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It doesn’t help that his daddy’s richer than God and everyone in this town–including the police department and faculty of our school–is either afraid of him or on his payroll, meaning Asher could get away with murder. I mean, he tortures me everyday in front of an audience and nobody ever bats an eye.
No matter what I do, I’m his. His to mess with, his to torture, his to hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper hoarsely. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Do I look fragile to you? Fuck me like you hate me, Farrow. I can take it.” I lean down, my breath ghosting over his lips. “Trust me, I won’t have to pretend.”
This whole thing is so fucked up. Every time I think nothing else could happen, the situation seems to get impossibly worse. I can’t keep up with it.
