Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
She’s still holding on to me. Her nails are digging into my arms. I can hear my heavy pulse beating against my eardrums. I try to simmer my rage to be comforting, but how can razor wire embrace anything without slicing it open?
Her reddened eyes lift to mine.
“Give me the truth,” I tell her.
“About the sex?” Her voice isn’t small despite the tension splitting it.
“Yeah.” My muscles are flexed scalding bands, and my hands clench into fists. “How was the sex? Truthfully?” Never in my life have I wanted Phoebe to tell me how another man rocked her world. Lit her up in the most mind-blowing orgasm alive. But I’m hoping to hear it now. Anything other than what I think happened. How he hurt her. Abused her.
Her breath staggers, and then she swallows hard. “I was just . . . an object to him. A plaything. He was rough—and I mean, I like rough, but . . . his rough was . . .”
I run my tongue over my back molars, fighting a thousand emotions that boil inside of me.
“It was like he didn’t care if he split me in five pieces that night.” Her eyes meet mine again. “It wasn’t good, Rocky.”
“I’m going to kill him,” I say, coldness in my voice.
She sniffs hard. “You aren’t. Because I need you here and not in prison.”
My breathing deepens like each inhale is a struggle for oxygen. “That’s it?”
She nods, but I can tell there’s still more.
The pressure in my chest won’t relent. “Phoebe?” I lean my forehead down and press it against hers. “Phoebe, please.” I try to lift my hands to her cheeks, but she’s still imprisoning my arms at our sides.
“I can tell I’ve already hurt you,” she whispers, closing her eyes, and a tear tracks down her jaw.
“I said do your worst,” I tell her. “So fucking do it.”
“His friend came in and asked if he could pay for an hour. It didn’t feel like a question.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
She releases my arms like a dam rupturing, the worst wounded sound I’ve ever heard her make escapes her lips—and I clutch the back of her neck, drawing her against me. Her hands cling at the button-down under my jacket, fisting the fabric.
My other arm curves around the small of her back. I tuck her close to my chest like I can protect her from the past. You can’t.
I stare down at her, watching Phoebe slowly gather her breath. She tries to speak. “The saddest part . . .” She looks off. “Is I felt nothing. It was like my body wasn’t mine. And I kept thinking: Has it ever been mine? Have I ever felt like it belonged to me while anyone was touching me?” Her watery gaze meets mine. “And the answer was yes. The answer was you.”
My hand slides up to her cheek, our eyes crashing into each other. “I love you,” I tell her through a swollen throat. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
Tears slip down her cheek and over my hand. “That’s not your job.”
“It’s always been my job,” I breathe. “Loving you, though, that wasn’t a role I was given, Phoebe. Loving you has been the most authentic and natural thing I’ve ever done in my life. And I don’t protect you just because I’m told to. I protect you because I’m yours. You’ve had me since I was five.”
She’s crying in my arms.
And I’m done—I’m done giving a shit what they’ll do if they find out we’re together. I never thought I had a breaking point. I believed I was made to withstand everything under the sun. But I’ve found my limit—and I can’t do this another day. I just fucking can’t.
She lets out a shaky breath and fear hits her eyes. “Don’t pity me, Rocky.”
I hold her gaze. “I’ve never pitied you a day in my life.”
“Then why are you saying that now? After my sob story—”
“If you think I heard a fucking sob story, you’re mistaken,” I say strongly. “I heard a story about a girl that was raised to be manipulative, self-reliant, and brave. And when she was put in a position to save herself and someone she loved, she took it. It backfired. I heard a story about parents who manipulated this girl into thinking her worth came from a job and not from this . . .” I place my palm on her heart.
Her eyes search mine in wanting.
God, I want her. I’ve always, always wanted her.
The door suddenly opens, and I’m cursing myself for not locking the damn thing.
“Hey, Rocky—” Trevor freezes, and Phoebe spins her tear-streaked face away from him.
I’m still holding her against me. “Get the fuck out,” I tell my little brother, pointing at the doorway he stepped through.
“PG?” Trevor frowns, then looks to me in confusion. “Is she crying?”