Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Shuddering at the thought of Preston walking away from this.
“But that’s my shit,” he patted his chest. “Years of it. And it isn’t right. And I’m not gonna let it cost me my second chance.”
My shoulders sagged.
He wasn’t going to kill Preston. He wasn’t going to break my daughter’s heart. There was some relief there. A lot. One problem, a sizeable one, had been solved.
“He’s not leavin’ until he gives you a divorce,” Swiss informed me in a much firmer, much more recognizable tone. The ‘I’m an alpha male, and I’m going to take care of everything’ tone.
I blinked.
“And a healthy fuckin’ settlement,” Swiss’s lips tilted up just a tad. “There’s no number that can pay you back for what you’ve been through, but I’ll make sure we drain him dry. Make sure you get what you deserve… Which is everything.”
This was probably my moment to ask how exactly Swiss and the club were going to manage getting me a divorce. How they were going to make it so Preston would go back to Carver Springs without pressing charges for what I was guessing was felony assault and kidnapping.
Then again, I wasn’t going to press charges for felony attempted murder, so the threat of that would likely keep him quiet.
This was all really fricking complicated. Surely there would be lawyers, statements, meetings. Yes, this was definitely the time for me to ask questions.
But I didn’t.
Whatever I said or asked wasn’t going to make a difference. Swiss wanted to take care of me. Wanted to atone for what he considered his sin of letting me go. This was his way of doing it. Of helping him sleep at night. And I was coming to understand that the club and the men in it didn’t stop once they were on one of these crusades.
So instead of asking questions, I said something else entirely.
“My stepfather raped me when I was thirteen.”
He stopped breathing.
Or at least that’s what it seemed like. Like he had suddenly turned to stone.
“He… groomed me first. I think that’s what they call it these days,” I continued before I lost my nerve.
Oh, how I ached to look away. To lower my eyes in shame. But I held fast. Held on to Swiss.
“He made me trust him,” I spoke quickly. My voice still was raspy, and I was thankful it wasn’t familiar. So I could pretend it wasn’t really me saying all of this. “He made me think I was safe with him. I didn’t want to have sex with him. He was old and overweight, and he was my stepfather. But I didn’t want to… disappoint him.” I shook my head in distaste. Not in myself, but in a grown man who’d manipulated a girl into thinking she was doing something to make him proud.
“I didn’t even fight him. I just laid there and cried.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, guarding against the memories, the pain. “He whispered things in my ear. About me being a good girl. About it being our secret. About how good I was making him feel.”
The memories came flooding in, so I steeled myself against them by opening my eyes again and holding Swiss’s gaze, not letting his expression penetrate.
“And I just cried,” I croaked. “I knew what sex was. Knew what rape was. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone. Because I didn’t fight. And rape is when you fight. When you scream. When you do anything you can to make sure that doesn’t happen to you. I didn’t do any of that. And…” I gasped, covered in shame and the filth of the memories.
Swiss was still as a statue, his hands still fisted at his sides, his eyes never letting go of mine. But something was fuming inside of him. His nostrils were flaring, his breathing rapid and shallow.
“And I still liked him,” I whispered. “That sounds insane, I know.” I rolled my eyes hearing it out loud. “But my mother was a cold and cruel woman. She was a former beauty queen. One with big dreams about getting out of the small town she grew up in. She was going to live in New York. She was going to be famous,” I scoffed. “But then she got pregnant with me, and her Catholic parents forced her to marry the man who did that to her. My dirtbag father.”
It was speaking of my mother that made me break, not Hal. Made me succumb to those memories I’d pushed back for almost twenty years.
Her entire bedroom was a shrine to the life I took from her. I still remembered it vividly. The crown sitting in a glass case on her vanity. She polished it daily, even though I was pretty sure it was plastic. Framed news clippings. There were only two of those, but she showed me them weekly to remind me of what she could’ve been if it wasn’t for me.