Page 76 of Wicked Vile King
My first . . . no, I can't admit that.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
Maybe this weekend was good for one thing at least, getting over my guilt. Because right now I don't feel ashamed at all. I know I should be or that at least my father would think I should be, but I'm not. I'm eighteen, old enough to fight for my country, to legally drink in others, and to be considered a legal adult.
I let him be my first. I wanted him to, and for the first time in a long time, I feel safe. I can't remember the last time I felt safe. Maybe before Mama and the prior institutionalization and Papa looking at me like he was going to be sick.
If I could, I'd choose anyone else in the world to feel safe with other than Saint Laurier, but I can't.
He's the wrong choice on so many levels.
He's a narcissistic psychopath who cares only for himself.
And an egotistical asshole who thinks the world revolves around him.
And I think the only way he could get any more marks in my father's book at this point would be to get a freaking face tattoo of the gang-identifier variety.
But in a world that threw me away with the garbage to live here, at least he doesn't throw me away too or pretend to be anything that he's not just to be accepted.
He climbs out of the pool first, the muscles in his back rippling as he heaves himself out of the water. Then he helps me out, grabbing my arm like I weigh nothing at all and hoisting me onto the concrete. I stand beside him, and out of all the thoughts tumbling inside my brain, a silly one comes to the forefront.
I need to change.
I need to change and go back to my dorm before they do a room check or something, and I end up becoming besties with the Butcher. But as I walk to the locker room to get my clothes and away from Saint, I come to my senses and remember that it's dark in here, even more so in the windowless locker rooms.
I stop before I reach the open double doors of the locker room, feeling something warm and thin drip down my leg. I glance down to find that I'm dripping blood from the apex of my thighs, down my leg, and onto the concrete.
Damn. Now Ireallyneed to change.
I look back up at the locker room again, but it's pitch black inside. Goosebumps pepper my arms and the back of my neck. I hate this kind of darkness most of all because when I look at the pitch black, it feels like it looks right back at me.
I move to step inside, needing my clothes, but without Saint at my side, I falter and familiar memories latch back into place.
Mama staring at me from death in the bathtub.
Bloodied water lapping at the sides of the tub and sloshing onto my feet.
The gurgle of the tub in the last breaths of daylight.
My heart clobbers against my ribs as I stand there frozen, staring into the darkness.
Go in, Willow!
But I can't. I'm afraid.
"What are you doing?" Saint asks behind me, startling me and sending me nearly jumping off of my bones.
He regards me, his expression utterly ambivalent, as I catch my breath.
"You're afraid to go in," he remarks, looking at the locker room, "but you need your clothes."
"Yes," I admit.
His gaze drops to my leg and the blood runs down the inside of my thigh, over my ankle, to stain the floor. His stare lingers there on my blood and virtue spilling on the concrete. It makes me feel naked all over again.
"I'll help you," he says, taking a long step and arriving at my side, "under one condition."
"What's that?" I breathe.
