“Back the fuck up,” I seethe. I’m naked as the day I was born and trembling like a leaf.
But there’s no mistaking the venom in my voice.
Tristan pauses. Considers the situation. All the alcohol he’s had to drink isn’t helping him think any faster, but eventually, he decides it’s not worth the trouble anymore.
His pathetic, soft dick still hangs like a tiny noodle between his legs.
“You belong to me,” he whispers in a low, menacing tone. “You’re my little whore, Saoirse Rearden. I branded you with my name. I fucking own you. And you know that, don’t you?”
This is part of the humiliation.
This is my life.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I whisper.
He laughs. Cackles like a fucking loon.
Then, shrugging, he hikes his pants back up, tucks himself away, and leaves without another word.
Three seconds later, I hear the front door slam.
He’s gone.
I go back to the living room and collapse naked and trembling on the sofa. I wrap my arms around my body and hug myself until the tears dry up on my face.
I can’t keep doing this.
I can’t keep doing this.
The thought rings in my ears until I finally start to pay attention.
I’m thirty years old.
I’ve been with Tristan for twelve.
I’ve been miserable for almost as long as I can remember.
And when have I ever been happy? Truly, peacefully, wholly happy?
The answer comes to me immediately. I don’t even have to think about it.
One night, twelve years ago.
Because of a boy with messy blond hair and a devil-may-care smile.
A boy who promised me freedom and happiness.
A boy who tried to keep his word.
Iwas the one who sent him away.
Iwas the one who turned him down.
Now, he’s gone. Long gone. But I’m still here. Trying desperately to hold on to the last vestiges of who I used to be.
Slowly, I force myself up to my feet and pull my clothes back on. I go to the bedroom and lie down to stare at the ceiling, wondering where Cillian is right now.
Is he happy?