{This Chapter Contents So Trauma Be Warned)
June's POV
I locked the door.
I know it'll piss him off when he cos to my room. But I can't help myself. It's not like it will stop him—not like it ever has. He has a key. He's always had a key.
Still, locking it makes feel like I have so control, even if it's just an illusion.
I glance at the clock.
Fifteen minutes.
That's all I have before he cos.
I clench my fists, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. He always gives exactly twenty minutes after I step inside the house—twenty minutes to do what, I don't know. Maybe he thinks I sit here, waiting for him, knowing what's coming.
And he's right.
I do.
Not because I want to. But because preparing myself is the only thing that keeps from completely shattering.
My stomach twists violently, and I grip the edges of my bed. The silence in the room feels suffocating, pressing against like a heavy weight.
Fourteen minutes.
My hands are cold. My pulse is erratic.
I stare at the door, knowing it'll open whether I want it to or not.
Thirteen minutes.
The voices in my head whisper all the possibilities of tonight. Will he be drunker than usual? Angrier? Rougher?
Twelve minutes.
I should change into sothing less... noticeable. The last ti I wore this top, he made a comnt about how "attention-seeking" I was. I don't want to give him a reason. Not that he needs one.
Eleven minutes.
I stand up, but my legs feel weak. My limbs are heavy, like I'm sinking in quicksand. My throat feels tight. Breathe, June. Just breathe.
Ten minutes.
The second hand on the clock feels too loud. Every tick is a reminder that ti is running out.
Nine minutes.
I should text soone. But who? My so-called best friend betrayed . My other "friends" only liked because of my status. And Justin—
Justin.
His na sends a strange shiver down my spine.
He was different today. The way he punched Bart. The way he kissed . The way he looked at . Like he was claiming , like he dared anyone to touch .
It wasn't fake.
Not to him.
For the first ti in years, I had felt... safe.
Eight minutes.
My fingers itch to grab my phone. To text him. To ask him to co get . But that would be insane. That would an letting him in, letting him see this side of my life.
And no one—not a single soul—could ever know.
Seven minutes.
I sit back down on my bed, curling my arms around myself. Maybe if I make myself small enough, invisible enough, he won't see . Won't notice .
Six minutes.
I swallow hard, my mouth dry.
Five.
The floorboards creak downstairs.
Four.
Footsteps. Slow. Steady.
Three.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Two.
The doorknob rattles.
One.
The key turns.
"You locked the door..."
That was the first thing he said as he stepped into my room, closing it behind him.
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't even an accusation.
It was a statent—one that told exactly what was coming.
Happy thoughts. Think of sothing else.
Most of the ti, when he ca, I would force my brain to believe it was my boyfriend, Bart. Pretend it was him. Convince myself. But now, with Bart proving himself to be just another cruel, selfish bastard, I had nothing left.
Nothing except the monster.
His wicked smile stretches across his face, and I hate it. I hate it.
I want to scream. I want to shout. But I can't.
No one would believe .
If my own mother refuses to see the truth, then who else would?
And he knows it.
He always makes sure to remind —every single ti he cos into my room.
I press myself against the headboard, gripping the sheets so tightly my nails dig into my palm. He takes slow, deliberate steps toward , as if savoring the fear that tightens my throat. My heart slams against my ribs, my body already preparing for the inevitable.
"Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts."
But there are none left.
There used to be Bart—his arms, his scent, his voice. But now, even that lie is gone. The only thing left is him. The monster in designer suits. The man everyone admires. The father who was supposed to protect .
He stops at the foot of my bed, tilting his head like he always does, watching . He loves this part—the anticipation. The mont when I am still pretending there's a way out of this.
"You shouldn't have locked the door," he says again, voice calm, almost amused.
I say nothing.
I don't beg anymore. I don't cry.
It never helps.
Instead, I stare at the clock on my wall. My twenty minutes are up.
His smile widens.
And I shut down.
I let my mind drift far away, to a place where he doesn't exist. To a place where I am not here.
To a place where soone—anyone—will save .
{Trigger Alert}
Today, he made it last longer—because I refused to cry.
He hates when I don't break. Loves it when I do.
If anyone were to see him like this, they'd think he was making love to . Slow, sweet, almost tender. But I know better. That's why I go to Red Bull Club. To find soone who will fuck hard, rough—so different from him that I can scrub his filthy touch from my skin, even if just for a little while.
Sotis, it works.
Sotis, it doesn't.
But lately, with Bad Wolf, it's different. He doesn't just make forget—he erases it. When I'm with him, the nightmares don't crawl into bed with . The phantom weight of him fades. Maybe I'll ask the club to set up with him again.
The body on top of thrusts one last ti before stilling, a low groan spilling from his lips. That voice.
I fucking hate that voice.
But it always signals the sa thing: it's over. At least for now.
I don't look up. I never look up. Last ti I did, I saw his smile—that satisfied, smug grin that still haunts when I close my eyes.
I already know what's next.
Every Thursday afternoon. Every Tuesday night.
That's his schedule. The tis he cos to my room. The tis I brace myself for hell.
I tried running once. It was useless. He found before I even made it out of the city. His connections, his influence—it makes escape impossible. The world sees a man who fights for won's rights, a philanthropist who donates millions to orphanages and funds girl-child sponsorship programs.
No one would ever believe that the man who champions abused girls...is abusing his own daughter.
Reviews
All reviews (0)