His Pretty Little Burden (Kids of The District, #4)

by Nicci Harris

At the sound of Shoshanna's laugh, my throat tightens around a knot of jealousy. I sigh, wanting moments of laughter in a hammock, wanting peaceful sleep in Clay's arms, wanting to dance on his feet like Blesk is doing right now with Konnor. They all look... comfortable. Maybe I'll have that with Clay one day. But Clay Butcher is at odds with comfort. And I'll take whatever that brilliant man gives me with the knowledge it's more than he offers anyone else. That's enough. It has to be enough.

His reassurances that we have something, not the same thing, but something that if you squint resembles what his brothers and their partners have together.

I look down at my feet and then back up. "Will you dance with me?" I ask, still glued to the doorframe. "Can you dance?" He grins, his piercing blue eyes rolling up and down my body in easy slow laps. "Dancing when you're six foot five is problematic."

A nasty twinge moves inside me—envy. What have you tried, Fawn? Well, sweet fuck all. I just survived.

And I'm... just Fawn. Is it okay to be unspectacular? Ordinary?" "You couldn't be ordinary if you tried."

"I imagine that kind of person would need someone to be ordinary with, sweet girl. I imagine a man who is always striving might only survive by having the comfortable presence of someone who grounds him." "You hate being comfortable, Sir." His hands slide up my legs, resting on the outer swell of my bare thighs. "I'm beginning to love it, little deer."

My heart balloons again, and I try not to laugh as I say, "You know something that's real and ordinary and beautiful and unspectacular?" "What?" "Dancing... badly."

"I'm in love with you," I whisper into the crook of his neck. "I know it's a stupid word. An unspectacular and ordinary word, but it's the one that means what I feel. Can I say it to you? Can I say it as much as I want?" His breath is hot on my neck as he says, "Yes." On the other side of his chest, I feel his heart hammering at the same pace as mine. I wonder if it's also swollen, like mine. "How do you feel?" He kisses my temple; it's too chaste, too much for me to handle. Tears quickly flood my eyes when he states definitively, "Comfortable." And there it is. This moment. Him. It wasn't an 'I love you' or 'you're my world' or even 'I like you a lot.' It was one word with limited sentiment twisted through the tone. But from his mouth, it was fucking Shakespearian.

Good things come in threes. "You're my number one," I whisper to myself before burying my head in his neck, closing my eyes, and feeling his body sway us around his office.

I can’t believe how much I laughed, given the dull spasming of my lower stomach all but kicking me in the teeth to remind me every second of every hour that I’m no longer pregnant.

It hurts to think about my first and only present to my son being neatly folded, meticulously placed in a seal-lock bag, stored away somewhere safe, sentimental, and... forgotten. I can’t bear it. You’ll never be anything. You’ll never be anything other than a heartbeat.

This is the first thing I’ve ever baked, and it doesn’t mean I am going to be a spectacular wife or mother one day, but it means I have a chance at both.

I’m not afraid. I love him. I love what he does to my body... but I’m intimidated and nervous, and my butterflies are not at flight but instead trembling.

“Tell me to go slow, beg me to be gentle with your pretty pussy, or I’ll take you the way I want, and it won’t be either of those things.”

“Tell me to go slow, Fawn.”

“Please, Sir. I don’t want you restrained.”

I want him real. Raw. Carnal. Whatever he needs to do to my body, I volunteer.

My orgasm doesn’t stop. One rolls into another. Never ending.

At the sweet agony of my hole being emptied, embarrassment drives through me, riding the explosion of another orgasm. This one, though, I can’t handle. Can’t take anymore. I’m useless against the onslaught, becoming completely limp, my backside held up by his hands.

Claimed. Marked. Owned. His forever—he’s going to keep me.

“Tell me those tears were from pleasure, sweet girl.” I barely stifle a sleepy laugh; my ballooning heart loves the hints of concern he tries to smother. “I orgasm best under a level of duress, Sir.” He chuckles, deeply, and it is the best damn soundtrack to accompany the humming of my body. It's emotional intimacy. It's being comfortable. “You impress me, little deer." I beam, even though my smile goes unseen. He has no idea how much that means to me.

“Should we start again?” Holding my hand out for her to take, I say, “Hi, I’m Fawn. I've never had a real female friend before. Girls rarely like me. Or they used me to get to my brothers.” Her hand wraps around mine, and we giggle as we shake them. “I’m Jasmine, and I think it’s their loss for not using your brothers to get to know you.”

You are scared. I need you to trust me, little deer. I will do the worrying for you. I am scared. I’m scared Lee is telling the truth.

I ball my fingers in tight, digging my nails into my palms, feeling the sharp object inside, hoping I crack it by accident. Hoping I render it defective.

And the way she looked at Kelly and Stone. Madonna Mia. It is like a screwdriver to my guts as she is mourning her baby, quietly yearning to be a mother again—someday at least. I never wanted to be a father, but I won’t deny her a damn thing. So, who will put that baby in her stomach? No one else will, because even in death, she’ll be mine.

I walk to the warehouse window, taking in the wild ocean sprawling beyond the glass. The thick smoke from the bushfires hazing the horizon, making the stretch of coastline nothing more than a grey abyss. Fucking Lorna. She’s taken this campaign to another level with this one. Risked lives. I knew her morals were rickety, and I’ve never denied mine are, too, but I have held on to the last slither of humanity in this business of mine, in me, that we—I—don’t hurt innocent civilians.

Why don't you care, Benji?!

Now the girl is trying to get away, and she's so weak. So utterly useless. Her body isn't working at all, not for her at least, but it is working for them...

My heart twists. But it's not me. I shake. But it's not me. I feel hollow, painful helplessness. It. Is. Not. Me.

“I’m bleeding.” No. No. No. Bile rising in my throat, I throw my head to the side, expelling the entire contents of my stomach: three meals, cake, and ice cream. A stomach full of lies.

My lungs shrivel inside me. Oxygen impossibly thick. I feel dizzy. Hazy. Airless. She looks just like me... No. It's not me on the screen. It's not me who was raped. It's not me.

My body keels over, and I drop to my knees, press my palms to the carpet, and heave for oxygen. It's not me.

It's real. Pain is truth. Undeniable.

I don't want to cry as I force the words out. "I'm sick." And sick people cry, Bolton. They howl and try to rip their nails from their flesh because they feel so terrible inside. I'm sick.

Ahead, I see the pool glowing, drawn to it. I sprint harder. My lungs sting. My muscles ache from being thrown around. Dragged along the couch. Thrust into. My body remembers as my mind churns the images, the sounds of being fucked, curdling them through my reality. Tumbling back to me, hitting me like the sky falling, is the truth. My body remembers. My skin set afire by the truth. I run straight into the pool.

Under the water, I'm free from the sensation of my body. Free from the weight of it. The burden. Under the water, I'm free.

Feeling a straining sensation in my chest, my body wanting breath, I fight it. I'll burn in the air. My skin isn't my own when I can feel their touch, their breath, them⁠— No, I can't. I have to fight it. Strong. My lungs burn. I'm resilient. My chest aches. A survivor.

I fight it, oxygen-deprived and willingly losing consciousness, but then the water changes, pushes me up, and I'm dragged from the pool's hold. Dragged into the air. My flesh ignites again.

Mine! The gun to Lee's face. The way people part for him. The deadliest man in the city. The man who lied to me. Protected me. "Shhh."

"They can't touch you. You're mine. You're mine." I'm his.

He doesn't ask me what he can do or what hurts... He knows the answers. Nothing. And everything.

The most powerful man in the city is holding his pretty little burden. It's pathetic.

The pain. The ache. The recall. “That’s enough. Her virginity is mine. You promised.” You promised. You promised.

The deceit expands in my throat. The naivety stabs my empty womb. The agony fists my heart. Did they bet on my virginity? Spoke about it. Discussed it. He promised Jake my virginity as though it was his to offer up with the chips and beer and marijuana they used to trade amongst themselves. Was I worth a car? A bike? What was my virginity worth to Benji? If I had loved him for his smile, for his charm, and for the moments he handed me the popcorn, that 'love' has collapsed into piles of debris in my heart.

I hate him. Bad things come in three: Her suicide: number one. His murder. The incident: number two. My miscarriage: number three.

No matter how hard I try, no one wants to choose me. My mum chose death over being my parent. Benji chose whatever item was worth more than my virginity, and my body... it doesn't even want to grow, to create, to offer the world something special for all my suffering. Nothing in my life... works for me. Nothing chooses me. Lastly, of fucking course, my dad. The man who doesn’t know me. The man who I came here to see, to seek shelter from. The one who 'is not worth my considerations.' The one who sent a boy to give me a recording of my trauma detailed in visual nightmarish horror with the knowledge I would watch it. He didn't choose me either. He chose himself. He chose to hurt me—us. Chose to leave me a grass flower instead of being my thorns.

My eyes widen on that harrowing truth, staring broken, swollen, sore, at the leather sofa against the far wall. All the fairy-tales I have told myself, the moments where I twisted the crumbs of affection into mountains, where I accepted handing over the popcorn as a sign of love, where I saw a dreamcatcher as a visual representation that my mum cared... It. All. Fractures.

She'll be okay. She's fast asleep. She's safe. It isn’t enough. I want—dammit—I need my eyes on her at all times. Need my hands close.

I need to fix this. I can't fix this. Can't kill the ghosts in her mind.

While the brutal scene takes place, I'm thinking about her sprinting into the pool, sinking to the concrete base, giving up. After all her fighting, after clawing through life to survive, for a moment, she was willingly drowning.