#my uterus is trying to kill me… i do not care about the bruises on my thighs

[ikkaku-of-heart]

Her Brother's Blood is on His Hands

(Originally written for @heart-pirates-week for Ikkaku’s day with the prompt “Family” but ended up being delayed until now. Inspired by discussions with @shambledsurgeon and @medicus-mortem)

Ikkaku awoke slowly, the persistent beeping of a heart monitor resembling that of a particularly slow but annoying alarm clock. She tried to sit up but a sharp pain in her side dissuaded her, so she was forced to remain on her back, looking around at the sterile walls of the infirmary. She was hooked up to an IV, there were several machines monitoring her vitals, and she could feel the pressure of tightly-wound bandages around her torso and arms.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Law said from the chair at her bedside, putting down the medical book he’d been reading. The circles under his eyes appeared darker than usual, but his grin was comforting and sure. “I was beginning to wonder if we’d have to resort to drastic measures to wake Sleeping Beauty.”

“Law?” she asked weakly, grimacing at how hoarse she sounded due to the dryness of her throat. “The fuck happened?”

“Gonna have to be more specific,” he stated as he carefully helped prop her up enough that she could safely drink some water. “Do you mean how did you end up here? Maybe the extent of your wounds? Or how about what, exactly, I did to the fucker who hurt you?”

Her eyes widened as she recalled what had happened. She’d been taking a walk with Jean Bart, venting about how much she hated that they were now government dogs because Law’d insisted on handing the Navy one hundred hearts. They’d run into a squad of Marines. Her brother’s squad, to be exact. Ushi had decided it was pointless trying to climb the Navy ranks the normal way, and thus had come up with the idea of sucking up to the Celestial Dragons. And what better way to do so than to return to Saint Rosward his wayward slave?

Heart clenching at the thought of her shipmate being handed back over to those bastards, she asked, “Is Jean—”

“He’s fine. Discharged yesterday,” Law promised, nodding towards the empty bed on the other side of the room. He picked up a chart, studying it as he continued, “Needed a lot of stitches for the lacerations across his back and arms, but nothing life-threatening.”

“Good,” she sighed in relief. He hadn’t been killed or taken. Jean Bart would continue to live as a free man for a while longer. He deserved that much.

“Was quite the sight, seeing him charging towards the ship, covered in blood, carrying you like a baby while you bled out from a stab wound,” he commented, voice even, though there was an unmistakable tightness in his jaw. “I’m just glad he managed to tell me who’d done this to you two before he passed out.”

White teeth sank into her bottom lip, guilt pulsing through her. That’s right. It hadn’t exactly been a victory. They’d managed to take down most of the Marines, but Ushi had managed to get behind her, and then there’d been excruciating pain as he’d driven a knife deep into her side…

“I’m sorry, Captain,” she whispered, black curls hiding her face as she hung her head in shame.

“The hell are you apologizing for?” he asked, gold eyes flicking up from the clipboard and narrowing in displeasure.

She wrung her hands, anxious and guilty. “Jean Bart got hurt because of my family baggage.”

“He got hurt because of an opportunistic asshole who decided that Jean being under the protection of a shichibukai didn’t matter,” he snapped. Pausing, he took a deep breath to compose himself. “The fact that said asshole came out of the same uterus as you is irrelevant.”

“We both know that’s not true,” she countered, refusing to look at him. “He targeted the Hearts because of me. He always has. And he wouldn’t have been able to go after Jean Bart if I’d let you kill him years ago. Or killed him myself. You deserve a subordinate with the stones to kill her own brother.”

Internally, she berated herself for that last part. None of this would be a problem if she’d just toughened up and put an end to that bastard. Why did she always seem to stop herself? Morality? Because she knew how heartbroken her parents would be? Because even years later, she was still scared of her childhood boogeyman?

Her thoughts were disturbed by the clipboard lightly smacking her on the head in reproach. It didn’t hurt, but Ikkaku rubbed her head anyway, frowning up at her captain. “You trying to knock me unconscious again?”

“If that’s what it takes to get you to stop talking bullshit,” he retorted. He glared at her for a moment before letting out a sigh, a tattooed hand falling heavily on her shoulder. “Ikkaku,” Law stated, tone brokering no argument, “what I deserve is a subordinate with the stones to stand up to a power-hungry bastard looking to sell her nakama to a bunch of delusional inbred freaks, which that’s exactly what I’ve got. And what you deserve is to not get stabbed in the spleen by your own blood.”

Well. It was hard to argue that logic. “I guess. But next time—”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“You don’t know that.”

The hand on her shoulder fell away to flip through the pages of her chart. “Ikkaku, you nearly bled out before you even got to the sub. You’re lucky Shachi and Penguin share your blood type and were basically tripping over themselves to donate. I had to replace your spleen and left kidney, and if that knife had gone in at a slightly different angle, he could have punctured your stomach or lung. In other words, this bastard nearly cost me my engineer. You’ve known me for goin’ on five years now; do you really think that once you were stable I just sat around twiddling my thumbs while I waited for you to wake up?”

Dark eyes widened in realization. “Did you kill him?”

“Would you be mad if I said I had?”

No. Not at him at least, but she still felt like she’d let him down by not being able to do it herself. “He shouldn’t have been your problem to solve.”

“You’re right. He shouldn’t have been a problem,” he replied harshly. Before Ikkaku could internally berate herself further, though, Law ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and there was a spark of guilt in his eyes. “No Marine should have even touched you guys. That’s supposed to be one of the fucking perks of being a shichibukai. I told you when I took this damn title that you be safe and look how that turned out.”

Yes, that had been a major argument between them, hadn’t it? For Ikkaku, not wanting to be affiliated with the World Government hadn’t just been a matter of pride or general hatred for the bastards who ran the world – she’d been afraid. Terrified that her brother would be waiting for her around every corner. That he’d find a way to get her alone, to finish the job he’d started when she was seven, to finally get her out of his hair. Law had promised she’d be safe, that he wouldn’t let him so much as breath near her. Eventually, she’d come to believe him, but things hadn’t gone to plan.

“You can’t blame yourself for Ushi not following the rules, Law,” she insisted. Yeah, she could have berated him for not listening to her, but in reality, Law’s logic had been sound; Ushi shouldn’t have dared to try anything. Ikkaku didn’t just have the Hearts protecting her anymore – the Navy itself had become another obstacle in his way. She should have been safe.

However, even she hadn’t fully considered why Ushi would go this far, but in hindsight, it made sense. Last she’d checked, he hadn’t been promoted in a while. Hadn’t advanced as quickly as he wanted or earned any accolades for heroism like everyone back home had been expecting. He was a commodore still – not even a rear-admiral, and his name didn’t strike fear into the hearts of pirates like Smoker’s did.

Because he’d been put on a pedestal, her brother had always gotten away with everything, which had only enforced his cruel and abusive nature. The whole island had believed that he’d become a famous Marine and boost their reputation, which was why they’d been willing to overlook the bruises that littered his sister’s arms, or the fact that she’d gone missing for three days while under his care.

If he’d come home a failure, everyone would have to finally admit he was nothing but a twisted, cruel bully. And instead of accepting the blame for enabling, they’d likely make him answer for his crimes.

But more than that, he’d be forced to accept that he was never that special to begin with, and she knew a man as arrogant as him wouldn’t be able to bear that.

Shaking her head, she almost felt pity for him. “Ushi was desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable as fuck. You couldn’t have known he’d be crazy enough to try to suck up to the Celestial Dragons.”

“Neither of us could have known, but I still could have protected you better,” Law retorted, crossing his arms. He still didn’t look fully convinced of his own absolution, but he declared quite plainly, “The fact is, brothers shouldn’t murder their younger siblings, or even try to.”

Well, not even Ikkaku could argue that.

But actions had consequences, and there was still a strong chance Law’s retaliation, justified or not, would bite him in the ass.

“Ushi might have been no one special, but the Navy’s not going to be happy about you killing one of their own,” she said, genuinely worried. Even if Ushi had been going against orders, shichibukai weren’t supposed to attack their Marine allies. What if they decided to strip Law of his new title? Sure, she hated that he was a government dog, but it was a vital part of his plan to take down Joker, and if that had been stripped away because he’d recklessly pursued revenge on her behalf…

The way he smirked at her belied that he didn’t share even a fraction of her concern. “The Navy’ll have a hell of a time pinning a murder on me when there’s no evidence. It’s unlikely he was ordered to attack you and Jean Bart, so there’s no paper trail. The man was obsessed with advancing up the ladder, so likely only a select few are even aware you’re related, thus no one knows of his unfortunate connection to the Heart Pirates. And unless they plan on gutting a bunch of Sea Kings and piecing together chunks of half-digested flesh, I doubt they’ll find enough of his body to even determine his cause of death.”

“You fed him to Sea Kings?”

“His remains, at least. As for how I killed him…well, I won’t bore you with the details.”

It was highly doubtful what he’d done could be described as boring, but Ikkaku decided not to press him. Knowing Law, it had been slow, painful, and had probably involved dissection. “You didn’t have to do all that for me, Captain.”

He dismissed her concerns with a casual wave of his hand. “Of course I did. You’re family. Besides, if I hadn’t, the rest of the crew would have gone after him themselves, and they wouldn’t have done as good a job covering their tracks. Or made him scream quite as loud. No offense to them, but conventional torture methods just can’t match the agony of having your heart slowly crushed to a pulp.”

Was she a bad person for not feeling sick at the thought of her oldest brother—her own blood—being subjected to the Surgeon of Death’s sadism? That instead of anger or disgust, she felt relieved? Sure, he was a massive piece of shit who deserved to die for everything he’d done to her, her other brothers, and who knows what else, but he was still family, wasn’t he?

No. The Hearts were family. Law was family. He was right – Ushi was blood, but he wasn’t her brother.

Law’s brow furrowed with concern and he reached forward, cupping her cheeks and wiping tears away with his thumbs. Ikkaku hadn’t even realized she was crying.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said, looking genuinely guilty. “I shouldn’t have overstepped like that. I should have at least waited until you were awake and asked—”

Though she was tired and weak and it took far more effort than she’d like, Ikkaku lifted her arm and flicked Law squarely in the forehead. He didn’t quite flinch back, but he did give her an annoyed grunt, but his brow did smooth out when he saw her bright smile.

“Thank you,” she said, cheeks streaked with tears but voice warm with love and affection and gratitude. It might take a while for her to fully accept that Ushi was no longer laying in wait at every Marine base, but for now, she could breath a little easier. The monster from her childhood had finally been vanquished.

Trafalgar Law might not have been a knight in shining armor, but he was something better. He was the big brother she’d always wished for.

Relieved that she wasn’t angry, Law gave her a tiny but sincere grin back. His engineer was alive, safe, and giving him that sunny smile that could light up a room. Well worth the blood on his hands, and quietly, he vowed to keep her, and the rest of his Hearts, safe from whatever hell might come their way.

They were a loyal bunch of fools, but they were his family. He’d set the world on fire before allowing anything to happen to them.

A hand adorned with the word DEATH retreated from Ikkaku’s cheek to ruffle her hair. “Don’t mention it.”

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Forty-Two

Table of Content or Part Forty-One

Read here on Wattpad

Words: 3.6k

Warning(s): Explicit language, explicit sexual situations, miscarriage

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I had miscarried a week before the four month mark, and despite the large amount of stress I was under, I was told my body showed signs of preparing to discard the pregnancy, anyway, and it was estimated there hadn't been a heartbeat for almost a week prior.

I planned on telling Nikki before my stomach grew to an obvious size, but I managed to keep it under the radar and it just looked like I was gaining some weight.

Andy had taken me, in and out at consciousness, to the hospital after Nikki's blue color started to miraculously subside and he decided it was better to keep the freshly overdosed heroin junkie away from anyone who could notify authorities.

A D&C was performed, I was given hospital-issued pajama pants since I wasnt wearing any, told not to use tampons, insert anything into my vagina or have sex for two weeks, and I was sent on my way.

"I-I heard the nurse say something about a failed pregnancy." Andy tells me, hesitantly, as we head back to the apartment to see if Nikki's still there.

"They thought it might have been one, but I told them I wasn't pregnant and they decided it was a serious spell of period cramping." I reply.

"You don't fucking pass out from a period cramp, Vivian."

"I passed out because I was in shock from Nikki being blue." I argue.

"That was a lot of blood to be--"

"Andy, until you have a uterus that sheds once a month, you don't get to make the rules as to what's a normal amount of period blood and what isn't." I cut him short and he sighs out.

"Got it, Viv."

When we get back to the apartment, it's empty.

The Rat is gone, and Nikki's gone.

"Do you think he's back at the hotel?" Andy asks me and I pray in my mind he is.

"Maybe he is." I tell him.

I have to give it to Andy, he managed to get Nikki breathing again while simultaneously trying to get me to regain consciousness...all while on heroin himself.

Vince killed his drummer, and he still saved Vince's bassist.

I get back to the hotel, Doc interrogating the front desk, demanding to know where I went and if she's seen me recently.

"Doc, chill out." I tell him, rubbing my eyes and he sees me and relief washes over him.

"Where the fuck have you been?!" He shouts at me. "I was about to call the cops, Vivian!"

"I know, I'm sorry, I just had to go to the doctor for lady issues." I tell him and he looks at me like I've lost my mind, looks at Andy and throws his hands up.

"All you kids are fucking impossible, holy shit!" He calls out, stepping to the elevator.

I turn to Andy, smiling tiredly up at him.

"Thank you for helping Nikki." I tell him.

"I'd do it ten times over, Viv." He replies.

I try my hardest to memorize him, snapping a mental picture of his soft smile, his liner smudged eyes, his clothes...preparing for this being the last time I ever see him, because at the rate he's going, he'll be dead in a couple years.

Tears blur my vision, but never break over my lashes, and I hug him to me.

"Take care of yourself." I tell him calmly. "Please."

"Oh, I'll be fine." He replies, squeezing me back.

When we pull away, his hands hold at either side of my face.

"Keep your head clear." He tells me one last time and I nod.

To this day I still hear him in my mind when I'm overwhelmed.

"Keep your head clear."

I get up to the room to pack, thinking of what the hell to say to Nikki.

He's getting out of the shower when I get in, bruises covering him from where he was hit with the bat, and his chest is bruised from CPR.

I decide not to say anything, ignoring him when he tries to talk to me.

"Baby." He states, realizing I'm purposely ignoring him.

I just fold my dirty clothes up and put them in my bag.

"Vivian." He tries again. "I really don't need you to be pissed at me about this, Viv."

Again, I don't say a word.

I try to head to the bathroom before he's grabbing at my arm, stopping me.

"I over did it, I know I did. I'm sorry, alright? Just please talk to me."

"I'm going back home." I tell him and he looks shocked before his face suddenly scrunches up.

"What?"

"I am going back to L.A." I repeat.

"Why?"

"Because I'm not hanging around to see you pick up where you left off before you nearly died, Nikki, and I know that the second we get to the next city, you'll be pinpointing a dealer as soon as possible." I state.

"I--Viv, I made a mistake, I understand that I made a bad call." He tries to reason with me before snatching my shirt out of my hand before I can pack it. "Will you listen to me?"

"Why? You never listen to me." I hiss at him and his eyes glass over in tears.

Instead of yelling at me, or arguing, he puts my shirt in my bag for me, and helps me pack the rest of my stuff before he gets dressed and gets his own stuff together. "I just want to go home." I finally tell him, feeling a little guilty for being mean to him after what happened to him.

"I know." He says lowly, sitting next to me on the bed. "I just don't want you to."

"I'll only be a phone call away, and the tour will be over in less than a month and you'll be back in no time." I point out.

"Yeah, I guess." He replies.

"Just, please, be careful." I plead, grabbing his hand.

He looks at me and nods a little.

"I will, Viv. I promise." He assures me.

It was bullshit. Two days after that, he was hanging out with Tommy, Rodger Taylor and Robin Zander, at dinner and when lines of power rails of coke were offered to them, Nikki snorted all of it on his own.

But I wasn't worried about Nikki. I prayed for him before I left London and that was that.

I bombard Steven when I see him by Duff's car in the parking lot, wrapping my arms around him tightly, nearly crying tears of joy.

"Have you gotten taller?" I tease, ruffling his fluffy blonde hair.

"Nah, maybe you're getting shorter." He replies as I put my bag in the trunk.

"Short-stop." I shoot at him.

"Firecrotch." He replies without missing a beat and I can't help but laugh.

"You've been hanging around Izzy too much." I point out, getting into the car.

When we get to their apartment, I set my bag on floor by the door and look around at the shithole it is.

"The guys are out, I'm about to go see if I can find 'em if you wanna come." Stevie offers.

I shake my head a little, already knowing how I want to spend my night.

"No, thank you, just wanna shower and get settled." I explain, and he nods.

"You're gonna have to air dry because we don't have towels, and we don't have hot water." He adds. "Also, pee in the shower if you gotta pee because we don't have a toilet anymore."

"What about if I need to do the other?" I ask him and he rubs his lips together.

"We usually just do that in our friend's apartment down the hall. Apartment 205." He informs me and I raise my brows but don't say a word.

"Got it." I reply.

"Alright, well, I'm out." He tells me.

"Okay, see you later tonight." I reply, shutting the door behind him.

I turn to face the mess that is their apartment and I take a breath and get started.

I'm just getting out of the shower by the time I hear the front door open and close, and I hold my arms over my chest and peak my head out of the bathroom, seeing Duff's lanky frame in the kitchen, the only light is from the small lamp on the floor in the living room.

"Hey." I tell him, and he turns around, brows raised.

"Oh, shit, hey." He chuckles off his startledness. "Are you done with your shower?" He asks and I nod.

He's stepping to me, his hand holding out a cheap towel.

"Steven said you were crashing here tonight so I went and got some things...I knew you'd appreciate a towel." He tells me and I chuckle, grateful for his consideration as I step back into the bathroom to wrap up in the towel and step back out to my bag to get pajamas. "I got some shitty sheets for that mattress." He motions to the one bedroom. "And a blanket because we don't have any."

"How do you guys stay warm then?" I ask and he shrugs.

"We usually go home with girls who have blankets." He chuckles and I shake my head a little. "At least they do. Anymore I come back and crash here." He adds. "Also, thank you for cleaning." He notices the much more organized and clean apartment I'd been working on ever since Steven left three hours ago. "Which brings me to my last purchase I know you would need." He puts a can of disinfectant spray on the counter next to the blanket and sheets and I can't hold back to laugh that comes when I see it. "I suggest using the whole can."

"I'm planning on it don't worry." I chuckle as he takes can of spray and the sheets into the bedroom.

I'm assuming to spray down the mattress and put the sheets on.

I dry off and towel dry my hair before slipping on a pair of pajama shorts and a Crüe band tshirt.

Once I'm done in the bathroom, I see Duff sitting on the couch with his bass and I sit beside him as he goofs off with it for a couple minutes before I point to a note his finger is on.

"What's that?" I ask him, curiously.

"J." He tells me and I furrow my brows a little.

"There's a 'J' note on bass?" I ask and he nods, his expression serious for a moment before he cracks into a smile. "Duff, I'm serious." I push at his shoulder lightly and he chuckles.

"I don't know what note it is." He tells me.

"Bullcrap." I state.

"I'm being serious. I don't know a single name of any of the notes."

"You play by ear?!"

"Yep."

"Why?!"

"I just wanted to play bass. I didn't want to learn it step by step. It's obviously working out for me the way I do it now, so." He shrugs. "Is that not what Nikki does?"

"Yeah...but he's Nikki I don't expect him to know all of it. He sticks to the same template of decently easy notes in every song anyway because he's too fucked up to remember anything elaborate." I tell him and he chokes a little, looking at me.

"That's mean." He points at me.

I think about it for a second and sigh out.

"Yeah, you're right. I'm just tired and moody I guess." I mumble, running a hand through my hair.

"Do you need to go to bed?" He asks me.

"Probably." I admit, seeing it's 1:17am on their crooked wall clock, standing up and stretching.

I look towards the bedroom, then to Duff and back to the bedroom before sitting back down.

"What is it?" He asks me.

"I'll just chill here with you for a few more minutes." I tell him.

"Okay."

I lay down, my legs curling to my chest as the top of my head brushes against the side of his thigh, my eyes closing.

I'm probably asleep for another hour before I'm being woken up.

"Viv." Duff slowly shakes me awake and I groan a little, blinking up at him.

"C'mon, I'm helping you to bed." He tells me and I nod sleepily, taking his hands as he helps me up.

I'm half asleep when I fall to the matress on the floor and he chuckles at me grabbing the blanket to cover me up.

"You good?" He asks me after covering me up and I nod. "Okay, I'm crashing on the couch if you need anything."

"Sleep in here." I tell him, rubbing the sleep from my eyes in an attempt to wake myself up a little.

It's obvious he's thinking really hard about the invitation.

"Please?" I ask. "I don't like sleeping alone."

He thinks about it for a moment longer before getting his boots off, laying down beside me as far away as possible, not even taking his jacket off.

"Goodnight, Viv." He says.

"Goodnight." I barely mumble back.

This is where the very strict "friends" line that separated Duff and I began to slowly blur, and I despised myself for it.

I'm tired, but I can't bring myself to sleep, turning to face Duff.

I wonder if he's asleep.

"Duff?" I whisper.

"Hmm?" He replies.

He's laying on his back with an arm tucked behind his head, the other across his abdomen.

I think about how he kissed me, and how did it like he meant it, openly and honestly, and I freaked out over it.

And why?

Because of Nikki?

I remember the reminiscent feeling I got with Duff, when he made his drunk move, mirrored how I felt when Nikki first made his five years ago.

My eyes go back to the blonde beside me, the temptation to either scare him away or draw him in more is pulling at me strong.

"Take your jacket off." I say to him lowly and he looks at me in the dark of the room, the only sliver of light coming from the neon glowing lights of the strip.

"Viv." He says it like he knows what I'm thinking he's begging me not to because he couldn't possibly resist.

I sit up getting on my knees, pulling my tshirt over my head and discarding it.

"Shit." He mumbles to himself, sighing out as I crawl to him.

All it takes is my leg swinging over his hips to straddle him and he's caving.

He doesn't dare make a move to touch me, probably trying to decide if this is real or not, until I'm pressing my lips against his, moaning softly as my nipples gently rub against the fabric of his clothes.

My hands grab either side of his unzipped jacket, pulling him up to a sitting position, pushing the leather from him, he discards the jacket across the room and my hands run down his arms to his wrists to guide his hands to my hips as I slowly start rocking against his groin as my forehead rests against his, my breath catching in my throat as pleasure sparks through me.

"Fuck, Viv..." he breaths out, finger tips lightly pressing into the flesh of my hips.

Pull up on the bottom of his shirt, leaning into him when it's off, feeling his skin against mine as our lips meet once more before I'm running my tongue along his bottom lip to give him the hint.

His hands move to my ass, guiding the slow, needy movements of the junction of my thighs against the hardness in his pants.

Our tongues tangle together as he moves one of his hands up to run his thumb against my nipple.

I whimper, the ache in my core growing stronger as he gets comfortable and shifts from being shy and acting like he doesn't know what to do, to complete dominance, pushing me onto my back, my hair hanging off the foot of the bed.

He takes his pants off as I pull at my shorts, rubbing my thighs together, looking up at him as he gives me a happy smile, pressing his lips to my ankle, working his way up inch by inch, worshipping me with each caress, each kiss, each move.

He's running his tongue against my clit, eliciting another moan from me, my back arching as my hands fall into his blonde hair.

When he hits a certain spot, I gasp, my eyes nearly watering.

"Right there, please, Duff." I quietly whine out a beg.

He listens, continuing to move his tongue against me, causing me to resort to shallow breaths as pleasure builds.

One of his hands goes to my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers, only encouraging me to grind into his face with his slow, savoring, pace.

I'm coming before realizing it, my toes curling, his name catching in my throat as I arch my back.

He looks like he's about to go back for seconds but I'm sitting up and pulling his lips to mine before taking my hand and wrapping it around his prick.

The thought of it inside of me sends me into overdrive and he groans out as I run my thumb over his tip, my thigh hooking around him as my legs spread, wanting him inside of me.

I fall back on the matress taking him with me as our lips stay locked, and both of his hands are on either side of my head as we break our kiss.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks me. "I mean really sure. I don't want to hurt you, Viv, I--"

I cut him short, giving him reassuring kiss before looking up at him again.

He nods, as if convincing himself to disrespect Nikki and our marriage as he jerks himself off a couple of times before placing his head at my entrance.

He slowly pushes himself in, and by the time he's in as far as my body has room for him to be in, he's grasping the blanket we're on, under his hands, obviously trying to keep his control.

"Are you okay?" He asks me, giving me time to adjust to him.

I don't answer, my hands pushing at his sides to get him to pullout of me, and he thinks I want him off of me, nearly moving completely out of me before I'm wrapping my legs around him, causing him to push back into me.

The feeling forces a loud, wanton, nearly pornish sound from me and he realizes I want him to keep going.

He smiles to me, kissing me again while pulling out and thrusting back into me, gently.

"Duff," I start, breathing out.

"Y-Yeah?" He asks, stopping suddenly.

"I'm not gonna break." I tell him with a shy smile as a subtle hint to screw me into the mattress.

He's chuckling a little, loosening up, before thrusting into me a little faster, rougher, and harder.

"Fuck, Duff!" I can't control myself, my nails screaming against the skin of his back as his length moves inside of me addictively.

He repeatedly hits against my tender cervix, and the thought of him finishing inside of me is fucking crazy but nearly primal.

"You feel so fucking good." He tells me, his cigarettes laced breath adding to the comfort of him pulling pressing his body against mine, taking my lower lip between his teeth.

My fingers curl into his blonde hair, my nipples aggressively move against him with his desperate pace.

"I'm gonna come." I tell him, my eyes closing, my lips slightly opened as tremors course through me.

I cry out so loudly he has to put his hand over my mouth incase any of the guys are home.

Tears roll down my face as he picks up the pace, chasing after his high with my legs locked around him.

"I love you." He tells me, his lips brushing against mine.

"I love you, too." I say back, my hand going between my legs to play with my clit to try have another hit before he finishes.

His hand is moving mine out of the way and rubbing at me far better than I can in my love-high state.

More of my juices flood onto him as my brain fills with more endorphins, my eyes heavy with a floating high.

"I'm about to come." He tells me.

"Come in me." I tell him, hazily, not thinking clearly.

"Viv, I--"

"Please, I wanna feel it, Duff. I wanna feel you." I beg, arching into him, pulling his hips into mine with my thighs.

He doesn't argue, cursing out as streams of his cum pump into me.

He doesn't get off of me until he's finished, the both of us laying in silence as nausea forces it's way through me.

I'm sitting up, throwing up, my body sweating and my face soaked with tears.

I realize I'm throwing up on the living room's stained carpet as Duff startles awake from where he fell asleep beside me on the couch.

Izzy's passed out on the floor on the other side of the coffee table and I look at the clock to see it's 5:00am.

"Viv, are you alright?" Duff asks me, but all I hear in the sound of his voice is the terrifying idea that I just dreamt up an entire fantasy about him that seems so unbelievably realistic, that if he weren't still fully dressed, jacket and boots included, I would swear it actually happened.

My heart sinks to my stomach.

I need Nikki.

It was one hell of a foreshadow.

[bulldagger-bait]

Sometimes I really hate the fact I was born female.

I hate that fact that men don't take me seriously.

I hate that I'm seen as a harpy whenever I show slight passion about a topic.

I hate that I was raised in a school where the boys thought I was insane for being a feminist. Where boys took pictures of me after saying "women only belong in two places, the kitchen and the bedroom", and then posting them all over social media calling me the "angry man hating lesbian feminist". I hate that a boy negged me on in chemistry class, sexually harassed me, and then when I lost it at him my chemistry teacher told me to calm down, that I was overreacting. I hate that when i told him to fuck off, and got sent to the deputy principal to explain myself. Me. Not him. Not the boy who was harrassing me, or the teacher that allowed it in his classroom.

I hate that when I told my dad a boy had been sexually harassing me, he went behind my back, contacted his parents and my school administration. I hate that I was then called into my deputy principals office and told that this had all "been blown out of proportion" and that I was being unreasonable. But it wasn't unreasonable for that boy to say he couldnt wait until I was 18 to get me drunk and high so he could have sex with me. When I was an out lesbian.

I hate that one of my friends was raped by a boy in our school. I hate that when she told the school they didn't believe her. I hate that they made her continue to share classes with him. I hate that she was threatened with suspension for spreading lies about "such a serious topic" and that he was able to keep harassing her on school grounds, unchecked.

I hate that one of my friends thought it was okay to threaten to rape me in front of my entire social group as a joke. And then I was seen as a hysterical bitch for telling my most trusted teacher. She actually did something about the situation. I was then ostracised from that group of friends. I "couldnt take a joke" apparently.

I hate that when I was nine years old I was riding my bike around my neighbourhood, and a boy five years my senior cornered me in an alleyway and tried to rape me not twenty meters away from my front door.

I hate that when I was younger a boy would hit me, scratch me, pull my hair, twist my arm, dig his grubby little fingers into my pressure points, making me cry out with pain, only to be told it was because he liked me. I hate that I believed it. I hate that I let it continue for two years. For two years my "best friend" covered me in bruises, and I let him because it made me feel pretty and wanted. I was ten.

I hate that when I was fourteen and desperate to convince myself I wasn't gay, a boy who i thought was my friend tried to pressure me into dating him only to then tell me about his porn addiction—his words, not mine—and call me an insensitive cunt for getting as far away from him as possible. After he told me about the things he'd like to do to me. Not with me. To me. As fourteen year olds. As children.

I hate that I was forced into pink and shaved legs and make up and long hair.

I hate that my mother made me cut up boxer shorts I had bought because I was sick and tired of wearing panties. Because some guy had made some comment about my grammy-panties. Never mind the fact that they were comfortable. I bought boxers because they were closer to shorts and I thought boys would just leave me alone. I bought boxers because they were cool and had superheroes on them and were comfortable. I bought boxers because I was sick and tired of the neon pink panties my mother had been making me wear for my entire life.

I hate that I wore pigtails to school and a boy called them "ride-me handle-bars".

I hate that when I cut my hair off the first thing people assumed I was, was a man. As if its that easy to take my womanhood away from me. As if all that makes a woman is long hair. I hate that I was called "skank who was trying to hard" when I had long hair, an "art hoe" when I had short hair, and a "dyke", "failed woman", "wannabe man" when it was cropped.

I hate that at 8 years old I was being bullied for being ugly. Because I had unkempt eyebrows. Unshaven legs. Tangled hair. Sweaty skin. Scraped knees. A crooked smile. Because I wasn't a child model. Because I wasn't some pedophiles wet dream.

I hate that I'm considered incompetent for certain jobs because of my menstrual cycle. Because women are too over emotional when they're "pms-ing" or "on the rag"

I hate that a man's go to insult for me is "cunt". Something that dehumanises me to my genitals. How silly of me to think I was anything more than just a hole for someone to fuck.

I hate that someone took advantage of my sexuality. Because I was repressed. Because I was a woman who grew up in a christian environment. Because I was a lesbian who was still convinced I could be straight. Because there was a pretty woman who knew she could manipulate me. I hate how there are people who still think its my fault, or that lesbian sex isnt even real so how could I be raped? Or that women can't rape. I hate that I had been convinced that what happened to me was normal. Because women are frigid bitches that don't want sex, but their partners do, and its "inhumane" to not put out.

I hate that I am paid less. And that people don't believe women arent paid less. Despite the fact that their is mountains of evidence to support our argument.

I hate that I had to do twice the work to get half the recognition in school.

I hate that a boy with no experience and no drive was seen as a more suitable leader than I was. Because I was a "controlling bitch". I hate that I did an incredible amount of work on the student council and he got to take the credit for it. I hate that he was a worse student but was seen as more acedemically gifted than I was.

I hate the double standards.

I hate how every part of my body is sexualised. I hate how my disability is sexualised.

I hate how when I mentioned my chronic pain condition to my male classmates, they made comments about how I would make a fantastic masochist. I hate that I internalised it. I hate that I believed them. I hate that when I got into a sexual relationship I let her hurt me—even though i didn't like it—because I throught kinky sex was the bare minimum and "vanilla" was for frigid prudes.

I hate that my body is not mine, but rather belongs to the public. For the government to legislate. For strangers to ogle at. For my father to control. And when I speak up I'm an unreasonable bitch. When I demand agency, I'm insane.

I hate how the odds were stacked against me since birth all because of that second x chromosome. All because some doctor said "its a girl" and immediately half of my opportunities were removed because they "weren't for girls".

I hate that in order to keep a job I am supposed to adhere to femininity. That not wearing make up is seen as lazy and unhygienic. That I need to "fix my eyebrows". That I need to shave my "gross gorilla legs".

I hate all this bullshit bagage that comes with being female. I hate it. I hate it so much. I hate that I am my own voyeur. I hate that even in my most private moments I am focused on how an unseen gaze would percieve me.

I hate that the slightest devience from "purity" will be met with threats of violence. That if someone doesnt agree with my politics I can be told to "choke on a dick" and to "kill myself" and whoever said that is safe in the knowledge that their community supports their words and actions. That if I step a toe out of line or make a mistake I deserve the full force of misogyny that people have been waiting to dole out to an appropriate victim.

I hate that my own father sexualised me. I hate that he abused me. I hate that he got away with it all because "teen girls make up that kind of stuff for attention". Because he was an "upstanding man". I hate that believes he is guiltless. I hate that he has manipulated and gaslighted me into believing his version of events. I hate that when I speak up I need to be careful because "he's a good man" and "he doesnt seem like the kind to do that" and that "you're blowing things out of proportion, I'm sure it was never like that."

I hate that when women accuse men of violence its "he said, she said". But when men accuse women of the same they are instantly believed. I hate that my voice holds less weight than a man's.

I hate that the religion I was raised in told me not to speak in church. Not to ask questions. To submit to men. To cover my head before god. That braided hair was sinful and vain.

I hate that I was taught there was no such thing as a female orgasm in order to discourage me from having sex. That I was told sex would be painful. And yet I was also told that when I married a man I should freely give him sex because it was my duty to serve him and bear children.

I hate that I'm seen as a baby factory.

I hate that I'm seen as a collection of body parts. A uterus. A pair of tits. A vagina.

I'm not those things. I am made up of those things, but they do not define my worth. I am made of carbon, but you wouldn't call me "an arrangement of carbon atoms" or "a carbon storage system" or "a carbon factory"

I hate that when I talk about my experience with womanhood I need to twist myself into knots to not step on any toes or offend. I hate that I have to be palatable when I am upset and enraged.

I hate that my anger is demonised and sexualised.

I hate that my love is fetished by heterosexual men. I hate that they see lesbianism as this empty thing to get off to.

I hate that I don't feel safe holding my girlfriend's hand in public. I love her more than anything in the world and my skin burns when I don't get to touch her. I hate that sometimes I get scared and call her my "friend". Not girlfriend. I hate that in public I feel ashamed to love her.

I hate it that my homosexuality is debated. I hate that it is seen as disgusting.

I hate that I have been taught and socialised that every single part of who I am is fundamentally flawed in some way.

And yet, despite all this, there are days where I am grateful for who I am. There are days when this body is not my enemy. There are days when I love my womanhood, however that may appear. There are days when I am unbothered by the thoughts of others. There are days where I am unafraid to love who I love and to love proudly.

There are days where the pain and anger of the past drive me to be happy.

I know those days won't last. They never do. There's always a slur, or a misogynist, or an abuser, or a traumatic memory. There's always a right being infringed upon, or an aspect of my body made public property, and it takes me right back to the anger.

I could never stop being angry. There is too much pain in this body to forgive and forget.

But sometimes, I don't hate the fact that I was born female. Some days I'm proud.

[owlways-and-forever]

A/N: This is a relatively short chapter, but it felt like a good place to break things up, so here it is. There's a brief description of trauma, but that's about it. I hope you guys are all ready to meet a new character! Enjoy!

Summary: After tragedy tears his life apart, Killian Jones is determined to exact revenge on the ones who wronged him. But his path to revenge turns out to be a winding one, filled with surprising characters that may even change his life again. American Assassin inspired AU.

Tagging: @killian-whump​, @hollyethecurious​

Word Count: 1010 (3791)

Links: ao3, ff.net, (tumblr) Prologue, Ch 1

Chapter 2: Chosen

Killian sat at the cold metal table, resisting the urge to drum his fingers against the top in his impatience. He had been interrogated four times already, and he knew they were trying to decide whether he was terrorist or completely insane, or perhaps both, but Killian was neither. Every move he had made had been coolly calculated and he would have succeeded if they hadn't derailed his plans entirely and he was positively seething like a cauldron ready to bubble over.

The door to the "interview room", as they liked to call it, opened, and a new woman walked through, her heels clacking against the floor as she flicked through the manila file in her well-manicured hands. After a moment in which she paid Killian no attention and he waited silently, the woman dropped the closed file on the table and smoothed her tight-fitting dress before sitting down across from him.

"Do you have any idea how long you've been here?" she asked after considering him for another moment.

"One hundred forty-one hours, if I had to guess," Killian answered, cracking the knuckles in his fingers.

"Forty-two, actually," the woman corrected, but a raised eyebrow indicated that she was more than a little impressed. She paused as if waiting for him to offer an explanation, but he did nothing of the sort, instead continuing to stare at her defiantly. "My name," she continued, "is Regina Mills, I am the Deputy Director for Operations, which means that –"

"You're in charge of all the spies," Killian finished, and he thought he might have seen the corners of her mouth twitch upward.

"We don't have spies, Mr. Jones, this isn't the Cold War," she sneered, and Killian rolled his eyes.

"Right, agents, operatives, whatever it is you call them now."

"My job is to manage the collection and analysis of intelligence," Ms. Mills continued, undeterred.

"Must not be doing a very good job if you needed to follow my lead into Donetsk," Killian spat, clenching his fists.

"Or, we managed to do a great job, since we were able to locate a nobody in Seattle and track him all the way to a warehouse in Ukraine," she countered.

"I did all the work for you," Killian challenged, bristling for a fight.

"Mr. Jones, I know the world sucks, and your parents were murdered when you were eight, and your brother was killed in action, and your fiancée was shot in the head by terrorists, so you think that god hates you and all you have to live for is revenge. I get it."

"No, you don't," Killian mumbled, anger boiling inside of him and he felt his temperature rising.

"Trust me, I do, but that doesn't mean you get to go around –"

"YOU HAVE NO IDEA!" Killian screamed, his arms straining against his handcuffs, muscles bulging under his t-shirt. "SHE WAS EVERYTHING TO ME, EVERYTHING! I HAD NOTHING EXCEPT HER AND THAT MONSTER…"

"I DO KNOW!" Ms. Mills yelled back, standing and slamming her hands down on the metal table. "My husband was tortured, in front of me, and my uterus was removed with my baby inside while I watched, and nothing, nothing, will every compare to that, so don't you talk about loss to me," she hissed, her black eyes narrowing, and for the first time, Killian genuinely felt intimidated by the woman in front of him, with power and barely-controlled rage radiating from her.

"I'm –"

"I went on my own revenge warpath, and listen to me when I tell you that it is a mistake," she continued. "What was your plan? After you killed the man who murdered Milah, what were you going to do next?"

Killian said nothing, because he didn't have an answer. He had never really considered that far, and if he was honest with himself it was because he never expected to get that far before he died.

"Oh I see, you're the die trying kind?" she smirked, cold and cruel. "You always expected to be killed trying to achieve your goal, so there was no plan for what happens next. Genius, really, you are. But hey, at least you knew your stupid ass was probably going to be killed."

Killian looked down at his hands, cuffed in his lap, knuckles bruised, and was surprised to find that he felt shame prickling in his gut.

"I think you might be a good fit for one of our operations," Ms. Mills stated, after taking a deep breath.

"No," Killian huffed, not wanting to hear her sales pitch about becoming a better man or patriotic duty or whatever she was planning to say.

"It's black ops, codenamed Paladin, and the purpose of it is to identify and neutralize active terrorists who pose a threat to national security," she continued as though she hadn't heard him.

"No," he repeated more firmly, his eyes firmly focused on his hands.

"Mr. Jones, it is high time you got over yourself, and started channeling your rage, hatred, and survivor's guilt into something that is useful for the rest of society," Ms. Mills stated, her hand on her hip as she tossed a stack of papers from inside his file down in front of him. "Either you get on board or you spend the next fifty years in solitary confinement, I don't really care which."

She turned and swept out of the room, her heels clicking on the floor again, and when the door closed behind her, Killian reached out an gently ran his fingertips over the ink, feeling the slight bumps of the letters. It wasn't really a difficult choice, he knew the answer was obvious, but it was taking a lot from him to pick up the pen and sign the papers in front of him. He allowed himself a minute before he told himself to knuckle down and pull himself together, and then Killian Jones picked up the pen in front of him and signed his name across the blank line at the bottom of the agreement.

[talia-suskauer]

Feels Like Loneliness - Part Eleven

This update took a long time. Lots of things prevented me from writing. However, I got this part done and I hope you all enjoy. There’s only going to be one or two more parts of this fic to come. Shout out and thanks to @francescabuccino for discussing my ideas with me ♥ -Megan

Previous parts: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten

--

“Incoming trauma, car crash victim, two minutes out,” April hollered.

Amelia followed the woman, along with Richard. As she made her way out there, she caught sight of her husband in the ER and she felt pain in the pit of her stomach. It sucked working at the same place as Owen. Just looking at him lately made her want to cry. She knew she couldn’t do that though, not while she had a job to do. The ambulance pulled up, and all of them rushed over. 

“What do we have?” April asked.

“Female, 35 years old. She was seen crossing the street and got hit by a car. The driver wasn’t paying attention. The witnesses said he wasn’t going fast, but the impact was still enough. She’s alive but sustained multiple injuries,” the paramedic started explaining.

“Do we have ID for this woman?” Richard asked.

“We couldn’t find any ID on her.”

“That’s Ella,” Amelia said in a hushed tone.

“What?” April asked.

“It’s Ella,” Amelia said louder. “Owen’s girlfriend.”

“Let’s get her inside, now!” April demanded.

The pushed her inside, getting her set up in an empty trauma room. As Amelia pulled her small light out of her pocket, she looked over the redheaded woman on the table. Their last conversation replayed in her mind over and over again as she stared at the wounds on her body.

“Dr. Shepherd?”

“Huh?”

“Were you going to examine this patient or are you just going to stand there?” Richard asked.

“She told me she’s pregnant,” Amelia said.

“She’s pregnant?” April repeated. “Webber, get Robbins down here now. How far along is she?”

“I don’t know. She showed up here a the other week and told me that she was pregnant, I don’t know, Kepner! I didn’t exactly take the time to find out details about the baby that she was planning to raise with my husband!”

Arizona rushed down to the trauma room and began an ultrasound while the rest of the doctors continued to work on her. Her face crinkled as she moved the wand around her stomach.

“Uh guys?” she asked. Everyone looked up.

“What is it, Robbins?” Richard asked.

“What am I meant to be looking at? There’s no baby in there.”

“Amelia, you said she was pregnant!” April snapped.

“Because she told me she was! Her exact words were ‘We’re having a baby. He’s chosen me, Amelia. I’m giving him the life he dreams of.’ She told me that she was pregnant and giving him a family,” Amelia stated. 

She was fuming. Ella lied to her? It made sense. She wanted to drive Amelia away, out of the picture. She wanted her gone so she could have Owen, and she knew that saying she was pregnant would be the way to drive an even larger wedge between the married couple. It was infuriating that she would lie about something so serious. She continued on with her neuro examination. 

“She’s stable for now, let’s get her up to CT,” Amelia said, putting her light away when she finished. 

She wanted to just leave her, and let anything wrong with her kill her. She felt feelings of strong, strong hate towards the woman in front of her. As a doctor she knew she couldn’t do that. Above everything else she was a patient, and it was Amelia’s job to make sure she stayed alive.

As they wheeled her out, Owen glanced over. His eyes widened as he saw his girlfriend. She had several long lines of stitches to close up the deep wounds, as well as an array of dark bruises littering her pale skin.

“What happened?” he asked, running over to them.

“She was hit by a car, we’re taking her up to CT,” April said.

“I’m coming with you, I can help.. I.. The baby, what about the baby?” 

“You go ahead, I’ll meet you up there,” Amelia said. She turned to Owen. “You can’t help, Dr. Hunt. You’re in a relationship, and you can’t work on family. That goes for significant others even if you’re not ‘family’ exactly. You know that. And there is no baby. She’s a freaking liar,” Amelia told him.

“She wouldn’t lie about that,” Owen said. “I know you don’t like her but you don’t need to go around trying to give me false inf--”

“Arizona checked. I told them she was pregnant and there was nothing there but an empty uterus. You’re right, I don’t like her. I hate everything about her, but she is a patient, my patient, now if you’ll excuse me,” she said, pushing past him.

--

“She’s seizing,” Amelia shouted.

The doctors worked to maneuver the woman onto her side. 

“Damn it,” Amelia hissed. 

The seizure began to slow, eventually ending. Amelia did another quick but thorough neuro exam, and shook her head. 

“We need to get her to an OR, now.”

--

Owen sat in the waiting room for hours. He couldn’t believe that Ella had been in an accident like that. He was scared for her. He cared for her, he didn’t want her to die. He knew that she was in good hands though. He knew that every surgeon she was with would take amazing care of her. Even Amelia, even though he knew that deep down it was killing her inside to have to save Ella.

Sipping at a coffee, he held the cup tightly in his hands. His left leg bounced gently as he sat there. He wasn’t talking to any of the people around him, his head was filled. Ella lied about being pregnant. All he could think about was the fact that she lied about it, getting his hopes up just for it to be nothing. He wanted a family so badly. In his perfect world he would be happily married with at least one kid, but hopefully more than that. And there he was dating someone while being separated from his wife, still with no child in the picture. The life he envisioned was definitely not exactly what he had. 

Owen heard footsteps and looked up. Amelia tugged off her scrub cap and held it tightly in her hands as she approached her husband. She let out a soft sigh as she took in the terrified expression on Owen’s face.

“Is she...?” he asked, expecting to hear that Ella was in a coma, or worse.

“She’s fine,” Amelia replied. “She isn’t awake but she’s alive.”

His face softened and he moved closer to Amelia, wrapping his arms around her tightly. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“It’s my job, Owen,” she replied somewhat coldly, pushing him off of her. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you when she wakes up.”

“I’m not so sure,” Owen said.

“Why?”

“She lied to me. She got me thinking I was going to be a dad, and then it was just.. just ripped away from me. It’s so wrong to lie to somebody about that,” he told her. “I can’t be with someone like that. I can’t be with someone who lies about being pregnant.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to find your next woman to try and win over,” she said, biting her lip.

She didn’t want Owen to keep seeing other people. She didn’t want him to forget that she was there, waiting. She loved him. Amelia shrugged, and began to walk away. Owen took hold of her by the forearm and tugged her back to him.

He looked into Amelia’s eyes, keeping them locked. His heart was beating heavily, as was hers. He really did love Amelia. He wanted her, he just wanted less fighting. He wanted things to be natural, and happy. He wanted a family someday, but he wanted it with Amelia, even if she wasn’t there yet. Being apart from her and getting to test the field, Owen knew that she was the only one who could make him feel how he did.

“What if I want to win you back over?” he asked.

“Owen, you don’t want that..” she said softly.

“I do. We’ll figure us out Amelia. Please.”

With their gaze locked for a few more moments, Owen hesitated a little before leaning in closer. He pressed his lips to Amelia’s and pulled her up against him. She reciprocated the kiss, reaching a hand up to cup his face.

“I’m glad Ella wasn’t pregnant,” Amelia admitted.

“I’m sad, but a little relieved. I think it would be hard to have kids with her. Especially seeing her true colours.”

“Owen, I still don’t want to have...”

“I know. But I want you. Someday maybe you’ll change your mind, or we could adopt. We can get a pet! We just need to figure it out, Amelia. I’ve seen what’s out there, I want this to work. I want us to work.”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around him for a tight embrace. 

“I never stopped loving you.”

“I never stopped either.”

[anavoliselenu]

Hiched chapter 9

Chapter One

Justin

What a fucking public relations nightmare.

I’m at a charity event on behalf of Tate & Cane Enterprises. My new wife hasn’t been seen or heard from in two days; my best friend, Sterling, is in the bathroom fucking a waitress; and I’m standing here with a spatula in my hand, cursing them all a slow death under my breath.

We’re at a charity event at a soup kitchen. Supposedly, we’re doing good for the impoverished youths of our community, but it’s really just an excuse to empty the pockets of New York’s elite by serving them a very overpriced lunch. And considering I’m one of the cooks, I doubt it’ll taste like much. I enjoy cooking; I just rarely do it. I have one, maybe two recipes my mother used to make that I’ve mastered, and curried chicken salad isn’t one of them. The smell alone is nauseating. Though that could be because I have no appetite.

For the hundredth time, I wish I’d just hired Rosita and written her a blank check. If I had, they’d be eating like kings today. But the good cause isn’t the only reason I’m here. Hell, it’s not even my main reason.

As soon as I arrived at the soup kitchen this morning, the vultures of New York high society descended, peppering me with questions. How was the wedding? Why are you alone? Where’s your blushing goddamned bride?

Even if I had a clue how to answer, it was none of their fucking business. Selena’s father, Fred Cane, stepped in and saved me, telling everyone the ceremony was intimate and beautiful, and that Selena sends her regrets but was unable to make it. I volunteered for kitchen duty just to get a few hours of peace away from the public eye.

Or at least, that was the idea. I force myself to grin at the photographer who invaded the kitchen twenty minutes ago as his camera clicks away. If he asks me one more time where Selena is, I’m going to shove his thousand-dollar camera up his ass.

“How’s it coming?” the lead cook asks, looking into the massive stainless steel mixing bowl of chopped chicken dripping in amber curry.

“All set.” I slide the bowl toward him just as another cook sets a tray of pre-sliced croissants on the industrial kitchen’s counter.

They thank me for coming today as I remove my stained apron and toss it in the laundry basket on my way out of the kitchen.

A few more hands to shake, a couple of photo ops, and then I’m out of here. Sterling is still nowhere to be found, but the prick can find his own ride home. It’s not as if New York City isn’t crawling with taxis. And I’m not in the mood for company anyway.

When Selena stood me up at the altar, something inside me broke. I’d worked my ass off to try to show her that we could actually work as a couple, and I thought we were getting somewhere. Sharing an apartment, sleeping in the same bed, our sweet make-out sessions that were starting to turn into something more. And we were gelling at the office too . . . slowly turning the company around, one executive decision at a time.

I blow out a frustrated sigh. Never in my life have I worked this hard at winning over a woman. But Selena’s not just any woman. I grew up with her, placed her on this untouchable pedestal for twenty years, and she was this close to being mine. Before she ran off. And I still don’t even understand why. Though I have a damn good idea—

The heir clause in our inheritance contract.

Sterling was right. I guess she didn’t want me putting a bun in her oven after all. But I never thought she’d react like this. Scream and swear and cut off my balls, yes. Vanish without a trace, no.

In the event hall, people are mingling, shaking hands, and munching on the crudité. I spot Selena’s father at the far end of the room and start toward him. He’s a short, squat man with silver hair, a round belly, and a perpetual grin on his face. Basically, he’s like Santa’s brother. It’s hard not to love the guy, even when he won’t tell me what I need to know, and is being a royal pain in my ass.

“You ready to tell me where she is?” I ask, leaning in so only he can hear me.

He excuses himself from the man he was talking to and turns toward me. “Justin,” he starts, his tone jovial as if we’re discussing our upcoming yachting weekend on the Hudson.

“Cut the shit, old man.” I maintain a friendly grin in case anyone is watching. “Where is she?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, and for the first time, I can see that this is weighing on him almost as much as it’s weighing on me.

“She’s somewhere safe, that’s all that matters, and she’s mulling things over. She’ll be back when she’s ready. This is Selena we’re talking about.”

I nod solemnly. She’s as stubborn as the day is long. And he’s right. She’ll be back when she’s good and ready. Probably with an iron-clad argument, ready to negotiate the terms of her uterus with gusto. I smirk at the thought. At first I figured she was staying with Camryn, but after ransacking her best friend’s apartment, my new guess is one of Manhattan’s five-star hotels.

“When you speak with her again, tell her to call me,” I hiss under my breath. Fred and I have always been on good terms—he was my father’s closest friend, after all—but my patience has run thin.

He nods. “Of course I will.”

Just then, Sterling approaches with that just-fucked look. You know the one. Mussed hair, wrinkled collar, shirt untucked, smug-ass grin on his face like he just got his nuts off. The fucking bastard.

“Well, that was quick.” I check my watch. “If you need lessons in stamina, all you have to do is ask.”

An elbow in the ribs kills my smile. “Fuck off, Justin. We both know why you’re in a foul mood, and I don’t blame you.”

Fred excuses himself as Sterling and I trade jabs.

“So, was she fun?” I ask as we walk toward the exit.

“Of course,” he replies. But his eyes are on the door and there’s no conviction in his voice.

I’ve been there. Quick, unmemorable fucks with girls whose names I couldn’t even recall a mere twenty-four hours later. Which is all the more reason why Selena’s disappearing act feels like something had been ripped out of me.

Sure, we had our ups and downs, but I miss the banter, miss the way I could rile her up with the slightest of provocations. I just missed her.

I’m not looking forward to going home alone. The apartment feels stale without her. She hadn't even been there long, and already the place felt empty and void without her. Like all the warmth and charm has been sucked out by a vacuum. Only her scent lingers, and it makes me ache for her even more. Just when I started to get used to a woman’s touch at home, it was all ripped away. And that damn teapot she got us as a housewarming gift sits unused on the kitchen counter, mocking me. Why give me a peace token if she was just going to run out on me?

Sinking down onto the vinyl backseat of a cab, I let out a sigh. I’ve been hounding Fred about where she is, but the truth is, I don’t care. Well, I do care—every time I turn around and see she’s not there, her absence hurts all over again. But what I really want is to know why she ran out on me. Left me standing on the beach like a fucking idiot, waiting for our ceremony to start.

My head is swimming with questions, with anger and confusion and loss, and there’s an unexplained ache in my chest. It’s eerily familiar. Almost like the relentless throbbing I felt when Mum died. The kind of pain that fades a fraction with each passing day, but never goes away completely.

“You okay, buddy?” the cab driver asks, peering at me in the rearview mirror.

“I’m fine. Sorry.” Shit, I spaced out. I’ve been just sitting here in the back of his cab.

“You have somewhere you need to be?” he asks.

“Yes, home.” I give him the address, bewildered about the fact that I’ve started thinking of our shared penthouse as home.

My phone rings. My heart rate kicks up—for a second, I wonder if it’s Selena. But the name flashing on my screen for the third time today quickly informs me otherwise.

“Hello?” I mumble, deflated.

“How are you holding up?” Rosita asks.

She’s been calling every couple of hours, but this is the first time I’ve answered. Something about discussing it out loud—let alone with another person—might make this whole nightmare too real. But the sincerity in her tone is genuine and honest, and I suddenly feel like a dick for putting off her calls.

“I’m okay, I guess. Just confused.”

She sighs, and I can imagine her nodding her head, agreeing with me.

“When I learned you were getting married, I wasn’t sure what to think of this whole arrangement, but I figured if it was what your father wanted, it was for the best. He was a good man. And he loved both you and Selena.”

“Yeah,” I say, agreeing with her. But in times like this, where everything seems so fucked, it makes it hard to figure out what Dad was thinking.

I hear a rush of static as Rosita takes a deep breath. “But the more I got to thinking about it all, I realized I liked the idea of you getting married. Someone to cook you breakfast in the morning, someone to make sure you’re okay. A wife getting after you to make sure you take your vitamins. I liked the idea.”

I chuckle at her. “I can take care of myself, you know?” Rosita’s always been such a mother hen.

“I know, hijo,” she replies without missing a beat. “I know you can. But I liked that you wouldn’t have to.”

“You do know I was left at the altar, right?” As sweet as her sentiment is, the timing is horrible. Besides, it’s not like Selena is the doting, domestic type, bringing me slippers and serving me breakfast in bed.

“Of course I do. What I’m saying is that even though your ego is bruised, you need to take a deep breath and figure out why she left. See if there’s something you can do to fix this. Because I really think the two of you could work.”

I swallow the boulder in my throat. The only time Rosita has really seen Selena and me together was at her daughter Maria’s birthday party. A rare smile graces my lips at the memory. It was a fun day. Navigating Rosita’s enthusiastic extended family with my timid Snowflake by my side.

“I will listen to every word she says, I promise you that.” Whenever Selena gets around to coming back. If she comes back.

“Okay. Be good. Love you.”

“Love you too, Rosie.” I stuff my cell back in my pocket and hand a twenty to the cab driver as he rolls to a stop in front of our building.

Upstairs, I toss my keys in the wooden bowl by our penthouse door and wander inside. I’m really not looking forward to sleeping alone tonight. I consider heading back out, maybe to the bar down the street to drown my sorrows in a glass of fine whiskey. I flip on the light—and I freeze.

Selena is sitting on the couch. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she looks tired. Her dark blond waves are disheveled and that glow in her cheeks is gone.

“I need your help,” she says.

Has she been waiting for me? How long? And is that all she has to say? Four simple words . . . when four thousand wouldn’t be enough. And she’s asking for a favor?

My jaw tightens as disbelief darkens into anger.

“First, I need some answers,” I demand.

Chapter Two

Selena

I arrive back at the penthouse early in the afternoon. Justin’s not here, so I change into fresh clothes and eat a granola bar while I wait. I lie down for a nap, but end up just staring at the ceiling; try to work, but stop because I can’t focus; try to read a magazine, then resign myself to waiting on the sofa.

Where the hell is he? He wouldn’t be at the office on a Sunday—this is Justin we’re talking about. I try not to think about the possibility that he stayed the night with another woman.

But if he did . . . well, I’m the one who abandoned our wedding. I can’t blame him for thinking our relationship is over. For wanting to be done with me, and find a new girlfriend who isn’t such a hassle. Even though the last thing on my mind yesterday was hurting him.

God, the nightmare of the last forty-eight hours is still spinning through my head. I can still hear Brad’s voice on the phone, slithering into my ear like some horrible alien parasite . . .

• • •

“Good afternoon, Selena,” Brad said. “You really should check your e-mail more often.”

“Wh-what do you want?” I choked out.

“Check your e-mail and tell me if you recognize the attached photos.”

I hammered the End Call icon and tapped my e-mail app. One new message. I opened it . . . and my breath froze solid in my throat.

Of course I recognized those pictures. Back when we were still dating, Brad had nagged me to take some sexy naked selfies for him. And I’d caved, because I was still a gullible girl who thought he might turn into a decent boyfriend if I just tried hard enough and gave him whatever his slimy, shriveled little heart desired.

He’d had me convinced that he was a good man and all his selfish, controlling behavior was my fault. Whenever he was mad, it was because I’d provoked him. (Of course, when I was mad, I was just a childish bitch who looked for reasons to get offended.) He’d sulked when I didn’t want to touch his boner; he’d sulked when I suggested he could maybe touch my clit once in a while. Even when I’d caught him flirting with other women, he’d claimed it was because I neglected him.

So I guess I shouldn’t have put it past him to lie about destroying these nude pics either. I’d made him delete them off his phone while I watched, but he must have backed up the files somewhere beforehand. All twenty-two of them. Fuck.

I hit redial. Brad’s phone didn’t even finish one ring before he picked up.

“So?”

Squaring my jaw, I put on the hardest, most contemptuous tone I could. I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice shake. “Do you have some sort of point to make? Or did you just want to remind me what a scumbag you are?”

“Give up and let my father buy Tate & Cane,” he demanded. “I could also ask you to get down on your knees and suck my dick, but we both know you’re not even good for that much.”

“Only because you always jammed it down my throat like you were drilling for oil. Or compensating for something.”

“Do you want the deal or not?” he snapped.

Oh, Brad hadn’t liked that. I could just imagine his curled lip. I felt a rush of simultaneous triumph and terror at having pissed him off.

“I’m afraid this is a limited-time offer. If you want to save Tate & Cane, have your board e-mail me a buyer’s contract by the end of the week. Or I’ll release these photos—destroying your reputation and probably your company’s too—and then Daniels Multimedia Enterprises will just buy Tate & Cane anyway when its deadline is up. One way or another, my father will get what he wants.”

My heart was hammering so hard, I could barely catch my breath. I tried to buy time to think by arguing with him, digging for any crack in his resolve. “Is this all about your dad? What are you getting out of this?”

“Being a good son is its own reward. As well as building a strong company to someday inherit . . . and seeing a snotty bitch get what she richly deserves.” His tone impaled me like shards of ice as he went on. “Whatever explanation you prefer. Pick your favorite; it doesn’t matter.”

So that’s what this was really about—punishing me for daring to break up with him. Even for Brad the Demon Ex, this was insane. I’d never dreamed he’d go so far for such petty revenge.

“What matters,” he continued, “is your own decision. My offer is quite generous. I’m willing to pay millions of dollars for your company instead of just demanding you hand it over.”

I swallowed. “You said I have one week?” I asked, hating how small and weak my voice sounded.

“That’s right,” he said, sounding pleased to have finally reined me in. “Good-bye for now, Selena. We’ll keep in touch.”

At least, I thought that’s what Brad had said. I couldn’t hear over the rush of blood pounding in my ears. His last words could have been you’re fucked.

And they might as well be. I stared down at my phone, wanting to cry and puke and scream all at the same time. What the fuck was I going to do? What could I do? No way out. I couldn’t think straight. My already-simmering anxiety had boiled over. Animal panic flooded my brain. Can’t breathe. Trapped . . .

Even then, part of me already knew I needed help. I should have asked Justin. But how could I possibly face him? I’d handed Brad the rope to hang us both with. I’d given him exactly what he needed to destroy our fathers’ legacy and six thousand jobs.

Brad’s toxic influence came roaring back full force, making me relive all the sick, distorted feelings that our relationship had ground into me for over two years. My vision clouded, my lungs burned, my stomach twisted with anxiety.

No, I couldn’t tell Justin. The way he’d look at me . . . I didn’t know which would be worse, his disappointment or his pity. My pride couldn’t take another blow. I’d just shatter.

In that moment, I hated myself more than I’d hated anyone in my life. I was trembling with shame and helpless rage.

Why the hell did I ever take those pictures for Brad? I’d always let that scumbag use me, just rolled over and did whatever he wanted. If I hadn’t been so naive and desperate, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now. Why did it take me so long to hear the tiny voice in the back of my head screaming this relationship is wrong, it’s killing you, get out now?

Well, I’d listened too late. And unless I did something right now, our whole company was going to pay for my mistake.

I had to find Brad and stop him, although I had no idea what I was going to do or say when I got to his office. My instincts just screamed that there was a threat and that I needed to meet it and fight and kill it, because if I stood still, it would find me and hurt me first. Letting it come to me would mean that I’d already lost.

Half-blind with adrenaline, I ran out of the cottage, jumped into our rental car, and hauled ass for Nantucket’s only airport. I had one thing on my mind: taking down Brad and making him pay.

Dark and frantic thoughts barreled through my brain. I’d been right all along to feel skittish about marrying Justin. If Brad was going to ruin our company no matter what I did, then what was the point? If this exploded into a media scandal, the best-case scenario was that I’d have to step down while the company carried on without me. In which case, the question of my inheritance was moot. I could already see the headline—“CEO Forced to Resign Amidst Nude Photo Scandal.” Not how I wanted my first appearance on CNN to go down.

Nauseated, with tears stinging my eyes and still decked out in all my meaningless finery, I floored the gas pedal and left our wedding far behind.

The flight from Nantucket, as short as it was, still forced me to sit and think. I realized that I’d let my emotions run away with me—quite literally. How the hell was bolting supposed to fix anything? As satisfying as it would feel in the short term, I couldn’t just barge into Brad’s office and start screaming obscenities at him. No, I needed a plan before I acted.

I needed help too. But with my stomach still churning with anxiety and shame, I didn’t want Justin to know about my dirty pictures—or about how much power Brad apparently still wielded over me.

So instead of meeting Brad, I took a cab to an Upper East Side hotel, promising myself that I could solve this problem alone, and nobody would find out what I’d done for Brad or what he’d done to me.

I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t totally useless. I knew that stopping Brad wouldn’t make up for the way I’d treated Justin that day, let alone justify it. But I figured that a victorious return was better than slinking back with my tail between my legs. It was bad enough that I’d betrayed my fiancé; I didn’t want to dump all my problems into his lap too. I was determined to stay independent. I was Selena Fucking Cane. I would find a way to fix this.

In the end, though, I couldn’t keep inventing excuses to avoid Justin. I spent two sleepless nights pacing my hotel room, trying to brainstorm ways to defuse Brad’s blackmail threat . . . and I came up with jack shit. Every idea was worse than the last. There was no way I could fight back without getting other people involved and drawing attention to my dirty little secret.

At sunrise today, I gave up and went to bed, where my mind kept spinning until I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

Later in the morning, as I stared into the mirror, I was forced to admit what I’d known all along. I can’t do this alone. This mistake was too old and too deep to be undone easily—or maybe at all. And Brad’s claws were sunk too deep in me. Just remembering his voice on the phone made my heart race and my stomach twist. I could barely think straight, and that asshole wasn’t even here right now.

No, I had to face facts . . . and Justin too. So I took a shower and made my haggard face as presentable as I could. With nothing else to wear, I put on yesterday’s clothes—what should have been my wedding dress. I went downstairs, ate a bagel without tasting anything, and took a paper cup of coffee from the continental breakfast bar, then called a cab to take me to our penthouse.

It was time to go home to my husband.

• • •

The sound of the doorknob turning startles me out of my painful memories. I jolt upright and watch, my heart beating fast as our front door swings open.

Justin steps over the threshold . . . then sees me and freezes. He stares into my eyes like he’s seen a ghost. Anger, relief, and hurt fight for control of his expression.

All my carefully rehearsed words desert me at the sight of him. My throat feels dry, and with my heart hammering, I utter the first words I can think of.

“I need your help.”

For a minute he says nothing. He just keeps staring at me, fighting to school his features. Finally, he replies, “First, I need some answers.”

His voice is tight, barely keeping control. But he didn’t say no. That’s about the best I could have hoped for—hell, the best I deserve. I nod and rise to my feet.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks. He still hasn’t moved from the door, as if he doesn’t want to get too close to me.

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