Page 30
Cold.
Wet.
Disgusting.
It rolled down my cheek, mixing with the heat of my skin.
It felt like being doused in ice water in the middle of a storm.
There’s nothing more insulting than spit from your own father.
Something inside me snapped.
“Don’t you dare—” I lunged before he could finish.
The seatbelt locked. The impact jerked me forward, then back, but I didn’t stop. My hand found his throat. I didn’t even remember unbuckling. Maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I’d just broken free.
He made a strangled sound—half cough, half plea.
And I kept pressing.
His stare grew in disbelief, red threading through the whites. I could see the reflection of my own face in them—wild, unrecognizable.
He didn’t fight back. Just made these weak, helpless wheezing sounds—maybe a cough, maybe words that didn’t make sense anymore.
And God help me, it felt good.
Empowering.
But also terrifying. Because for the first time, I realized how easy it was to cross the line. How easy it was to lose myself.
His pulse thudded against my palms, and for a split second, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever let go.
“You want out?” I asked, my voice shaking, my hands tightening. “Fine. I’ll give you an out.”
He tried to say something—maybe my name—but it came out as a gasp.
Then came the screech.
Tires burned against asphalt. Metal screamed.
My world tilted.
A flash of light. A crushing sound.
Something slammed against my body.
And then—
Blackness.
7
June
* * *
There was something almost luxurious about getting up without an alarm. The early sunlight slipping through the curtains, the lazy warmth still clinging to my skin—it felt foreign, indulgent.
