I can’t take another beating or being raped again.
I have nothing left to fight with.
“Oh, Cara,” I hear Steven mutter resentfully, and I squeeze myself harder against the floor. “Why do you have to be so damn fuckable?”
I place a hand over my mouth to keep from breathing too loudly. I will my heartbeat to slow down, to not pound, scared he’ll hear it.
“Just remember,” he whispers darkly, and then I hear him move closer, “this is all your fault.”
My heart stops.
I try to suck in a breath of the pungent air, but then Steven’s suddenly on top of me. A scream is torn from my burning chest, and I start to fight with strength I didn’t know I had.
I claw at him until I have his skin under my nails. When he tries to kiss me, I bite until I taste his blood.
His hands are all over my torso, and when he handles my breasts roughly, I can’t think as the fear I thought I’ve gotten to know so well thickens, blackens, and oozes into me.
As Steven’s hands move lower, I start to heave and bile pushes up my throat. He rolls me over as I begin to vomit. I feel him press into my back, and as he moves the filthy panties to the side, I choke on the bile.
Steven rams into me, and at the same time, he grabs a fistful of hair, pressing my face into the vomit. I keep choking as I fight for air until the familiar darkness sucks me under.
Shooting up, I roll to the side of the bed only to fall to the hard floor. The sheets tangle around my legs as ragged, short bursts of terror burst over my lips.
Suddenly the door swings open, and light spills over me.
For a moment, Damian’s eyes flit over me, then our eyes lock. The air begins to tremble with the intensity coming off him. “I made dinner. Come eat.”
It’s not a question, and with wide eyes, I watch him leave.
My body aches from the fall, and I clench my teeth as I climb to my feet. I press a trembling hand to my stomach, and closing my eyes, I fight to bury the memories.
Just breathe.
Don’t think about it.
Just breathe.
I don’t look back at the bed as I walk out of the room. When I step into the kitchen, Damian gestures to the plate of food on the wooden table.
When I give him a questioning look, he says, “I’ve already eaten.”
I watch as he takes two bottles of water from the fridge. He sets one down by the plate, then moves back until he’s leaning against the counter.
Casually, with his legs stretched out in front of him, he looks relaxed. I watch his throat work the water down until I see the black ink of a tattoo.
“Your food’s getting cold, Cara,” he says, yanking me out of my fear-induced stupor.
I clear my throat, and with a trembling hand, I brush some hair from my face. Cautiously I move closer and shooting Damian another glance to make sure he’s still standing by the counter, I reach for the plate of mac and cheese.
I still have zero appetite, but just like before, I shovel half the food down.
Damian watches as I eat while he slowly drinks his water.
When I can’t force any more food down, I nervously glance at him. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, his eyes still locked on me.
An uncomfortable silence fills the kitchen, and it has me reaching for the bottle of water. I take a couple of sips, my eyes darting from the light brown cupboards to the clean sink to the back door.
Lowering my eyes to the table, I ask, “Did my uncle really send you?”
“Yes.”
I catch myself from drawing my bottom lip between my teeth. My fingers tighten their hold on the bottle, and then my eyes dart to Damian.
He keeps still, as if he knows any sudden movement will scare the living hell out of me, and it gives me the courage to look at him for longer than a couple of seconds.
Swallowing hard on the emotions running rampant through me, I whisper, “Thank you for saving me.”
Damian nods, and for the first time, his eyes seem to soften with something close to compassion. It makes a lump jump to my throat.
“Wanna tell me what happened?”
The traumatic memories stir, and my hold on the bottle makes it crackle. I set it down on the table and swallow hard. “I got careless. I forgot for one stupid moment I wasn’t allowed to have a normal life.”
“There’s no such thing as normal,” Damian murmurs. “People like us, like you and me,” he waves a hand between us, “are far from normal, Cara. We blend in until we become nothing more than shadows. You have to make people look the other way.” As he takes a breath, I wonder if this is my first lesson from him on how to survive without an identity.