Page 30 of Say it Ain’t So

Something, though I couldn’t remember what it was. And I couldn’t remember when that something mattered as more than the habit of being here.

Peter never did have the kind, loving side I found in Rylan. He wasn’t sweet. He wasn’t so many things that Rylan was.

Peter had been a boy who paid attention to me. A man who told me what I thought I wanted to hear, coaxing me into his suffocating cocoon while he slowly squeezed the life out of me.

It still surprised me when I found people like Dakota in this world. People who were willing to go out of their way to help someone who’d all but turned their back on them.

I sighed. That seemed to be a habit of mine, turning my back on people. My friends, my family.

Rylan.

With a quick glance out the door, where I saw Dakota effortlessly sliding my stack of boxes into Cheyenne’s back seat, I turned and headed toward the bedroom. My cold weather clothes were already packed—something I had to do each season so I didn’t take up too much of Peter’s space—so all I had left were my summer clothes. I grabbed one of the empty boxes I’d kept stored in the basement and set it on the bed, then started sweeping my hangers off the bar and tossing clothes inside.

Out in the living room, I could hear Cheyenne and Dakota bickering, and it made me smile. Despite their height difference, the two definitely looked like they were siblings. Both had long, black hair and dark, tanned skin. Cheyenne’s eyes were lighter than Dakota’s and often lit up her face as much as her enthusiasm did.

I sighed again. I missed Rylan’s enthusiasm. His attention. His handsome face and his warm heart. His big hands and his… his…

Well, there was no other way to put it. I missed his unicorn dick.

Once my small section of the closet was empty, I taped shut the box and grabbed another, dropping to my knees at the side of the bed. Peter made me keep my shoes under the bed, so they weren’t cluttering up the bottom of his closet or getting under his feet when he stumbled home drunk. I put my hand on the mattress and bent down to see what was underneath.

“What the fuck is this?”

Pain ricocheted through my fingers and up my arm, and a scream wrenched through my chest. I tried to sit up, only for my hand to be yanked off the mattress and my body to be tossed like I was nothing more than a rag doll.

Peter stood over me, a baseball bat in his free hand while he stared down at my bloody hand. He pulled his attention to my face, dropped the bat and grabbed me by the hair.

“What. The fuck. Is this?” He shook my head, shook my hand, all while pressing his fingers hard against the little silver band.

“It’s just a ring, Peter, I swear!” I screamed it through the pain. It was all I could do not to collapse, not to black out.

He bent my finger back, as if he’d rather break it than pry the ring off. “Not even gone two nights and you already spread your legs like a whore? You really think you can get away with this? You really think you can leave me, you fucking bitch?”

He yanked at my hair, and I felt something give at the same time I felt unbelievable pain rip across my scalp. Peter muttered under his breath as he tossed my near-limp body on the bed and pressed my face into the mattress.

I was used to this. Used to him beating me. Hurting me. Forcing himself on me when I was too weak to fight. I was used to giving in, curling up and letting him punish me however he seemed fit, because it was easier than dealing with the pain that came if I fought back.

But this time, I couldn’t not fight. I couldn’t let this bastard touch me—not after Rylan. Not after I’d promised to love and cherish…

Not after I left.

“You fucking bitch!” Peter released my hair, only to slam his fist into my face. The force of it flipped me over. I stared up at him through the thick wetness that coated my face, horrified to see he’d already unzipped his pants and taken out his dick.

I lifted my arms to try to fend him off, nearly blacking out again at the sight of my bloody left hand. Peter made a move toward the bed, but suddenly stumbled backward and smashed into the dresser, toppling his brand-new flat screen onto his back as he crashed to the floor.

A flash of darkness crossed my vision, and when I blinked open my eyes, Peter’s body was flying across the room. This time, he crashed into the wall near the window, his head leaving a dent in the drywall while his forearm smashed right through the glass.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared, somehow finding his feet and racing forward. I tried to brace myself, knowing this was going to hurt. But confusion was the only thing that hit.

It took a minute, while Peter flailed and punched and kicked, for me to realize that he was fighting Dakota. And though Dakota had a good three inches and a hundred pounds on my ex, Peter had his anger, and that anger was one of the evilest things in the world.

As I watched, Peter landed a punch to the side of Dakota’s head. The bigger man shook it off, then grabbed Peter and dragged him close. He held him in a headlock before punching him hard, twice, in the gut. Then he released him, holding him at arm's length before landing an uppercut to Peter’s jaw.

Peter’s head whipped back, and I swore, I saw his lights go out. His body dropped to the floor with a loud thunk, but chaos still swirled in my head.

Dakota turned his wild, dark eyes on me, and for a moment, I was scared as I watched his tongue flick out and lick at the shiny red blood dripping from his nose.

“You okay?” The deep tenor of his voice felt like a blanket, like when his sister and I got locked out of the house and curled up in the stables under their horse blankets to stay warm.