He thinks you like it.
I lie curled up on the cot, as close to the wall as I can get, my arms wrapped around my stomach, my knees pulled up to my chest. I’ve cried myself sick. I feel weak and nauseous and bitter, oh God so damn bitter, that asshole thinks I like what he does to me? I can’t breathe, my nose and mouth and head clogged with tears, every hitched breath a labor, a pain. I’ve cried so hard that I’ve forgotten how to stop. He thinks you like it.
Coby’s hand rests on my shoulder. He’s staring at me. I feel his gaze, hot along the scars that mar my naked back. “Dae,” he whispers, his fingers kneading my flesh. Is that supposed to be comforting? I don’t need his pity.
“Just go,” I mutter.
The bed shifts as he stands and more tears sting my eyes. This is McBane’s fault; he had t
