Damaged: The Dillon Sisters by Layla Frost (good story books to read .txt) 📕

had killed me. But instead of a peaceful death, I’d slowly die with some STD he’d given me. If I wanted a disease to make me rot away from the inside out, I wouldn’t have tortured myself with chemo hell. I would’ve just let the cancer kill me.

I should call the cops or Aria. Or the cops and Aria.

I didn’t do either. What was I going to say?

Yes, officer, he offered to kill me because he knows how badly I want to die and then he fucked me because I humped him like a cat in heat.

And, oh yeah, Aria, I’m even more fucked up than you know. Sure, prepare the padded room—I’m on my way.

Even if I was willing to say all that—which I was not—there was nothing to report him for. He hadn’t forced me or manipulated me or threatened me. He’d offered me the help I needed because I was too cowardly to do the job myself. And then once my needs had changed, he’d helped with that, too. I hadn’t fucked him because I was scared for my life and thought I had to.

I’d done it because I’d wanted to.

Sure, there’d been a current of fear and control with the knife play, but that’d made it better.

Because I was so fucking messed up and stupid.

Like she’d always said.

Shame and guilt spiraled through me, mixing with the anxiety and panic that’d been festering all week until that was all I felt. Just toxicity weaving around my brain, taking over everything until I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. All my bullshit coping mechanisms and grounding techniques were gone.

And all that was left was hopelessness.

Hopelessness and despair.

I didn’t cry. I rarely did, but in that moment when I could’ve used the cathartic release, I was shut down. Cold. No, subzero—physically and emotionally. My fingers were mottled and frozen as the undercurrent of panic made me sweat.

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I hurried into my bedroom before dropping to search under the bed and side table.

Nothing.

I could’ve sworn I heard it fall…

Coming up empty, I went to search the living room. My heart raced, my limbs tingled, and my harsh breathing was ineffective, as though my lungs weren’t taking in any oxygen.

My blades were still spread on the coffee table where he’d left them, but there was no sign of the straight razor. The one I’d told him to use.

The one I’d always planned to kill myself with.

It was another thing gone wrong. Another thing that made me so tense, my muscles painfully squeezed my bones and my stomach clenched until it cramped.

Another thing out of my control.

I failed at everything. I couldn’t kill myself right. Hell, I couldn’t even get killed the right way.

And I couldn’t deal with my failure any longer.

Snatching one of the small, loose blades from the table, I wanted it to be over.

But before I could drag it along my flesh to drain the contempt that pumped through my veins, arms wrapped around me. Startled and frantic, I jerked and thrashed, trying to attack them. Or maybe myself. I wasn’t sure. Either way, it was a futile attempt because they kept one arm tight around my waist, taking me off my feet. A large hand encircled my wrist, keeping it away from us.

Holding the blade away from my burning, itching skin.

“Drop it,” the rough voice ordered.

The same voice that had offered me an escape but instead gave me heaven before leaving me in hell.

“Let me go!” I screamed, though it came out raspy and distant to my own ears.

He pressed his thumb painfully between the tendons of my wrist until my fingers reflexively loosened and the blade dropped.

“You bastard! Get out! Get—” The rest of my words came out muffled as he released my wrist to cover my mouth.

“Hush, flower.”

You son of a bitch!

It came out as, “Fuu fun ofa fiff!”

Screaming wasn’t effective, so I switched to clawing at him as I attempted to literally bite the hand that had fed me pain and pleasure. But I wasn’t trying to get away from him. I wasn’t afraid of him. All I wanted was my blades.

I’m fighting harder to die than I did to survive.

The realization sent another burst of disgrace through me. Flushed and drained and sick of myself, I swallowed the stomach acid that burned my throat. But even my mortification didn’t stop me from putting my everything into getting free.

My self-loathing made me more determined to get to the blades and the punishment I deserved.

His arm around my waist loosened, and I thought I had my opening. Before I could twist away, he quickly transferred his grip lower. Still keeping my mouth covered, his large hand encircled my thigh. He squeezed my tender, wounded flesh, making the sting from the cuts grow into a sharp ache.

My body stayed tense and poised to attack, but I stopped trying to rip the skin off his arms.

For then, at least.

In contrast with his tight hold, his thumb tenderly stroked my thigh.

My bare thigh.

For the first time all morning, clarity began to overtake my frantic panic. The narrow tunnel in my mind opened, allowing me to breathe and see and think.

Allowing me to become suddenly, excruciatingly aware I was still naked.

And that there was a hard-on pressed against my back.

He’s getting off on this?

On torturing me?

What a sick, twisted bastard.

I had no room to talk. Because even as I worked to suppress it…

Ignore it…

Deny it…

My own sick, twisted, and wrong wetness coated my thighs.

He could feel it, too.

Running his thumb through the slickness, his cock jerked against my back. He tightened his hold on my thigh until I let out a gasp of pain.

A sigh of pleasure?

I wasn’t sure.

But I knew for a fact his matching low groan was all pleasure.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

And what the ever-loving-fuck is wrong with me?

His harsh touch may have offered a short break from the manic anxiety, but the more my body reacted, the