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Talk to him? And say what? Oh, I was just trying to hurt myself a bit because I can’t stop thinking of just how pathetic I am and I really don’t like looking at myself and acknowledging that my existence is utterly meaningless. I was using my nail because you’ve hidden all the sharp objects in this house.

For the briefest moment, I was tempted to show him firsthand how much time he’d wasted on pure trash like me. Would that finally get him to back off?

“Let go of me,” I seethed, trying to jerk my arm away. His silence was unsettling me, and when I tugged again, harder this time, his grip became unforgiving. “Court. Let go of me right now.” I sounded terrified, I could hear it, that shaky, plaintive tone. A chaotic whirl of emotions twisted in my chest, coiling around my lungs until I could barely breathe.

He ignored me, stoic and resolute as he started to pull my sleeve down.

A blinding panic took over as every bit of fear and anger spilled out, igniting a firestorm within me.

I slapped him so hard the sound of it rang out around us.

He dropped my arm and just stood there with his face turned to the side. The force of the slap had left an ugly red mark on his cheek.

Nausea churned in my gut, bile rising in my throat.

I had stabbed countless people countless ways, including Court, but this attack was the very first to leave me feeling sick to my stomach with shame.

“Court, I’m⁠—”

He grabbed my wrist, his face turned away from me, and dragged me out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the living room.

“I’m sorry!” I dug my heels into the carpet, trying fruitlessly to wrench my wrist from his grip. “Let go, you fucking asshole! Let go!”

He hauled me over to the couch, and the realization of what he was about to do set my heart racing. “No, no, don’t⁠—”

“You need pain?” he said tonelessly, pulling me onto his lap facedown. No matter how much I struggled, I was so much weaker than him.

Like before, he swung a leg over the backs of mine, then pressed his forearm into my shoulders, effortlessly holding me in place. “I’ll give you pain, Whitney. But this? This isn’t a reward. This is for breaking your promise. I gave you multiple chances to talk to me, but you didn’t.”

The first smack of his hand was so fast and hard that I didn’t feel it until seconds later. I choked on an inhale, a searing hot pain slicing through my backside. The next three spanks were sharp and whip-like, stinging me with a blistering discomfort. I cried out, screaming for him to stop. My screams devolved into pathetic begging, and when he kept going, ignoring my pleas, I bit down on his thigh, screaming into his leg.

“Don’t ever—” smack “—hit me—” smack “—because you refuse to fucking talk to me.”

The pain of every strike of his palm started to meld into one endless barrage of agony that expanded into every inch of my body until my mind was blank and everything began fading at the edges.

I had no idea how long he kept at it. My body was on fire, my ass so numb I barely felt his hands anymore. I only realized that the pain wasn’t actively shooting through me, just a lingering ache that he was now soothing. His forearm was no longer pressing into my shoulders. His fingers had found their way into my hair, brushing it back from my face, which was turned away from him. I’d let go of his leg at some point, and there was drool on my lips.

“Why would you do this to yourself?” The warm, wet heat of his tongue skated along the underside of my arm, and I hadn’t realized he’d pulled my sleeve down. “Tell me who made you hurt yourself like this.”

I yanked my arm away weakly, unable to break from his hold.

No. I could never tell him that.

“Just let me go, Court. Please,” I begged.

“Never,” he promised vehemently. “Tell me who hurt you so I can make sure they never hurt you again.”

That was what did it. What finally sent the tears spilling over my lashes and racing down my cheeks. He kept peppering my arm with soft kisses and little bites, his mouth feeling better than anything ever had in my entire life. He waited patiently for me to say something.

“He’s dead,” I finally choked out.

He hummed in satisfaction, the sound rumbling into my back and sending shivers down my arms. “Good,” he said. His fingers slid down my wrist as he traced over the scars and began to delicately kiss those, too. “Don’t ever let me find another mark here, Whitney. I can’t stand the thought that you’re hurting yourself like this. I want to find all that pain, drag it out of you, and set it on fire.”

A sob choked out of me. Why was he saying things like he’d always be there to keep count and make sure I didn’t cut myself again? Why was he talking like he actually cared what I did with my own body? Like he actually cared that someone had hurt me? He kept saying things that confused the fuck out of me, steamrolling me with words and promises until everything inside me was laid bare for him.

“Stop saying shit like that when you don’t mean it,” I said, my tone much harsher than I’d planned. “Why do you even care?”

I wanted him to stop, because every word he gave me was like a nail in my heart.