Page 197 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
I heard him groan under his breath as he tugged my tits free from my bra, seeing just how hard my nipples were for his touch. His fingers were savage as they gripped and twisted my flesh, but they didn’t stop there. They slid right down my ribs and over my stomach, hooking into my tattered tights to pull them down.
Oh fuck. My thighs. He’d see my thighs. He’d see the scars.
I bit my lip before he tugged the tights down to my knees, feeling the self-consciousness brewing under the harsh glow of the bulb, even in the face of the mortal terror I should be racked with.
Sure enough, he saw them. Brutal under the overhead light, he saw them.
The cuts were fresh, painful lines over scars. So many scars, my thighs were a dance of them. Always high, out of view. Always deep enough to bleed nice and hard.
I’d been hurting myself since I was young, and I needed it. I needed the hurt in my body to free me from the hurt in my head.
“What the fuck—” Lucian began, but he knew when he looked into my eyes. He knew exactly what the fuck was going on with me.
I took hold of my tights and tried to pull them back up, but he wouldn’t let me.
“Why the fuck would you cut yourself?” he asked, and I should’ve given him a shrug and kept my silence, since it was none of his damn business, but again, I guess I had the alcohol to thank for my loose tongue. The words flowed from my mouth like they’d never done in my life, gushing free with no restraint before I could try to stop them.
“It was a long time ago.”
“You’re not that old, Elaine.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
My heart twists at the words. “Maybe I cut myself because I need alcohol and drugs to numb the pain. Maybe it’s because nobody will ever love me. Because they wouldn’t, would they? No man would ever fall in love with a freak like me, even if my family would let them.”
His eyes widened on mine, and I saw more than hate. Worse than hate.
Pity.
I saw damn pity.
“You need to get some fucking therapy,” he said, his hands still gripped tight on my wrists.
“Yeah, so I keep hearing. Therapy, therapy, therapy. I’ve had years of it, you know. From expensive therapists. Take deep breaths. Positive self-talk. It’s never helped.”
He stared at my cuts, and I felt ashamed of them, so fierce in my pain. I was wearing a lace thong, but he barely even noticed. His attention was fixed on my flaws and not my strengths, just like the rest of the world’s always seemed to be.
Even the people who gave a shit.
“Do it,” I said again. “Just do it.”
His stare tightened on mine. “Do what, exactly? Fuck you? I’m not here to service you, sweetheart. You’re the one who needs to serve me, but you don’t even know how.”
“Yeah, well maybe I’m a failure at that, too.”
I knew the tears were pricking at my eyes, and I despised myself for it. I forced my jaw up in the air, trying to look as proud as I could manage, even though my bottom lip was trembling.
Shhh, secrets. Secrets.
Never tell your secrets.
He dropped my wrists and pulled away from me, and the pity was worse, his eyes still struggling to take it in. I pulled my tights up, but didn’t attempt to squirm away, just gathered my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.
Lucian got to his feet and brushed himself down, clearly feeling as though anywhere with less than a million-dollar decor value was obviously infested with cockroaches.
“Hurt me,” I said, and I meant it. I truly meant it.
