and Marcus steps inside, too wide for the frame, face flushed and bright with city-burn. His suit is rumpled, jacket hanging open, big hands gripping a bottle by the neck. That smile. He flashes it at me. There’s no warmth, only the cruel expression of violence disguised as love.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He slams the door behind him, sets the bottle down hard enough to make the table jump.

“Hey,” I say. “You’re home early.”

He watches me, eyes narrow, lips curving. For a second, I think maybe he’s in a good mood. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. I pretend to relax and shift so he can sit by me. My bare feet are tucked under the blanket, an attempt to hide from him.

He shrugs out of his coat and throws it over a chair. He pours a drink, neat, barely blinking, then drains it. A vein twitches in his neck. It was a rough night for him. I can see it written all over him, even before he starts talking. He drops onto the couch next to me, too close. His hand lands on my knee and he squeezes with his fingers.

“How’s my girl?” He says it soft, almost loving. His thumb rubs circles, right where my bones are closest to the skin.

“I’m good,” I say, forcing a giggle. “Just tired.” My voice sounds fake. I hate it. I sound fake, fake, fake.

He leans closer. “Miss me, baby?”

I nod. I always nod. Don’t give him a reason to get angry. Don’t give him anything.

He strokes higher. Under the blanket, his palm slides to my thigh. He kneads it, greedy, like he’s testing fruit at a market. He’s always hungry.

“Been thinking about you,” he says, voice dropping. “All fucking night.”

I swallow. The TV blinks shapes behind his head but I can’t focus, not with his fingers inching up. His eyes shine; it looks like I’m not a daughter tonight. I’m a lover.

He wants me. He always wants me, but tonight, there’s an edge. He’s vibrating. The city’s gotten inside his skin and he needs to tear it out. I can sense it, smell it, taste it.

I wish I could disappear.

He drags the blanket away, exposing my legs. I flinch. He grins.

“God, look at you,” he mutters. “You’re perfect. Fucking perfect.” He palms my thigh, slides his fingers under my shorts.

I stiffen. “Marcus—,” I whisper in a pleading tone. I don’t even know what I’m asking for.

“What, you shy now?” He squeezes harder. I can feel bruises blooming under his grip.

I reach for his hand, trying to peel it off. Weak and pathetic. He doesn’t budge. His other hand knots in my hair and he yanks my head back. I gasp, pain shivering down my spine.

“Don’t play games with me, Lola.” He’s not smiling now. His voice drops, a warning. “You know how this works.”

I know. God, I know.

His mouth finds my neck, biting, sucking. He likes to mark me. He likes to see his shadows on my skin in the morning. My body goes electric, terror veined through every muscle. I try to shift away but he clamps down. His hand cups my jaw, squeezing, forcing my lips open. He kisses me.

His hand skims up my shirt and finds my breast. He pinches. I can’t breathe. I twist, try to break free. For a second, his grip loosens. I push up and scramble off the couch.