Swallow it, Saoirse.
Don’t engage.
Bite your fucking tongue.
“Or maybe you should lay off the alcohol,” I blurt out, “instead of blaming me for your malfunctioning dick.”
Oops.
His reaction is immediate. Almost as though he’s expecting it.
He hauls off and punches me in the face.
I careen into the fridge. Cheap as it is, I half-expect it to crack in half from the impact.
Instead, I’m the one who cracks in half.
My head hits the plaster so hard I see stars. I can taste the tang of blood in my mouth and the world goes dark at the edges.
Before I can recover, Tristan grabs me by the hair and drags me screaming out of the kitchen. Probably because there’s not enough space for him to slap me around in there.
“You need to learn your fucking place in this house,” he seethes at me as he tows me down the hall. “Under my fucking heel.”
I try and claw his hands off me, but he just tugs on my hair harder until my knees buckle.
When we get into the living room, he hurls me forward onto the rug. I’m just catching my breath when I hear a horrifying sound.
His belt buckle clacking open.
The whisper of leather as he rips it off, tosses it aside, and starts to unbutton his pants.
No.
Having sex with Tristan is hard enough.
But being raped by him is a humiliation that I don’t think I will ever live down.
It’s a scar that will forever be imprinted on my soul.
I try and get up, but he slaps me down again with the back of his hand. I fall back onto the sofa as he manages to get his pants down around his ankles.
I can punch back.
I can try to run.
But I’ll have to return here at some point, and that means going through this process all over again, but worse.
Might as well just get it over with now.
I blink back tears as Tristan pulls out his cock.
Except that, despite the lust on his face… he’s still soft.
I look dead at him.
I’m not laughing—not quite that suicidal just yet—but my eyes sure as hell are.
And I know that a man with an ego as fragile as his can’t handle that.