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“Now . . .” my sister’s new husband whispered in my ear. “Now you belong to me.”
His plan wasn’t to ruin us. It was to torture.
He made himself the cure, which wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t also created the disease.
People assumed I behaved strictly on impulse, when actually, it required quite a bit of strategy to be this fucked up.
“Because pain in the body quiets the pain in the head. It feels good, like a kill switch for your brain.
“Do you remember what I look like?” he asked. “I’m bigger now.” I turned toward him, knowing my eyes wouldn’t meet his. “I remember everything. And I don’t hurt as easily anymore.” “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
“You need a proper man,” Damon taunted, his voice getting slowly closer. “Someone who walks upright and can run a tight ship. Someone who’s a team player in Thunder Bay. Someone who can make you listen. And someone”—his tone turned darker as he stopped right in front of me—“who’s not going to question too hard when not all of his children look like him.”
“Everyone else is gone, leaving her alone,” he continued. “No one to help. No one to hear her. No one to stop me. A whole night. Just the two of us.” He whispered now, his breath on my lips. “In the house together. So much space to run, and only so many places to hide.”
She scared easily. Oh, good.
No. The boy didn’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway. In fact, he was kind of an angel at the end. An angel with really black bat wings. Psycho.
No one has been through what I’ve been through. No one else is feeling this. No one knows what it’s like to be me. This is the first time anyone has endured what I’ve endured, right?
I didn’t want her first time. I wanted every time.
When she found out I lied, she’d hate me. This had no future. It was just sex.
The wave spread through my entire body, and I stayed there, pretty fucking sure nothing compared to her. She was incredible. Why did that feel so different?
When you find out who just fucked you, you’re gonna see plenty of red then.
I hated myself. Because I wanted him.
“Nothing was a lie,” he whispered.
My fear. My worry. My hatred. My anger. Why hadn’t he said all that years ago? Why?
I loved him. I still loved him. Goddamn him.
“What’s your tattoo?” I asked quietly, remembering how my friend noticed he had one. He didn’t say anything for a moment, or ask how I knew, but then he answered, “A decaying snowflake.” I raised my eyebrows. A decaying . . . “Why?” I asked. “Because of ‘Winter’ by Walter de la Mare,” he replied softly. “Something still beautiful, even after what I did to her.” Her. Me. The snowflake represented winter.
Red. Out of all the colors, I liked red the best.
