by Katie May
But despite what Aurora states, I don’t believe he’s capable of murder. Sure, he has the skills and money to pull it off, but the asshole would be lost without me. I fuck him and feed him.
“I just...I just need to get away,” I sigh tiredly. The last few minutes killed me more than Jared ever could, a weight pressing on my shoulders and slowly breaking my spine. My breathing is labored, and my heart continues to thrum erratically.
“Let us take you home,” Byron insists, and I’m momentarily shaken out of my pity party by the “us.” Him and Phillip. Virtual strangers to each other. Sure, they’ve seen each other once or twice (kind of hard not to when Phillip visits the house weekly and Byron practically sleeps at the house next door), but I don’t believe they’ve ever talked besides a simple “hello.”
I glance at Phillip once more, and his eyes plead with me to take them up on that offer. I can see his desperate need to protect me, but what can he do against the monsters in my head? I don’t need protection.
What I need is an escape.
“I can’t go back there.” My voice is incredulous, even to my own ears. “Not now. Not when the...when the anger and pain is going to be so strong.”
Both men tense, hands curling into fists by their sides. Surprisingly, it’s Phillip who speaks next, moving to stand a hair's breadth away.
“We won’t let anyone hurt you,” he vows resolutely.
For some reason, that only makes me laugh. The noise is semi-hysterical, but the second I start, I can’t stop. I lean forward, resting my hands on my knees, and continue to laugh. I laugh because it’s easier than crying.
Easier than falling completely apart.
“Protect me?” I finally gather my wits and wipe a fallen tear from my cheek. “What have you been doing the last five years?”
I don’t mean to sound so accusatory, but…
I want to know.
I need to fucking know.
Both men have been a staple part of my life since I first arrived at the ripe age of eighteen. Byron with his quirky humor, hand puppets, and blinding smile. Phillip with his quiet, stalkerish ways. Always around but never speaking. Always my shoulder to cry on before I even realized I needed one.
I can’t even count the number of times he had slipped away from Aurora, curled up beside me, and allowed me to cry on his shirt. He’s the only one to see me so weak and vulnerable, a shell of myself.
But never once has he lifted a hand to stop Jared. Both of them have seen the bruises, have witnessed one form of torment or another, and both have remained silent.
That realization hurts a thousand times more than anything Jared could inflict. It’s a bowling ball on my chest, cutting off my air supply until even breathing is a chore. My breathing’s shallow, and my mind spins and spins and spins, sort of like the spinning wheel I love to use at home.
Why am I overthinking this?
Where were you?
The silent accusation is directed at both of them.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” I lament, feeling as if my heart is physically breaking.
Both men take another step towards me, hands extended, and I want to relish in their combined protective stares. The love that emanates from their eyes causes goosebumps to ripple down my skin. The intensity is nearly overwhelming.
My chest and throat tighten until I’m choking, desperate for air. Relief.
I take another step backwards, and both take a counter step forward as if I have a magnetic pull.
“Mallie…”
“I said I can’t deal with this right now!” I screech, cutting Byron off.
Both men are staring at me with identical expressions. Guilt, anguish, and something akin to self-loathing. They look as if I kicked their puppy.
The irony? I’m the one being kicked.
Stomped on.
Destroyed.
“Mallie, please.” Phillip takes a step closer, and I can’t stop myself from peering into his surprisingly expressive eyes. For as long as I’ve known him, Phillip has erected impenetrable walls around himself. If the furrow of his brows is any indication, he’s as confused by his reaction as I am. He keeps his feelings closely guarded, his emotions protected behind a moat of water, stone walls, and a fire breathing dragon. If you try to enter, you’ll get burnt.
I can’t decide if it’s a pain I’ll necessarily enjoy.
“Tell Nat I’ll call her later.” Before they can protest, convince me to stay, I take off in a run. It’s not long until I kick off my shoes, running barefoot down the stretch of highway. I don’t know if anyone’s following me, and I can’t seem to muster the strength to care. I just need to run faster, run further, as if it’s possible for me to actually run from my demons.
The loose pebbles of the asphalt embed themselves into my skin, but I still don’t stop running. The pain is actually a welcoming relief.
I think of nothing—no destination in mind.
This is why villains don’t fall in love.
We don’t get a happy ending.
I run until I physically can’t anymore. Only then do I collapse on the nearest bench like some sort of homeless vagabond. My body is heavy, the ball of lead in my stomach mixing with the tangle of nerves. I curl into a small ball, utterly aware of how ridiculous I will look to the outside world with my short skirt, curled hair, and mascara-smeared face, and allow my eyelashes to flutter closed.
It feels like seconds, but is probably closer to a few hours, when I become aware of someone shaking my shoulder. I groan, twisting, and succumb back to sleep. This time, I’m positive it's only seconds before someone gently touches my shoulder again.
“Mallie.”
The voice doesn’t sound like Jared’s. He never speaks so softly, so warmly, as if my name is something reverent.
“Sweetheart.” A gentle nudge. When I refuse to move, content to sleep for the rest of eternity, strong arms lift me up, and I find myself cradled against a warm chest. A distinctly masculine smell assaults my senses, so incredibly pleasant I can’t stop myself from inhaling deeply.
Definitely not a creeper. Promise. I just have a strange fascination with smells.
But this smell? It’s definitely not Jared’s.
Don’t get me wrong. I hate my husband with a passion, but at least he knows how to invest in cologne. I always thought he smelled like strawberries, a surprisingly girly scent for a man who beats the shit out of his wife. But this smell?
It’s heavenly. Leather and spices. Crinkled, yellowed pages of books. The feeling of safety in the back stacks of a library. It’s a natural scent too, not bogged down by a spray can or whatever the hell men use.
Only one man smells like this.
Roman.
I open one eye, surprised to see that in my haste the night before, I had walked all the way to campus. The bench I had been sleeping on is one of the main park benches decorating the college’s center, complete with a statue of some old guy and a translucent pool of water, now frozen over.
Oh god. How many people saw me last night?
How many people are watching now?
Snuggled in my professor's arms.
Fuck to the fuckity fuck.
When I begin to wiggle in earnest, Roman levels me with a chastising glare.
“Calm down. It’s still early in the morning. I had to arrive before scheduled classes to finish grading the essays for Constitutional Law,” he explains. I know I should tell him to put me down, but a part of me loves being in his arms. The warmth he emits is almost tangible, and fuck, I’m freezing.
Pro tip: don’t go sleeping on any benches during winter. Seriously. Don’t. You might have a tit freeze off.
It’s almost as if I hadn’t realized how cold I was. Suddenly, it all comes rushing back to me, and I find myself shivering, teeth clattering. Roman’s expression turns alarmed, and he picks up his pace, moving inside the building. The heat cocoons me instantly, and combined with Roman’s arms around me, I fin
d I can sleep for hours. Days. Years.
The man walks briskly, stopping in front of a familiar door. His office. I had only visited once or twice, and the entire visit consisted of me “accidentally” flashing him my thigh and his sharp intake of breath and hammering heart.
He gently sets me onto a leather sofa I hadn’t noticed before and grabs a blanket draped over it. He makes quick work of wrapping me up like a Mallie-size Christmas present.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he explodes, pacing the small expanse of the office. His hands pull at his dark strands of hair, and his eyes flicker from me to the closed door then to his desk. I don't even want to know what’s going through his head.
Actually, if it involves his desk and me naked, then I think I do.
Focus, Mallie! I chide.
“I needed to get away,” I explain, finding my voice and shrugging. I try to keep my expression appropriately sheepish, as if I am a normal college student doing normal college student things. Running away from home? Completely normal.
When his glare continues to penetrate my skin, biting me, I straighten my shoulders imperceptibly.
“Look, it was a tough night, and I needed to get away.”
“Does that have anything to do with the bruises on your arms?” he asks with a very pointed stare. In the blanket-bundle, he can’t possibly see my arms, but I know they were impossible to miss in my dress. Self-consciousness roars within me, and I shift on the leather couch. The material squeaks with each movement.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He inhales deeply, hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He briefly shuts his eyes and tilts his head towards the ceiling. His standard “Lord, give me patience” expression.
“Mallie, I can’t help you if you don't tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing's going on,” I repeat.
Besides the fact that it feels as if my heart has shattered and the damage is irreparable.
“Mallie…”
I move to stand, the blanket sliding down my body and onto the floor.
“Seriously. I was just being dramatic. Hormones, you know?”
I’m sincerely sorry to all women everywhere for using that as an excuse.
“At least sit here and let me grab you something to eat, okay?” When I open my mouth to protest, his eyes turn pleading. Warmer. It softens the harsh angles of his face significantly, and I find myself melting a little bit. Melting.
I mentally remind myself that he’s my unattainable professor, I’m a married woman who just sexily danced with two other men, and I’m planning my funeral. The last thing I need is to fucking melt like some heroine in a romance novel.
Women like me don’t melt. We frost over. Harden.
And I’m sure there’s a sex joke somewhere in there, but I’m too tired to pull it out.
Welp. There it is.
When I concede with a bob of my head, Roman jumps to his feet, gives me another smoldering stare, before hurrying out of the office. I reposition myself back on the couch and wrap the blanket around my shoulders once more.
Alone, I allow my mind to wander…
Before immediately shutting metaphorical gates on said mind. All I can envision are Byron’s and Phillip’s faces when I left them. The hurt and anguish. A pain I can’t replicate even if I try. I know they’re probably worried sick about me.
I know that.
But the question is why.
Why me? Why now?
I feel as if I’m missing something, as if a piece to a puzzle doesn’t quite fit right. I squeeze my eyelids shut to capture an escaped tear.
Fuck, what am I going to do?
Will Jared kick me out?
A part of me almost hopes he does. Escape is imminent then. I don’t know where my future will lead me, but one without Jared sounds pretty damn good to me.
A wistful, slightly crazy, smile pulls up my lips.
Escape.
A world without Jared.
Fuck, I might just orgasm right here.
And…
That definitely makes me sound like a creeper. Ignore that.
Roman slips back into the office, a mug of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other.
“These were the only things I could find,” he says with a shrug. “The cafeteria isn’t open yet.”
I smile gratefully and receive the treats. I’m not one of those girls who orgasms over coffee, but it’s always heavenly to have a sip or two in the morning. The bagel is delicious as well, though the bread tastes a little stale.
Roman watches me eat from where he sits behind his desk. With his sleeves pushed up and dark hair slicked back, he looks like every wet dream I ever had.
Um…
Not that I have a lot of wet dreams.
But if I did, and they featured a sexy-ass professor, then this would be one. All I need is for him to grab out his ruler and spank my ass and---
Down, girl.
Roman—and yes, I’m calling him Roman. The man more than likely saw my panties earlier—steeples his hands together and leans back in the leather chair. His eyes are trained intently on my own. It's almost unnerving to be under his stare, to allow him to see you. And when I say see you, I mean it. Every flaw and blemish. The good and the bad.
Everything is visible to this man.
Shifting once more, I cross my legs, attempting nonchalance that I probably fail at. Forking my fingers through my hair, I smile softly at Roman. A smile that says, “Hey, I’m not scared of my abusive husband. Nope. Not at all. No fear here.”
I probably look constipated.
Roman’s eyes widen suddenly, but before I can comment, he hurries out of his seat once more and rushes out of the room with a flustered, “I'll be right back.”
Umm...okay then?
I casually glance down, making sure I haven’t unintentionally flashed my professor my vagina. One glance confirms that nope, the blanket still covers all the important areas. No vaginas have been flashed.
When he returns a moment later carrying a collection of wet paper towels, my confusion grows exponentially. I quirk a brow at the infuriatingly sexy and confusing man.
Wordlessly, he moves to his desk, grabs a first aid kit, and kneels in front of me.
Okay, I like where this is going…
He grabs one of my feet and lifts it, hands tantalizingly soft.
Still liking this direction…
He places the foot on his raised knee and begins to dab at the sole with the paper towel.
And…
I’m not getting my pussy licked. Damn.
“What happened to your shoes?” he asks in exasperation. Despite his angry cadence, his hands are gentle. He uses his free hand to flick open the first aid kit and grab a tweezer. Diligently, he works on removing the embedded pebbles from my fucked-up sole.
“I must’ve lost them,” I say sheepishly, eyes trained on his dark head bent over me. Roman is a gorgeous man, there’s no denying that. I also have the distinct feeling that it's not often he kneels before someone else.
At my hushed confession, his eyes flicker up and narrow.
“Or you were in such a hurry you forgot them,” he counters.
I know how it must look to him. The bruises on my arm. My body huddled on the bench, braving the winter night instead of a bed. My disheveled appearance.
He’s not right, but he’s not wrong.
“We might need to bring you to a hospital,” he continues, grabbing a bottle of peroxide and pouring it onto a cotton ball. “This is going to sting.” Before I can protest, he presses it against my skin, and I release a startled yelp. “Anyway, we need to make sure you’re not hypothermic. You’re lucky the weather wasn’t too bad last night. But look at you! Your face is blue! Your fingers are blue!”
I tentatively wiggle my fingers beneath the blanket. They seem to all be working fine.
I would be damned if I ever lost a precious finger. I need them too badly
...a girl can’t rely on her husband to always please her. This poor, neglected vagina needs justice.
“I’m fine, Roman. Promise.”
His eyes lift at something in my voice, something I can’t discern. They trace my features in rapt attention, gauging the sincerity of my words. I try to keep my smile pleasant and my expression blank. Try, being the important word. It’s hard to maintain an apathetic, impassive mask when you have someone peering into your soul.
He releases a harsh breath, dropping my now bandaged foot and grabbing the second one.
“Just...just let me take care of you, okay?”
I swear my heart expands with those few words.
The consecutive silence is not uncomfortable, both of us lost in our own thoughts. Roman stares intently at my foot while I stare intently at him. Channeling my inner stalker.
When he finally bandages both of my feet, he gives my thigh a squeeze...a squeeze that causes goosebumps to ripple up and down my spine. I shiver delicately, heat rising to my face.
If I was hypothermic before, I’m certainly not anymore.
“I need to stop at my classroom and grab something I forgot yesterday. Will you be okay by yourself?” His fingers slowly descend down my legs, returning to my ankle. I don’t know if the touch is innocent or if he’s purposely trying to drive me insane. Either way, I have to clear my throat twice before I can respond.
“Yes, I’ll be here.” I mentally pat myself on the back when my voice doesn’t shake. Yay for me! He bobs his head once before moving to his feet. He readjusts his shirt, pants, and then moves his hand to the wayward strands of dark hair. Only when he’s once more his impeccable self does he walk towards the door. Each stride is purposeful, commanding. Roman practically exudes raw strength and masculinity. And damn, does his ass look fine in those pants. “Roman?” I call weakly when his hand touches the knob. He pauses, turning his head marginally to meet my flustered gaze. Probably shouldn’t have gotten his attention after I’ve been ass-staring. “Thank you.”
A soft smile curls up his lips, once more accentuating his beauty.
