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“Fuck,” I hear him whisper as he swells inside of me, torturing me even further with bliss washing over my body. Hot liquid squirts into me. His hips bucking harder, prolonging my orgasm.
I fall into his chest before rolling off him. He gets up, walking over to his pants, and pulls out a sharp but skinny knife. He walks back over to me as my eyes grow. Fuck, he’s going to kill me, isn’t he?
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to cover myself up. He snatches the sheet from me. Climbing onto the bed, he sets the knife down. His hand grips my thighs, pulling them apart. He flashes me a wicked smile.
“Scared?” he whispers, kissing my nose.
I know I should be, but it’s Branson.
I shake my head. His eyes narrow and he bites his bottom lip.
“Always so trusting of me. Why is that, Rayne, Darling?Where has trusting anyone ever gotten you?”
His question hurts but I answer anyway.
“To you.”
He pauses, looking me over.
His face softens as he picks the knife up again.“And how do you know I’m not the bad guy in your story, hmm?”
“How could you be when you look at me like I’m your reason for breathing?” I swallow as he runs the knife up my thigh.
“Just because I look at you like that… it doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. It means I won't let anyone else hurt you.”
The knife digs into my upper thigh, by the apex. I gasp. A whimper breaking free. He carefully glides the knife through my skin. I feel the beads of blood dripping down my legs. My eyes are glued to the top of his head as silent tears run down my face.
“No matter where you go, who you’re with, you’ll always be mine.”
My eyes fall to my leg as I watch him carve his name into me.
Am I fucking broken? I shouldn’t be allowing him to do this. But I don’t stop him. I want this beautiful scar to remain on me forever. So I know this wasn’t a dream. That he—we—were real.
Chapter 16
@RayneMarshall: “Everyone wants to be TikTok famous. I want to be known for eating cake for breakfast.”
Rayne
I slowly close my book, staring at the blurb on the turquoise back. As my brain tries to rationalize what I just read. To accept the outcome. There is some form of block not allowing either of those things to happen. “That better not be what I just read,” I murmur.
I open the book back up, rereading the last paragraph again. And again, for good measure. Slamming the book, I scream. Who does that? Who freaking does that? Was it a happily ever after? Sure. Suuure. Was it what I wanted? No. Reviewers said it had a poetic ending. Sometimes poetic endings suck.
Grabbing the book, I leap out of my swinging chair, charging for the door. Images of me working out so I can snap this book in half filter across my mind. I shake them away. Working out makes me want to vomit. I once ate cake for breakfast; like I’d ever become a Justin and eat a well-balanced breakfast followed by a “light jog”, more like a 5K. I can see myself in tomorrow's headlines. Rayne Marshall found dead next to mailbox. Housemate says Marshall attempted a light jog down the street when her heart gave out after eating two slices of cake. Pathetic, really, but we will mourn her short, rather unspectacular life.
Slamming my door, I don’t even lock it, because at this point, who cares. Honestly. I charge down the stairs, almost taking Tucker, who has to plaster himself to the banister, out.
“What set your ass on fire?” Tucker yells after me but I simply flip him the bird.
I don’t have time to discussion said ass at the moment. Rounding to one of the many back doors, I slide out of it, walking around to the trash cans. Lifting the lid up, I slam dunk the stupid book inside.
Leaning against the side of the house, I take a deep breath. Sighing, I look over to the trash can. Damn it.
Groaning, I walk back over and flip the lid back up. Reaching down, I try to grab the book. But, oh lucky me, I’m too short. I jump, trying to give myself some extra stretch, but end up crashing into the trash. My neck is bent in a way I know a chiropractor would cringe at. My feet kick helplessly out the top. And I know, I know it is being recorded. TMZ is going to have a field day with this footage.
I shriek as my hands fight through black plastic looking for my book. I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff, but this is easily in the top ten. My hands pause on something leather, snatching it, and I bring it closer to me as I examine it. Visions of black gloves and my folder burning flashes across my mind. Quickly, as if someone can possibly see what I am doing, I shove them into my bra. Because giving women pockets is a crime nowadays.
“Ah, Rayne?” Dante asks, confused.
